Coffee Clatter

Brick Tap

2012-01-10T21:21:00.000-08:00

Thewalls, the floor and the ceiling were solid brick. Miles was speechless at theunique choice of interior architecture for this tiny place; the ambiance wasmore suited to a wine cellar than that of a bustling coffee house. A smallsquare window stamped out of the west wall emitted a solitary swath of goldenlight, illuminating a scant amount of tables and chairs. They appeared to be alightweight aluminum and were coppery brown in color, and not a single tablewas occupied. Miles had only recently stumbled upon this new establishment. Alwayscurious to try something new, this morning was as good
as any.
            “Whatcan I get ya?” The little man behind the counter promptly asked. He was verysmall in stature and wore a neat brown mustache on his short upper lip. Hisbrow was overly wrinkled and his ruddy cheeks reflected the color of the brickworkenvironment. From behind the tall counter only his upper body and a placidexpression were visible. Miles wondered how long he had worked here, andconsidered that he might possibly be the owner.
            “Whatdo you recommend?” Miles asked. Beside the lack of swarming caffeine-deprivedmorning patrons, he immediately noticed the absence of the usual menu board stackedwith varied coffee drink options. In fact, he didn’t even see a single coffeemaker or espresso machine. The walls did not serve as galleries showcasinglocal artist’s struggling efforts, or colorful stylized portraits of coffeemugs or burlap sacs of coffee. Only a single wooden door behind the counterbroke the monotony of the wrapping brick walls.
            “Whatdo ya want?” The man asked again with indifference. He remained fixed squarelyin front of Miles. Miles considered his usual cappuccino with soymilk, and anextra shot of espresso.
            “Coffee”Miles replied. The little man blinked twice before disappearing through thewooden door. Miles promptly tookin the curiously, almost banal surroundings. He observed how the bricks alongthe East windowless wall protruded outward in a staggered and even, contarstingthe smoothness of the walls.
            “Lightor Dark?” The low, gravelly voice startled Miles. He spun round to find himselfface to face with the little man, who was holding a mug.
            “Lightor Dark?” The little mas asked again, with impatience. Miles assumed the questionpertained to roast. Though, in here he considered anything was possible.
            “Dark.”Miles stammered. Grumbling unitelligible whispers under his breath, the littleman retreated back through the wooden door to promptly reappear with a differentmug. This one was a larger and crisp white. Miles eyed, with confusion, the new mug that was placedbefore him.
            “It’sempty!” Miles exclaimed.
            “Yeah.Your choice was dark right?” The little man’s routinely stoic expression transformedto quizzical.
            “You’renew. I haven’t seen you before. Good choice to come here.” He commented. Milesstood, waiting for further explanation.
            “Well,you see those bricks? Choose the dark.” The little man pointed to the unevenwall of staggered bricks behind Miles. Following the pudgy finger, Miles staredbewildered, at the wall.
            “Wellgo on. Find your brick and tap. You know, a dark one. The coffee will come.”The little man instructed matter-of-factly. Miles’ eyes volleyed with confusionbetween the man and the empty mug and the staggered brick wall. At last he snatchedup the mug and trudged to the wall, stammering with uncertainty in front of the‘choices.’ The thick emptiness of the dim room closed in on him, pushing againthis common sense. What an odd way to dispense coffee, through a tap in thewall. Not that dispensing any beverage in this manner would make sense.
            “Um,excuse me. Is there a difference, in taste? I mean which I choose?” Miles inquired.But when Miles turned around the little man was nowhere to be found. The late morninglight from the square window shone brighter reaping the hanging dreariness. Thebricks themselves brightened and a distinct variation in crimson hues becamevisible.
            Milesraised the enormous mug, which by now despite being empty felt quite weighted,and slipped it under a brick. He glanced around, sheepishly surveying thevacant surroundings. Reverting his attention to the wall, softly he tapped.Nothing. He tapped again, this time with purpose. The brick gently beganvibrating and from the underside a slow drip of dark liquid was released. Milescouldn’t believe his eyes. He dropped down for a closer examination,momentarily forgetting the mug in his hand. Quickly he positioned the mugsquarely under the drip and waited. As the liquid neared the top Milespanicked. He wasn’t sure how to ‘turn it off.’ Instinctively he removed the mugfrom under the ‘brick tap’ and the drip instantly ceased. Like a magiciandemonstrating the validity of his levitation trick, he sliced the air under thebrick with a flat hand, then felt the underside of the brick. His fingers feltnothing more than the smooth, dusty, coldness of a brick. He brought the fullmug to his lips and breathed in the familiar bitter coffee aroma, but strangelythe scent had an undercurrent of flowery sweetness, not unlike a woman’sperfume. Hesitantly he took a sip and was pleasantly surprised. In his handswas the best cup of Joe he’d ever tasted. He sat down at one of the tables anddrank, savoring every drop. Waves of forgotten memories surged from therecesses of mind. Fond memories of his mother suddenly illuminated in his mind.Since her passing so many years ago, the ephemeral memories had become almosttransparent. He recalled her everyday ritual, sitting in front of the large ovalmirror curling her hair and applying her powdery shade of mauve lipstick, smilingat him through her reflection with freshly painted lips. A few quick dabs ofher signature floral scent, and she was ready to greet the day. He took anothersip, drinking in the sweet fragrance wafting from the coffee. It was the verysame scent his mother wore everyday. Sadness passed into fondness and hesmiled.
            Thenext morning, Miles was weary and exhausted from a long night of slappingarbitrary inspiration onto his canvas. The bags under eyes recounted stories ofcountless sleepless yet unproductive nights. The last several weeks Miles foundevery idea he conjured stale and banal and certainly lacking interest from anyprospective buyer, collector and even himself. Last night, alone in his wide-openspace and with music blaring at uncomfortable decibels for such wee hours ofthe morning, Miles sat slumped in his wooden chair. His head heavy in hand ashe languished his deflated inspiration coupled with now his advanced age.Convinced his most formative years now belonged to his childhood, he teeteredon sweeping his last brush stroke for good. The years have starched hisimagination into conformity and sprawling technology polluted the once audaciousvision he was known for.
            Thenext day, the early morning enthusiasm of his beloved German Sheppard testedhis patience and energy. Drifting behind his dog with a ragged pace he noticeda slender woman with cropped auburn hair flashing him a friendly smile. Aworthy tree trunk slowed his dog’s pace long enough for Miles to smile back.The morning air was ripe with scented blossoms and undulating rays of peek-a-boosunlight. Everything around Miles felt rosy, light and pleasant. His dog, obliviousto the dewy sheen his owner was soaking in, tugged at his leash mercilesslybegging to keep forging ahead.
            Theypassed an elderly couple walking hand in hand, the woman’s perfume echoed the sweetplummy fragrance of yesterday’s coffee; in her dress and green eyes he saw hismother. Inspiration struck. Miles generally worked best under the weighted lidof night. While the world slept, he carried on like a mad messenger ofcreation. Today, in this early morning, he was charged, ready to bring color tolife. He quickly wrapped up the remainder of the morning walk anxious to delveback into his art with a long forgotten ferocity.
            Thedesolate yet blanket white canvas absorbed the splashes of vibrant paint withthe same fervor they were delivered. His hands danced expertly across thesurface, guided only with the brightness of his mind’s eye. Hours later, Milesstood back and viewed his opus under the waning frosted moonlight. He let out agreat yawn, flopped down onto his mattress and drifted off into a satisfiedslumber.
            Thenext morning teetered on the edge of afternoon by the time Miles returned to thesame curious coffee shop. As expected the same little man with his trim littlemustache stood dutifully and expectantly behind the counter ready to greet, itseemed, him.
            “Lightor dark?” He questioned eagerly.
            “Light.”Miles replied without hesitation. The man smirked and again disappeared returningwith a mug, smaller than the last Miles had filled.
            “Yadon’t need as big a mug for light.” The little man explained in his low voice.Miles nodded in agreement as if the statement made perfect sense. He walked tothe familiar wall with the protruding bricks, and scavenged the selection fromleft to right then up and down. The usual morning brilliance was replaced withsheets of gloomy carbon colored light imposed by the overcast sky. Despitebeing without a single patron other than himself, the shadowed room caved in onhim once again. Miles closed his eyes and arbitrarily placed his hand on one ofthe cold bricks, then opened his eyes to view the winning selection. The clayblock was heavily worn, the familiar dark brick hue now faded to a pinkish cherry.Like an expert he tapped the brick and with eternal amazement watched the hotliquid dispense. He situated himself, full mug in hand, at the same table. Milesleaned in inhaling deeply, searching and expecting that familiar nectarousaroma. Instead, the aroma of a perfectly roasted coffee tickled his nose. Hesipped savoring the bitter, yet comforting magical concotion. Curiousitysurrounding this odd coffee establishment and its mysterious captain stirredwithin Miles hot detective. He stared directly at the single wooden door behindthe counter, almost willing the appearance of the little man, ready to extractany information he could. However, to his disappointment, the mug was now emptyand the little man remained absent. Time to move on.
            Theprecarious weather outside was thorny and coiled, ready to strike at a momentsnotice. Miles dallied around the entrance to the coffeehouse, unphased by theominous clouds, smacking his lips with the delightful residue of his morningfix. He glanced downward, and at his feet tiny sparrows hopped and pecked underthe punctured sky, scavenging around in the narrow crevices of the sidewalk. Heobserved with unusally-awakened eyes that these little creatures were notactually clones of one another. With a slow bend, he stooped closert to examine.A pair of plump little birds hopped happily keeping close to one another. Onewas distinctly lighter than the other, and boasted a straw colored beak complimentedwith even blonder plumage. It’s companion donned charcoal shaded feathers andspots, with dark bandit rings masking its tiny, rounded eyes and a black beak. Achilly burst of air signaled a looming storm, and Miles headed home.
            Alonghis familiar trek, minute details popped and subtle colors vibrated. Textureseven lifted out from seemingly flat surfaces. Miles felt renewed, invigorated,imbued with fresh inspiration. At the approach of any bricks or brick object, hehad to stop and tap. The intended results of course, never materialized. Still,he never relinquished, feverishly tapping. The tapping soon transferred toother objects; the blanched tree trunk of a eucalyptus tree, an old splintered woodendoor, even a blue metal mailbox. He was tapping just to tap. Each objectproduced not liqiud, but a unique sound. The feverish tapping continued, helistended, and then he felt. The tactile sensation quickly became a newfascination. He was swept up on a new high, from some uncertain drug. Coffee?
            Thefollowing day Miles woke at the edge of dawn, rested and eager. His studio swamin the glistening warm marigold and honey hues of the morning light. On theopposite wall two new canvases proudly rested, boasting ‘sold’ papersdelicately tagged on the bottom of each. His dog stood faithfully at the doorawaiting his morning walk - to the coffee house.
            Milescrossed the threshold with the familiar gait of a regular, stopping short inhis tracks, at the rare sight of another patron - a woman. She sat calmlysipping her coffee while reading a magazine. Her hair was long with golden highlightsembedded in her dark hair. Her skin was creamy and her eyes pale. She wore boldred on her lips. Miles was breathless.
            “Wellhello there!” The little man exclaimed.
            “Hi,good morning.” Miles replied distracted. As soon as the order was placed, adeep howling could be heard from outside. Miles grimaced; his dog was impatienttoday.
            “Lightcoffee.” Miles ordered.
            “Yep,coming right up.” The little man replied with a wink.
As expected a smallish mug was plopped in front of Miles. Outside the howlingrippled with impatience of a temper-tantrum throwing two year old.
            “MayI have this to-go actually?” Miles asked irritated. He hoped the woman would behere tomorrow.
            “Areyou sure about that?” the little man questioned.
            “That’smy dog out there. He’s very impatient today.” Miles explained.
            “Okay.You’re choice.” The man pulled back the ceramic mug replacing it with thestandard paper coffee cup. There wasn’t anything remarkable about the papercup; there wasn’t the standard coffee house logo or advertisement to mar itsplain colorless surface. Only a light brown sleeve broke the white. That’s whenhe realized; did he even know the name of this establishment? He did not recallso much as a sign on the outside.
            Anotherround of howling urged Miles to retreat to the now familiar back wall. As theselection ritual ensued, he felt her pretty eyes on him. With no time tocompare, the brick he chose had a thin dusting of time on the top, but otherthan that looked perfectly new. He expertly tapped and waited for the drip. Likemolasses the coffee dispensed while outside his dog continued bellowing. Underhis breath Miles cursed his dog’s unruly and unusual disposition. From thecorner of his eye, he stole a glance at the woman; her gaze was fixed into hermagazine. Miles sought the opportunity to at least smile at her, however nosuch opening presented itself. He fidgeted with impatience before yanking thecup from under the hot stream and headed out.
            Outside,Miles gave his dog a quick rub on the head. With bouncing excitement he leaptup and greeted Miles with slobbery appreciation. Miles unhooked the leash and grippedhis coffee cup, which did not have a lid incidentally, and rocketed down thestreet.
            Whilehis dog searched a suitable spot to sniff around, Miles took his first hotlyanticipated sip. The intense rich flavor, which he so enjoyed, was conspicuouslyabsent. Instead an amalgam of bitterness and old cigarette butts splashedacross his tongue. Miles snapped back in disgusted surprise. Hovering his noseover the beverage, the warm scent of leathery cigarettes wafted upward,strangely causing him to salivate. He was walloped with a powerful craving - thatfuzzy high from a cigarette despite having quit more than two years ago. He hadto have one, now.
            Chargingthrough the front door, Miles dropped the leash still attached to his dog’scollar and darted directly to his old ailing bureau. He tugged and cursed andtugged again at the left drawer, which over time somehow became painted shut. Witha jolt, suddenly it flew open. Sifting through random papers and used matchbooksand other crumpled artifacts found buried at the bottom, a flattened emergency packof cigarettes emerged. Feverishly he inspected the contents - two ancientcigarettes left. Miles peeked around him with guilty eyes though he was alone.The bright crimson flame of a wilted match flared illuminating the walls, theend of the cigarette glowed a dirty burnt orange. Lightness and pleasure driftedupward inside his head as he sucked deeply. The gnawing need subsided and hishead was clear. He was ready to work.
            Milespapered all the windows creating a self-imposed cave. In front of the canvas hefixated himself. He mixed the paints. He swished around color on the surface ofthe canvas and after only a few stretched minutes he sank into a nearby chairwith sudden despair clinging to him. Miles couldn’t understand what washappening. The inspiration that sprang so suddenly vanished just as abruptly.After a few elongated inhales and exhales, he decided he needed more coffee.
            Wearilyhe plodded down the open street. Miles observed his surroundings; the worldappeared dull and listless, without color or texture. The sky was even grey andflat. Only at the sight of a brick wall did his eyes flash with a momentarybrightness. Happily he jaunted up to it and tapped and tapped some more, to noavail. A man with loose clothing and an unkempt mop of hair leaned casually onthe end of the wall smoking; the rising thick curls of musty smoke from hiscigarette captivated Miles and tantalized him, taunted him. He shook off themesmerizing distraction and continued on his intended path toward the coffeehouse. His mounting desire was not so much for that perfect blissful cup ofcoffee, but for that wide-eyed awakening he experienced after having drank it.
            Milespractically stumbled into the coffee house, his mouth watering at the luscious aromathat filled its insides. There was no sign of the girl, but the little manbehind the counter was forever stationed there.
            “Coffeeplease. Dark.” Miles slurred on the edge of sounding like a rabid dog.
            “Forhere.” He added. The man smiled before disappearing to retrieve the mug. Theheart in his chest raced and fluttered, then stopped at the sound of lightfootsteps behind him. He swiveled around to see her, the creamy skinned womanwith bold red lips.
            “We’reall out of light mugs this morning. Had quite a rush.” The little man informed.Miles squinted at the immaculate décor. Not a chair was out of place, not aused mug littered the soulless tables. He did however finally meet her gaze;her eyes were reminiscent of exotic lands, snowy winter days and happychildhood memories. He too saw disappointment gloss over her.
            “TomorrowSari!” The little man replied in a familiar tone.
            “Hername is Sari?” Miles thought to himself. Before there was time to strike up aconversation, she was gone. An avalanche of disappointment gripped Miles, hefelt his knees buckle and drop. But the craving for the coffee intensified witheach coming second.
              “Youknow I think I’ll return tomorrow.” Miles declared promptly.
            Milescharged outside to find the dark night. The stars glittered with mocking smilesand he felt the midnight ink wrap around him. The city was still. Everythingwas dark, not just the sky. His vision was smoky and gray, blurred to everything.Miles, completely confused staggered in in a drunken fashion, swaying in-betweenthe stars.
            Hethrew open the front door, his dog perked up in the darkness and his world wentbleak. Inspiration filled canvasses once lining the walls, papered with ‘sold’tags, now piled up with neglect and disinterest. His steps were soggy andtearful. Miles threw a forlorn glance at his only companion, who whimperedmeekly in response. From behind a gauzy cloud, the swollen moon shifted revealinga studio once alive with paint tubes, brushes and palettes, now littered with scatteredused cigarettes, empty coffee mugs and a fortress of bricks reaching for theceiling. His head began to spin and he paced around the room for several hours,until finally bursting outside, headed directly for the coffee house.
            Hishead cleared with each fervent step forward. The glowing dawn slowly spreadacross the sky like thick honey hiding the stars and illuminating thesidewalks. By the time Miles reached the familiar corner, drops of perspirationrolled across his forehead.             Hestopped, stood and looked around. His eyes adjusted to the gradual filter ofsunlight, yet something was missing. He was standing in front of a localconvenient store, not a coffeehouse. The gnawing craving swelled up inside ofhim. The surrounding houses were familiar, the same. He walked to the cornerand glanced at the street sign, no different. Bewildered he leaned against abrick fence that separated the convenient market and the house next to it. Hepushed his fingers across the gritty texture feeling the sharp bumps. He balledhis hand into a loose fist and lightly started tapping. The day was bright andenergetic by now; people were out walking dogs and driving to work. Hisbreathing hastened with shallowness in the pit of his chest.
            “CanI help you son?” A man called out. Miles turned to his left to see the littleman that served him his mugs standing at the edge of the lawn, clad in a plaidbathrobe and house slippers.
            “Yes!What happened? Have you lived here this whole time?” Miles asked frantically.The little man hesitated then answered.
            “I’velived here for about ten years, yes.” He answered politely. Miles regarded himpuzzled.
            “But…didyou, I mean, what happened to the….” Miles turned toward the market.
            “Areyou new to this area son?” The man asked calmly, his mustache moving up anddown.
            “What?New? No…I’m looking for.” Miles stopped and sighed. Dizziness set in, he feltlike he was going mad. He released some of the tension and forced a half smile.
            “Nope,sorry to bother you.” Miles said. He turned around and ambled down the sidewalksearching for somewhere to get a cup of coffee. He happened upon another smallcoffeehouse chain some distance from his studio. He didn’t even really knowwhere he was.

            Theinside was brightly lit and obnoxiously colorful. Everything felt forced, eventhe people that filled its tables. Loud music strained to be heard over theequally loud chatter. Everyone was as brightly dressed as the décor on thewalls. There wasn’t anywhere to sit. His order came in a choice of threedifferent sizes. He ordered the largest size. Instead of being handed an emptymug, a piping hot paper cup was placed in front of him. Miles grabbed the cupand inhaled. Coffee. It smelled like coffee. He took a sip. People milled aboutaround him, coming and going, talking and laughing. It was daylight inside, buthe saw the shadows. A woman brushed against his arm as she made her way towardthe door. Miles looked up and saw a flash of creamy skin and bold red lips.
            “Sari!”He called out.
            “Ohno worries sir! You didn’t push me!” The girl next to him exclaimed cheerfully.
Miles darted outside, but she was gone. He bummed a cigarette off a guy smokingoutside and walked home, cigarette in one hand, coffee cup in the other.

La Dolce Vita

2011-10-20T16:18:00.001-07:00

           The rush of autumn snapped up the last remnants of summer cooling off thelingering three month fever. I wrapped my sweater around tighter and stretched thesleeves further toward my fingers.
            “Don’t callme.” I said.
            “I havenothing to say.” I added.
            “You calland hang up, you know you do.” I giggled.

            I took a long drag of my cigarette and blew the smoke upward toward the sky. Ilike these atmospheric afternoons, when the bright rays feel filtered and theazure sky becomes a field of gray, gauzy clouds.
                Smoking was prohibited. Ipretended not to know, I did not pretend to care. A half eatenpastry stares at me. Someone at the next table stares at me. He looks at leastten years younger than me. The hands, I always look at the hands for the trueage. I take another long drag of my cigarette and rocket a stream of smoke intothe air. This time I'm hoping to reach the lazy clouds. It is late in the dayand the sun has shifted eastward draping my once shaded table. I look at mycoffee cup which now holds only coffee grounds and I realize there isn't anashtray. I need another coffee, another something to soothe the ache. Iquestion why this coffee joint does not serve alcohol. How boring this city is.I take another drag. The phone rings and I ignore it. Frank Sinatra, thequintessential voice of mainstream coffee houses, croons about love. I laugh tomyself. I have yet to find proof that it exists. To my left a man in a darkgray polo with thin blue stripes sits. His obnoxiously extra large coffee issteaming. For some reason I’m taken back to that summer on the Italian coast. Itake another puff.
            Clusters ofhouses jut out from the cliff. Instead of impeding on nature somehow the colorfulstructures only add to it. That must be the magic of Italy. Hand in hand we ranalong the surf, the wet sand crumbling so easily between our toes. We ran sofar and for so long I lost sight of where we left the little fiat. We ran untilour breath no longer held. Tumbling atop one another in bursts of laughter, webreathed in gulping lost desperate breaths of air.
            “Can we stayhere forever?” I asked. Crashing waves behind us served as a reminder that we werenot alone on this empty beach.
            “Where, onthe beach?” He asked. I smiled.
            “Yes, on thebeach. On this exact beach, here in Italy.” I answered. I drilled my hand intothe sand, churning until it was entirely submerged.
            “We can stayhere and drink espressos all day and eat gelato. And be fat and happy andlaughing all day long.” I suggested triumphantly. His laugh rang out, sounding moreas though he were humoring a silly little schoolgirl with braids.
            “Fine! Yougo. I’ll stay here.” I whined, yanking my hand out of the sand sending wetclumps shooting in multiple directions.

           “Where am I going?” He asked sheepishly. “And without you? Never!”
            Absentmindedly I knocked over the mug trying to shake off the train of ashaccumulating at the end of the cigarette. I notice the man with the grey polois gone. My memories remain.
            His Italianwas perfect, as though he was born to speak the language. I still had no ideawhere he learned to speak it. I fumbled with the few words of Spanish I didknow. The trill of the rolling ‘R’s’ rang sweetly in my ears, but were alwaysimpossible for me to spit out. Just listening to him order espresso washeavenly. I gazed at him from across the table with blinking saucer-eyes. Hewas so handsome in his gray Italian polo.
            “What?” Heasked. His eyes sparkled when he knew I was looking at him. I shook my head.Two espressos arrived accompanied by some decadent Italian dessert that was toodelicious for my simple palate to comprehend. We whiled away the rest of theafternoon wandering aimlessly through the narrow cobblestone streets, absorbingthe floating spicy aroma of some Italian mother’s homemade cooking. No wonder Iwas always hungry. He wrapped his arm around my waist and hugged me closer.
            “This, thisis almost perfect.” He said. I detected a hint of mischief in his eyes. Almost perfect I thought to myself. Thesky was a perfect powdery blue. Our bellies were filled with top-notch espressoand sweet pastries and we were spending the day doing nothing exceptexperiencing life. I practically felt like an honorary Italian.
            “Yes,almost. That is, if you would stay here with me.” He said. “I bought a flathere. I’ve decided Italy is the perfect place to work on my portfolio. Stay,move in with me.” He grinned.
            “Seriously?”I asked surprised. We hardly knew one another.
            “Sure, itwould be great for you. Aren't you the one who was asking to stay here forever!You could write. I’m sure you would find more inspiration than you could keepup with.” He replied.
            A gust offrigid wind kicked up and blew out the flame from the tiny match in my hand.The empty mug held the remains of three already. Two crinkled men; one withsnowy hair, the other completely bald occupied the next table, chatting andsmoking over their coffees. I was glad to see I wasn’t the only one smoking.This damn city, no one smokes. No one drinks espressos or wine with luncheither. I ripped another match from the matchbook - two left. This one betterwork. I struck the match and it flared bright orange. I held it up to thecigarette lodged between my lips, shielding the subtle breeze with a cuppedhand. With a quick flick of the wrist, the match was instantly extinguished andI sucked down my cigarette and tossed the smoking match into the mug. I don’tknow why I didn’t invest in a lighter.
            The flat hespoke of was anything but. The ceilings were sky-bound and rounded almostreminiscent of the Duomo. He was right, the colorful friendliness of our newneighborhood was very conducive to my writing. Inspiration flowed freely andplentiful, like the wine that seemed to be more abundant than water. We livedon a consistent diet of everything fresh, including our love for one another.
            I’mapproached by one of the workers clearing the tables. As she’s stacking theporcelain plates and used napkins she asks if I’d like another coffee. I nodand ask for a coffee with cream, no sugar. I am thankful I don’t have to get upto order another.
            Waterfallsof light cascaded into our apartment through the skylights above, even on thosedays when the sun was acting coy. My little desk was positioned on the westwall, parallel to the foot of our bed with the massive iron bed frame. We didnot have divided rooms, just one giant space uniting everything; food, work,love and laughter.
            Severalnights a week we entertained a rotating roster of new Italian friends, alwaysnew faces, rarely seeing the same ones again. Often he brought home clientsfrom photo shoots, models or Italian celebrities, most of whom I did notrecognize. And in the early hours of the morning, after everyone had gone wewould collapse, hydrated with alcohol and exhausted from laughter. The nextevening, it all started again. Waking at noon sometimes, I hurried to my deskeager to jot down the fresh inspiration from the previous night, before itstaled. How I thrived on the cavalcade of interesting people that passedthrough our flat. I decided I would compile my experiences into a column. Theseparties would be fodder for the American reader. Excited, I waited anxiouslyfor him to return with our 'morning' espressos to reveal my new idea. I wascertain my editor would be over the moon for it. However, I discovered he hadhis own agenda.
            “We shouldtravel to the North.” He suggested holding a warm biscotti. I was stunned.
            “Why?” Iasked.
            “Why not?”He said.
            “Do you havework there?” I asked.
            “Not yet.But I heard through Romo, Milan is the place to be. You know I want to hit upthe Fashion scene. That’s where the money’s at.” He replied excitedly.
            “How long?”I asked antsy. He shrugged sipping his espresso. The warmth of the South suitedme perfectly, I was more than comfortable. I was a free spirit as much as thenext honorary Italian but my bones tingled with hesitation. I didn’t know why.
            “Possibly acouple weeks?” He answered flippantly.
            “Of coursemy love!” I acquiesced reluctantly.
            The workerreturns and removes my empty coffee mug / ashtray and replaces it with a new,steaming cup. The notebook in front of me looks more like a scratch pad ofgibberish than an instrument for deep and provoking thoughts and words. Nevercould I have imagined that I wouldn’t see him again. But, that was my decision.
            “Anotherparty?” I sighed. That would be number four this week. I was exhausted. The newcrowd in the north was nothing like the old.
            “I thoughtyou liked parties?” He asked. I did.
            “I like theparties. I don’t like the guests.” I retorted. The guests were getting youngerand more indignant. They believed their status automatically entitled them toimmortality and celebrity and exempted them from all responsibility. I pulled apack of Italian smokes from my purse.
            “Since whendo you smoke?” He asked in disbelief.
            “What? Don’tyou like it? All Italians smoke. It’s molto sexy!” I exclaimed with a wink. Hewas not amused.
                      Much later that night, despite my protests, the guests began rolling in. Ourbar was fully stocked with an assortment of reds, whites, beer and otherItalian spirits. The heavy cigarette smoke hung low above our heads like asticky tar canopy. From across the room I watched as he closely assisted someblonde in lighting her cigarette. I couldn’t hear their conversation over thechaos, but I watched as she let out an obnoxious cackle, throwing her head backin the process, smiling way too much. I frowned in disgust. A few hours laterthe floor was littered with napkins and the tables were covered withlipstick-rimmed glasses. Empty bottles filled up the sink and I was ready forsleep.

Our new flat had walls, dividing thesleeping quarters from the main part of the apartment. The view asunparalleled. I said good-night to the few remaining stragglers and crept offto my bed.

As the early morning light streamed into the room, quietly I padded to thecloset and pulled free the suitcase I arrived here with. In the last couplemonths I managed to accumulate an extensive addition to the small wardrobe Icame with. I schlepped my bulging suitcase to the front door leaving it to leanagainst the wall while I walked over to kiss him gently on the cheek. Through arattle of snores he fidgeted but did not wake. On the the chair I noticed hisgrey polo draped over the back. I opened the door and did not look back.
My last two novels sold beyond expectation and it was recommended, in factencouraged, by my agent to branch out. So I found myself in Italy, deep in anItalian romance with an American man I’ve only just met here. For months I wasentirely blind to my life my back home in the States, and now I was headingback.

“Yes, I know it’s you hanging up.” I exclaimed.
“Fine. Iwill have dinner with you.” I gave in and lit my final cigarette.

Maybe I would see him again.

The Writers

2011-01-17T23:13:00.000-08:00

The wiles of passion and panic can ignite at any moment; oh those little fingers, that touch responsible for that swift shove off that towering bridge. Yet, as he jetted through the air the sensation of the harsh wind tearing at his soul, he was not repentant. Not in the least.

Vintage ska reminiscent of the Specials droned on throughout the coffeehouse above the din of perfect strangers sharing mismatched wooden tables in hipster harmony. The walls were barren but bright, illuminated by the climbing mid-morning sun.
Comfortably situated on the worn Victorian style crimson couch were the two twenty-something writers, sipping their matching iced mocha-lattes, clad in matching gray zipper hoodies. With physical attributes suggesting they were born on separate continents - one boasted frosted short locks and fair skin, while the other had creamy, brown skin and shaggy chestnut curls always smashed under a baseball cap. They were however twins in their style, fidgety posture and California surfer’s drawl; which could be detected in many Southern Californians, whether they surfed or not.
They were complete strangers until that fateful day when both were hired simultaneously; answering the need for a fresh, young overhaul on a popular but ailing television sitcom. Since then, the two have been inseparable. Their dynamic chemistry translated effortlessly into their writing, which eventually translated into resounding success for the series.
Regulars now at this local coffeehouse in the heart of Hollywood, they could be found on the same couch, the same two days a week without fail. The barista had come to develop a rapport with the duo, welcoming the stable business against the daily, faceless turnover of patrons. The other regulars had also become familiar with their jovial nature as they energetically bounced ideas off one another.
Hopped up on double doses of caffeine they relentlessly injected their flawless wit and biting banter into the script for next week’s episode, always focused and rarely distracted by anything. Until that day she walked in.
With ease she glided through the heavy glass door, walking the short distance to the counter, where she stood patiently in line waiting. Three stood ahead of her. She had not noticed the writers perched on their usual couch, yet, one of them certainly noticed her pouty, plum lips and dark mysterious eyes. Of course her face was unfamiliar, she was knew to the area.
With his baseball cap pulled down low, he studied her from beneath the shadow of his brim. She stood apart, while melding perfectly with the ambiance. He watched her approach the counter, smiling and laughing as she ordered. He imagined her voice, the silvery siren song, rendering anyone within earshot helplessly intoxicated. A minute later, with a quick exchange of money for her coffee, she swept out the door. The instant gratification of her presence was immediately hollowed by her swift departure. Burning desperation fueled a now unending hope of seeing her again.
The dazed writer removed his baseball cap, smoothed out the mop on his head, replaced the cap and resumed full attention to his befuddled writing partner. All the while, the siren continuously sang in the back of his mind.
After a few weeks, she sauntered into the coffeehouse. The writers were just finishing up their afternoon session, ending on another successful note, when he saw her. Fixated on her curve-clinging 1940’s-style inspired polka-dot dress, and scarlet rose adorning her right ear, she chatted with the barista, who appeared equally entranced. After a few minutes, she smiled and left the coffeehouse, coffee-gratis in hand. Now overly intrigued, he fought against his stirring impulse to probe the man behind the counter for information.
The third encounter proved productive. A brave, furtive smile from the writer was met with a twinkling wink from her shining, kohl colored eye. Suddenly needing a glass of water, he walked over to the counter and lingered just long enough to eavesdrop on a snippet of their ending conversation. Her voice was anything but a disappointment, a bit raspier than expected, which only added to her sultriness. He overheard that her name was Olivia, but goes by Livi, and that she was an aspiring starlit, coming to the land where silverscreen dreams are promised to come true, happily ever-after.
Livi sauntered out of the coffeehouse, she hardly ever stayed longer than needed, leaving the writer with an insatiable, indellible thirst for more. Abruptly abandoning his partner to wrap up, hastily he rushed out the door after her. People milled around distracting his view. Every woman with dark hair he focused on. Still no sign. Then, from afar and across the street a lone figure trudged up the incline of the street. Quickly yet casually, he hurried. Sprinting across the street then slowing, dropping back. He followed her up the street then to the left, where she disappeared into a small, tan apartment complex, guarded with an iron security gate with spikes tall enough to pierce the afternoon sun.
In the coming weeks, Livi frequented the coffeehouse more; on days when the writers were there, and on days when they weren’t. On the days when they were there, she became increasingly intrigued at who they were, especially the boyish one who always wore a baseball cap and focused on her with such intent whenever she walked in. After an informative chat with the barista, she learned of who they were, and her interest was aroused. She lingered around the counter keeping herself in plain view. Without fail, the boyish writer glanced upwards in her direction, little did she realize, he already knew she was there. She acknowledged him with a smile, then slithered out the door. The coy cat and mouse game continued for another couple weeks.
In the early dawn of one unimportant morning, Livi returned home from another all-nighter of Hollywood schmoozing. Checking the mailbox, she discovered a mysterious letter. The missive, packaged in a crimson-colored envelope, left no information as to who the author might be. The missive was neither threatning nor eccentric, simply a sweet declaration of an admirer’s affections. In this vapid age of digital relationships, she found the tangible gesture a fresh display of chivalry.
Craving a cup of coffee more than sleep, she swept a fresh coat of plum gloss over her lips, switched out her evening attire for something morning casual and set off down the block.
Livi walked into the already crowded room, the line was six people deep. She sank into her waning patience. The favorable weather knocked out a recent cold snap, enticing droves from their warm sheltered apartments out to welcome the absent sunshine. The writers were slumped in their usual spot, prompting an opportunity for Livi. With a smile of faux-genuine interest she dug into the captivated stare of the capped writer, knowing he studied her every move. She was growing weary from the labyrinth of lost opportunities and dead-ends, and thought this may be a lucky break. Despite the tenacious attention of the writer, she decided to not approach them – just yet. It would be better if he approached her. So with a wink, she sauntered out of the establishment and waited.
It was that simple wink that sent him into a frenetic tizzy; he had to talk to her, he had to see her more. He had to touch those plump lips, and she had to be belong to him and no one else. His innocent passion dissolved into a steely obsession. Taking precedence over everything else, much to the dismay of his partner.
His concentration blurred. He began showing up late to the coffeehouse sessions, though most of the time, he was just up the street, hunched beneath her window. The auspicious chemistry between he and his co-writer was replaced with an unspoken row of tension. His partner’s displeasure at the need to shoulder most of the writing went unnoticed. All that mattered was to see her face everyday or answer to a debilitating emptiness.
Watching her walk down the sidewalk toward him, he decided today was the day to approach her. He kept himself concealed from her view until the right moment. Her long legs were accentuated by the dark denim and her flouncy blouse magnified her free-spirit. He stepped out and called to her, she stopped.
They spoke briefly with an air of familiarity and she agreed to dinner with him tomorrow evening. That did nothing to quell his desire, in fact, it fanned the flames.
At dinner, a sushi place next to the coffeehouse, she inquired in earnst about his work. He acquiesced willingly, any information, as long as she regarded him with that inimitable doe-eyed expression.
Nearing an end and desperately wanting to prolong the evening, to stay in her golden presence, he had to do something. Sensing the only bargaining chip he held, he offered up what she wanted, a chance to meet with his producers. Excitedly she asked for another bottle wine to celebrate, then allowed him to walk her home. The evening was mild and brimming with the usual Friday night buzzing. They stopped in front of her apartment, he kissed her goodnight on the cheek, and watched her disappear behind the iron gate. He lingered, watching as her light went on, waiting until it switched off, more than an hour later.
Reluctantly, the producers agreed to meet with the femme fatale, as he put it. Their interest waned with the recent decay of work presented, a consequence that had begun seeping into the show. The meeting was not successful for niether Livi nor them.
Livi was crushed. She no longer wanted to see the writer, she ceased all visits to the coffeehouse. But that did not stop the writer’s visits to her apartment.
He pleaded to see her, first by phone, then by a string of missives left in her mailbox – all enclosed in a red envelope. Relentlessly wooing her for days to no avail, he refused to leave. When that didn’t work, he resorted to calling out to her from outside her window. At last she agreed, reluctantly, if only to make him go away.
His face and hair sprouted a homeless man’s coif, his clothes worn and smelly. Eventually, his complicit behavior resulted in the loss of his job, his apartment and gradually his freedom. He was confined to his obsession. He didn’t care, with a sense of rapture, the writer quickly called an old friend to shower, shave and clean up.
In the cool early evening, they drove across an old historic stone bridge, one that overlooked the entire valley and on any of the unusually smog-free nights, even downtown L.A. Tonight was one such night. He pulled off to the side, cut the engine and suggested they take in the glittering views.
They strolled quietly under the quiet night toward the center of the bridge, where he decided to declare his undying devotion to her. On bended he knee he pleaded. She refused him. He stood, explaining his daily torment, unable to free himself from her image. She refused him. He grabbed her arm, she resisted. He gripped tighter. Once more he pleaded with violent fervor, begging her to not be like the others. All the others who thoughtlessly denied him their love. To spare him the anguish of another bleeding heart. Her screams for help echoed across the empty bridge. Finally, she twisted free of his maniacal grip, but he sprang at her like a recoiled snake. Her arms flailed against his advance, her plum lips contorted in horror at the moment of realization of what she had done. Sobbing and scared, she slumped to the ground, alone.

A Chair

2011-01-12T18:37:00.000-08:00

The window cast a sheet of sunlight over the oblivious young coffeehouse goers tethered to their steaming cups of joe and glowing laptops. A slightly hunched over old man accessorized with a wooden cane, a tightly tucked newspaper under his arm and a hot coffee hobbled past a table. To the passing observer he may seem frail, but he is determined and still full of smiles. Through his blemished, uneven bifocals he honed in on his desired target - the plush, red over-sized armchair across the room.

Step by step, he languidly stammered forward. On this early morning the coffeehouse was dotted with mostly twosomes, gabbing about this and that. A ‘young whippersnapper’ as the old man would have put it, haphazardly crossed his path, bounding to the counter that held the cream and sugar. Already shaky, the old man halted abruptly, teetering and swaying on his cane. Once again he moved forward, balancing on unsteady legs like an acrobat on a high wire. Making progress he shuffled past an occupied wooden chair, grasping the sturdy weighted piece of furniture for temporary support. He took a breath. Another minor setback. With an exhaustive sigh, he pressed on. Rounded beads of sweat formed above his brow caused either by the warm, moist steam rising from his coffee or possibly the exertion of his journey. Slowly, the distance between him and the chair narrowed. He was almost there when suddenly another ‘young whippersnapper’ equipped with earphones and a portable gaming device in hand, plopped herself down in that very chair. The old man halted in defeat, catching his breath, unsure of what to do next. His legs ached, his arm throbbed and he was out of breath.

The room opened up in front of him, a vast sea of chairs, all made from cold, hard wood were available. Off to his right and against the window, under the beams of hot sun, sat a vacant wood chair. Patches of warmed, illuminated wood flashed in the old man’s eyes. Deciding there was no other choice, he leaned his body to the right, preparing to change course. With one foot in front of the other he focused on the sun-drenched chair. The path was clear, no foreseen obstacles. He could feel the breeze cooling his weary, sweat-covered brow as he charged toward the chair. Then, within seconds, a tall portly man appeared from nowhere, collected the chair and placed it at the end of his already crowded table. In an instant reaction, the old man shot out his frail, wrinkled arm wanting to claim the chair, thus releasing the newspaper that remained faithfully tucked under his arm. With mournful eyes, he gazed down at the fallen newspaper. It would have to be left behind, there wasn’t time.

Lifting his head, he drew in a another deep breath and contemplated his next move. That’s when he saw it - the chair, the plush armchair, it was vacant! With renewed determination, he creaked forward, step-by-step. As he took another step, a small boy sped directly across his path, screaming all the way into the arms of his mother, causing the man to shake. Silently cursing the dangerous distraction, the old man vigorously shook his raised his cane, admonishing the child for his reckless behavior. Redirecting his focus back to the chair, he noticed directly opposite him, an old woman also with an equally unbalanced gait and leaning on a cane. He watched mesmerized as she struggled around the tightly knit tables, headed in his direction. Squinting through his spectacles the old man saw, as she neared, how her hair, a curly pouf sitting atop her head, glistened in the tract lighting like spun silver. Her thin, gold-rimmed glasses magnified piercing black eyes, replete with spirit despite the soft wrinkles around them. Like him, she hobbled along – toward the same chair. A sense of urgency surged through the old man. His heart raced, his breath quickened, he then noticed her empty hand; no coffee, not even a paper. At this point he realized he was not moving, and she was quickly – as quickly as she was able – approaching the chair. He jump started his mission, treading onward.

They stopped inches apart from one another, inches apart from the red chair, both catching their breath. Their bespectacled eyes locked. He smiled. She smiled too.

“Please.” The old man said, gesturing politely toward the chair. The woman’s smile brightened even more.
“Well, thank you.” She said, carefully taking the seat. At that moment, a well-dressed young woman with two large coffees in hand approached the now sitting old woman.
“Here you go grams.” The young woman said, handing over one of the coffees.

“Thank you dearie, cream?” She asked sweetly.
“Oh! I completely forgot! I’ll be right back.” The young woman exclaimed and ran off toward the condiments counter. Silence remained in their mutual gaze.

“Here you go Gram, they both have cream now!” The young woman returned, this time with a newspaper tucked under her arm. Now she noticed the old man feebly standing next to her grandmother.

“Hello.” The young woman said with uncertainty to the old man.

“Oh, dear this is Mr., um, this is..Mr…” The old woman stammered realizing she did not know the old man’s name.
“Mr. Crommer, Henry Crommer.” He replied. Puzzled, the young woman smiled.

“Well hello Mr. Crommer.” she replied. The old man smiled and nodded politely, beginning to quiver from standing.

“Grams, I found this paper on the ground, thought you might like to read it.” The young woman said, taking a seat next to her grandmother in a wooden chair. The young woman glanced up at the old man, now visibly shaking.

“Do you have a chair?” she inquired. The old man shook his head no.

“Oh! Well here...” Quickly the young woman rose out of her seat and without a word walked away. She promptly returned dragging another plush, red armchair and set it next to her grandmother. Beaming with delight, the old man sat. The old woman, with eyes twinkling turned to look at Mr. Crommer, who finally was sipping his coffee.
“Would you care to…” The old woman asked lifting the paper from her lap, handing it over to Mr. Crommer.
“Why, thank you! Thank you very much!” The old man replied with much gratitude.