Coffee Klatch

Kids these days drink too much coffee. I know, right now you're picturing me hanging out with a couple of other old coots, sitting in my rocking chair on the porch and shaking my fist, babbling on about how things were in my day. Like how much better the music was, stuff like that. Yeah, I do that occasionally. You know, shake my fist. But it's true. I don't remember kids drinking coffee when I was a kid. When I was really little, I used to eat breakfast with my mom before school and we would both have toast and coffee. She would give me a cup filled mostly with milk and I drank it, even though I hated milk, telling my friends that I had coffee for breakfast. She is crafty, that mother of mine. That's how she got milk into me.

Maybe I'm wrong, maybe it was just my group of friends, but I don't recall any of us hauling massive cups of coffee around to school or work until we were at least in college. At least. So it surprises me when I see a thirteen-year-old carrying a triple grande latte schmatte around with him, needing a caffeine boost to get himself through the day. It's all about the coffee, it seems.

When I was a teenager, back in the days when dinosaurs roamed the earth, my friends and I spent many an evening at a local coffee house. This coffee house is not to be confused with one of those brightly lit chain stores with neatly manufactured menus hanging from the walls and overpriced pre-packaged sandwiches sitting in a refrigerator case, where you sit next to your friends while you each take advantage of the free wi-fi. Nor is it to be confused with a coffee shop, where you can have breakfast all. day. long. Which of course is not a bad thing. But this place, this place, was the quintessential teenage–young adult hangout type of coffee house. I was only about fourteen when I started going there in the mid-seventies. The place was filled with kids from the nearby college, high school kids, and more than a few slightly older locals, what my father would call "hippies." I thought I was very cool, because my sisters went there and they were a number of years older than me. I was always trying to catch up.

I'm not quite sure how my friends and I got to this place—did our moms drop us off? I just recall walking through a canopy of tree branches into what had formerly been a big old house with a wrap-around porch, entering a dimly lit world full of tables of young people, talking, eating, smoking, and drinking coffee. My favorite order? Grilled ham and swiss on rye with a Dutch coffee. Thick, white mugs full of Dutch coffee. I would call it coffee in name only. I don't believe that there is actually much coffee in it. I tried it again a few years ago, but couldn't get past the sweetness of it. The memory of it, to me, is better than the actual thing. It is made with cinnamon and butter. Yes, butter. Possibly an entire stick of butter. I wouldn't be surprised. I can feel my arteries hardening at the mere thought of it.

Only a few years later, the place moved down the street to a smaller house. It never seemed quite the same to me, although my friends and I still kept going there. The same guy owned it, and I believe that it was he who would stand at the door when you arrived, waiting to show you to your table. It became the place we'd meet when we came home on break from college. It was where we went after the bars closed. We would head there after our waitress shifts were over, after we had filled all the ketchups and put the chairs up on the tables, and at four o'clock in the morning we would count our tips. With coins spread out on the table, we'd listen to a guy we knew writing a song two tables away, pounding the beat on the table with his hand.

A few weeks ago, the girl child and I went to see the play her high school drama club presented. We'd eaten a light dinner beforehand, but when it was over we were hungry so we decided to grab a bite to eat. I suggested the coffee house. The place looked old. Not retro. Just old. But then again, the place had always looked old, even when it was new. I think that the tables were the same ones from when I was a teen, and I wouldn't be surprised if the poster from The Shining had been hanging there since The Shining first came out. I would venture a guess that if an archeologist dug through the layers of pen on the bathroom wall, he might possibly find some graffiti that I had scrawled many, many years ago.

It was just starting to get busy when we arrived, and the tables were filling will kids from the nearby college, high school kids, and a few slightly older locals that I would call "hipsters." Or "skaters." Or "hipster-skaters." I'm not sure. They wear beanies, plaid, ironic tee shirts, skinny jeans and old man glasses, cut-off shorts with tights underneath. They are talking, eating, and drinking coffee from thick, white mugs, but not smoking because you know you cannot do that now. I half expect the same guy to show us to our table but he isn't there. That was a very long time ago.

After we're seated, I look over at the girl child and she has a crazy happy look on her face. I know I've brought her to the right place at the right time. She had been there a few years earlier with the temple youth group, but it was not right; they were too young. But now, now she is excited. Now, she wants to come back. She wants to bring her friends. I know how she feels, because I had had this feeling too, once upon a time. I'm not sure what it is that we feel. What is so exhilarating about a place like this? They are just eating. They are just talking.  She asks me if I know how old someone has to be to work here. She is too young.

About a week ago, the girl child, the boyfriend, the grandma and I went out to dinner on a Saturday night to a sports bar replete with television sets, video games and dart boards. It is loud but we endure; they serve the best ribs in town. It is packed full of families and kids from the local college, playing darts, drinking beer and eating ribs, wings and nachos. Short-haired kids with muscles. You know, jocks. Maybe frat boys. I'm not sure. But they have no coffee; the machine is broken. Really? And no dessert except ice cream. Wha? So I suggest it. We are only a few blocks away. We head to the coffee house. When we enter, it is clear: it has a different vibe from the sports bar. It could be worlds away. It is almost empty because it is still early. It is quiet except for the music playing on the sound system.

When I look across the table at the girl child, I see that she is like me, yet unlike me. I envy her as I watch her sitting there. Not for her youth or her beauty, although she has a great deal of both, but for her potential, for what is to come. I tell her that I am jealous that she will have many nights here with her friends, that they may meet here on breaks from college and that one day soon, she might be counting her tips on a table at this coffee house, the way I did when I was only four years older than she is now. I don't typically wish for her to experience the things that I have experienced, but this one is different. This surprises me. Of course, she will not have a job at a bar known for its beer garden, live music, killer foot long hot dogs and a long line of Harleys parked out front. That place is long gone. Her loss. But she would not like it there anyway. She would probably say that perhaps that was one of my not-so-great decisions, because you know how judgmental she can be. She will most likely work the afternoon shift at a local pizzeria. She is a rebel, she is.

I watch as the girl child and the boyfriend dig in to their brownie sundae. The girl child has opted for hot cider in a thick white mug; she does not drink coffee. The boyfriend comments that the music playing sounds like nineties grunge. I disagree; it sounds like seventies punk to me. You know, music was much better, back in my day.