by Rachel Cohn
Johnny Mold said, "Cyd Charisse, meet Dante. Dante, CC."
NO WAY. Universe is a shambles, crumbling at my feet.
"Why?" I stated, directing my comment to Johnny. That stupid handsome legendary espresso man is the reason I spent the first six weeks of my new life stranded in a fifth-floor walk-up apartment! And why, oh why, does that espresso pull in his hand smell SO GOOD!
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Johnny said, "I hired him to fill in during your supposed vacation. I've been trying to lure Dante here from La Traviata for the last year, but he didn't agree until now. There's, like, buzz about the buzz of this place, you know? Dante's been in Corsica for the last couple months, but he wanted to spend the holidays in Manhattan, and this time he finally said yes to my invitation."
Lure. Dante. Here.
I suspected the straight-edge celibate of having a not-so-straight crush, but I knew better than to acknowledge the possibility that Johnny could be more interested in a person than, say, his Game Boy, or his band. Instead I grabbed Johnny by his Mikado/Penzance hand and dragged him to the bathroom. We had to shove aside a good half dozen people to get past the line for Dante. Word of the great espresso man's return to Manhattan must have spread quickly.
Inside the bathroom I hissed at Johnny, "I thought you were going to close this place during the holidays."
"I was. But there are like lots of Jewish and Chinese people who need food and caffeine before they go to the movies on Christmas day, and lots of business people who have to stick around for end-of-year business accounting or something like that. Why shouldn't this place be the one to serve the people who don't go away for the holidays? Half the restaurants in this neighborhood close the week between Christmas and New Year's. I figured the opportunity was ripe for us to grab some of their business then."
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"You're not supposed to have ambition! I count on you for that!"
"Excuse me, but you weren't supposed to come here and know how to use the espresso machine, to fix up the furniture and arrange it like all invitingly for customers, to recruit book clubs to have meetings here, to threaten a movie night. Now I have to stay on top of employee schedules and supply orders and--"
"Dante's not replacing me, is he? You swear he'll leave after New Year's?"
"Dante's a barista-wanderer. He roams from café to café, city to city. It's like a whole philosophy and lifestyle for him. I couldn't get him to stay even if I wanted him to stay."
"Do you want him to stay?" Nudge-nudge.
"Don't be coy, Myself. I have no interest in Dante other than in continuing to build this business, because now that my grandpa Johnny the First has seen the hint of profit in the accounting books, he apparently wants to see more. Dying old man's wish, whatever. This pressure's gonna kill me, I tell ya. I haven't been to band practice in weeks."
Now it was Johnny's turn to drag me, this time leading me out of the bathroom and back toward the front counter. "Who's that guy?" Johnny asked me, pointing at Shrimp, who had joined Dante at La Marzocco and taken on junior pilot responsibilities, writing down customers' orders to help move the line more efficiently. Had I been delusional, questioning how Shrimp would adapt into this
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atmosphere? Shrimp's brother owns an independent coffee chain business in San Francisco--Shrimp lives and breathes Java almost as much as surfing or painting. He's natural selection here.
I answered Johnny, "He's my ..." boyfriend --not quite, "he's my ..." true love --too much backstory required to explain, "he's my ..." lover --too grown-up. "He's my Shrimp," I finally said.
Shrimp said something to Dante, causing Dante to laugh and slap Shrimp on the back. He's my Shrimp who's so not getting any if he doesn't cool off the brewing friendship with the Dante inferno.
Johnny patted my shoulder. "Good lure," he said. "You oughta do some shifts with Dante. You could learn a lot from him." I shoved Johnny's shoulder. Hard. "That hurt!" Johnny whined.
What truly hurt was that Shrimp possibly fit into this environment more than I do. By the close of business that day he was on a first-name basis with half the customers, and he had a pile of business cards from people who wanted to hire him for odd jobs. Even Johnny fell under Shrimp's spell. Shrimp drew a set of dragon sketches for Johnny so good that Johnny had to leave work early to deliver the sketches to the tattoo parlor needle man for immediate slayage onto the remaining open skin space at the back of his neck. Worse, the afternoon Shrimp spent assisting Dante at the machine, chatting and sipping shot after shot, had revealed that Shrimp and Dante were almost related, like barista -sympaticos. Conversation
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about their travels had unearthed the connection that Dante knew Shrimp's brother, Wallace. Dante and Wallace met when they were both backpacking around Indonesia. They shared a mutual passion for coffee and they traveled together for a while, in search of the perfect Indonesian blend. Then Wallace fell in love with a Balinese girl and Dante found the dharma, and eventually the two friends lost touch with each other, but connection is connection, man, it's deep, which must by why fate had delivered Wallace's brother to Dante's Manhattan temp job. Small world.
This was my world. "Go ahead!" I said, when Shrimp asked me if I'd mind if he and Dante took off for a couple hours to get dinner together, because I was so totally not threatened by their connection, I could even subdue my burning desire to sterilize La Marzocco from Dante's fingerprints the moment Dante and Shrimp walked out the door. "I'm fine to cover the evening shift here." Myself's turf.
Left alone again at La Marzocco, I pondered how even when things seem like a mess for Shrimp, they fall into place for him anyway. A week ago Shrimp was broke and alone, getting bumped off a flight from New Zealand after the parents he followed there--and for whom he gave up his true love--got bumped off the island; he had nothing and no one to go home to. Now he'd found himself at the center of the world, his old girlfriend swiftly reinstated into his
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life and into his pants, a jar full of tips tipping his wallet into a positive balance, and the legendary espresso man Dante buying him dinner. Merry freaking Christmas.
Myself decided to celebrate the impending holiday by giving a little gift to all the sculpted Chelsea boys and taut body alpha mommies who arrived that evening on the hunt for Dante. I replaced the Equal containers with real sugar and poured whole milk into the containers marked skim. 'Tis the season to be jolly--and fat.
I am evil and I love me.
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***
THIRTY
Evil personally called to me on Christmas morning. Evil whispered:
"True love is too good to be true. Don't believe. Let go now, before it's too late."
I hear you, Evil, I really do.
Breaking up would surely be hard to do on Christmas morning, but I would manage. I always do. Evil offered to lend a helping hand should I falter.
Just because a days a holiday doesn't mean a break from the naturally selected order of the world. Reality had awoken me out of Evil's whisper-slumber, shouting to me that THE UNIVERSE DOES NOT INTEND FOR THIS THING WITH SHRIMP TO WORK OUT. IT HASN'T IN THE PAST, SO WHY SHOULD IT NOW? ACCEPT THAT TRUTH, AND MERRY FREAKING CHRISTMAS AND GOD BLESS YOU, ONE AND ALL.
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Alone together for the first time in our new incarnations as independent adult-types, with no parents or school or other distractions demanding our attentions away from each other, I awoke Christmas morning knowing that the blessed time with Shrimp most likely operated on a holiday schedule. After New Year's, Danny would return to the apartment, and Shrimp's lease on staying at our apartment would terminate. Shrimp and I would be back to the same place that broke us up last time--we want each other, but beyond that, we want different lives. He yearns to travel the world. I yearn to travel the world that is the island of Manhattan. I prefer hanging out in a cool job. He prefers not to be tied down. I strive to discover the meaning of actualization. He strives to experience killer curls. S
talemate.
"Mate," I was gonna say when I located where Shrimp had gone after slipping out of bed early this morning, not knowing I would fall back asleep to Evil and awake to Reality, "this situation is stale. Let's stop fooling ourselves, for good. We've had this reunion we both longed for, but let's end this while it's still good."
The San Francisco boy did not care about New York winter chill, because Shrimp stood in my living room on Christmas morning, nekkid but for a pair of Santa-themed boxer shorts covering his lower middle, and a furry red Santa hat covering his upper head. When Shrimp-Santa saw me come into the room, he kicked the play button on the stereo. He preempted the breakup song I was
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about to dedicate to him by turning on "Waiting" by SF boy Chris Isaak, from a favorite album of our San Francisco days that Shrimp and I listened to back at Wallace's house at Ocean Beach, when Shrimp would come in from surfing and I'd be waiting for him, to towel him dry and then share a special San Francisco treat with him--an Its-It bar, two oatmeal cookies with vanilla ice cream sandwiched in between, dipped in chocolate.
Shrimp couldn't produce a genuine Its-It in New York, but he did a damn fine Ocean Beach replay scene. While Chris sang about here I stand with my heart in my hands and I offer love to you, Shrimp pulled me into his arms for a slow dance. Shrimp whispered into my ear along with Chris's croon, telling me about here I stand with my world gone wrong and I wonder what to do. I nestled my head onto Shrimp's shoulder as Shrimp elevated his whisper to sing along with the record, aloud, about oh how I've missed you, I wanted to kiss you, I dreamt that I held you and lost you again.
Inside our dance, over Shrimp's shoulder and under Chris's song, I saw the result of Shrimp's morning's work. The living room table had vases of fresh flowers on either side, with a Christmas breakfast display sandwiched in between: steaming scrambled eggs, fresh fruit salad, home fries, and a stack of Pop-Tarts.
Fuck off, Evil.
After breakfast, after the belches and the kisses, followed by
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more belches and kisses, Shrimp pulled his gift from underneath the sofa where he'd stored it, unwrapped.
"A sketchbook?" I asked, confused. Shrimp knows I have no artistic talent, nor the desire to try my hand at artistic talent that does not involve trying to make rosetta latte art with steamed milk and espresso swirls.
"Open it," Shrimp said.
I opened the sketchbook to see that it was indeed about me and my art--just not drawn by me. As I flipped the pages, I saw me after me after me, pictures Shrimp had drawn with colored pencils during his time in New Zealand, using photographs of me as models--or just memory of me to hue the lines. There I stood on the Staten Island Ferry floating by the Statue of Liberty, waving to the camera memory of Shrimp's sketch hand. Gray fog enveloped black-clad me on the sandy dunes of Ocean Beach. Café me had a cappuccino mug in one hand, a Nestlé Crunch bar in the other. Half 'n' half me pictured a face split down the middle--half my face, my formerly long hair drawn in green, and the other half the real Cyd Charisse but drawn in black, with the razor sharp bobbed flapper hairstyle of her green-dress dance from Singin' in the Rain.
"When I was in New Zealand and missing you, this sketchbook was how I kept you with me. I imagined you in place of being with you."
I felt bad because I had no present for him in return, had given
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no thought whatsoever to finding him a Christmas gift since his unexpected arrival. "I'm sorry I have nothing for you," I said. Evil lurks within my soul. Do you understand that, Phil? I intended to send you packing this morning.
But Shrimp said, "You give me you. That's all I want."
I wanted to shove him for saying the perfect thing after the perfect present after the perfect breakfast, but I didn't. I burst into tears instead.
Shrimp did a walkabout around the living room during my cry, which I appreciated, as a huggy-kissy follow-up moment would have wrecked the scene. He touched the various framed photographs while he walked, Danny and Aaron at their old café; Max and Yvette Mimieux in Max's garden; a close-up of Johnny Mold's Harry Potter tattoos on his lower back; me with lisBETH, Danny, and Frank grimacing at the tofurkey lisBETH prepared this past Thanksgiving during her brief flirtation with vegetarianism. "Don't cry," Shrimp said. "Just look at the life you've grown here, all these people who care for you." I sputtered, "But everything always works out so easily for you, Shrimp. I'm just a goof-off." But Shrimp was not playing with me. He said, "Things work out for you because you work hard to make them happen." He did not mumble the sentiment.
Later, comatose on my tears, his Pop-Tarts, and a Chris Isaak croon hangover, we devoted the afternoon to quality couch potato
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time, my head on Shrimp's lap, who sat watching football like a proper boy, but with the sound turned off at commercials. During the breaks Shrimp gave me the best present of all--he told me about Himself. He'd gotten into meditation while in the Land of the Kiwis. Meditation helped counteract the feeling Shrimp had that the world could be a pretty hateful and overwhelming place when he wasn't lost inside waves or art; it had helped center his mind, so he could see that it was time to return home and deal with the real world again. He said maybe it had been a mistake for him to follow his parents to New Zealand, but he'd wanted that time with them. He wanted to feel like he could trust them, like they could be there for him after having deposited him to live with his brother for most of his high school years while they traipsed across the world. He said he suspected before he left that it probably wouldn't work out, but he felt like he had to try--for them and for him. Now he didn't have to wonder anymore. Now he knew he was on his own.
As Christmas night broke into Boxing Day early morning, I said, "I can't remember you ever telling me so much about yourself at once."
Shrimp said, "I can't remember you ever listening so much at once."
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***
THIRTY-ONE
Warning label: THE SURGEON GENERAL CC HAS
DETERMINED THAT DANTE'S ESPRESSO CREATIONS SINGEING THE LIPS, CHURNING THROUGH THE MOUTH, AND GLIDING DOWN THE THROAT MAY CAUSE FULL BODY CONVULSIONS, AND NOT JUST THE CAFFEINATED JOLT KIND. Salut!
I admit it. Dante is the supreme god of baristas. Watching Dante brew is like what I imagine it would be like to hear Pavarotti in his prime sing from La Traviata, or to watch Michelangelo paint the Sistine Chapel. There's a reason the guy has an international following and can pick his gigs at any café around the world. He's a master. He earns the title.
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Like Frank-dad, Dante likes to lecture. Unlike Frank-dad, Dante actually seems to know what he's talking about. Lesson number one: Espresso-making is both an art and a science--and should never be treated as just a job. Lesson number two: Always remember the four fundamental Ms necessary for a good cup: miscela (the blend), macinatura (the grind), macchina (the espresso machine), mano (the skill of the machine operator). Lesson number three: The four Ms result in the optimal espresso pull, which should be full-bodied and almost syrupy, so rich it requires no sugar or other flavorings, and topped with a thick layer of crema.
Dante advised I should have not been surprised by the lack of good espresso to be found in New York City--it's all about the water. The water here has the necessary purity and flavor to significantly contribute to the quality of the area's outstanding bagels and pizza dough, and to make a decent espresso possible, but the water is reportedly deficient in calcium, which gives body to espresso. If I want to taste perfection, I need to go to Naples, where the volcanic soil from Mount Vesuvius provides the world's most superior water source for espresso.
Dante reeducates as well as lectures. "Bella, La Marzocco is not the 'Cadillac of machines.'" It's an excellent machine, agreed-- though it's a Toyota Camry, always reliable and it will last forever, but art? No. The best espresso machines have long unpronounceable Italian names that sound like symphonies when articulated out
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of Dante's mouth. I'd have to go to Italy to see them, because they're surely not going to be found in this land of coffee philistines--and signorina, those machines are Lamborghinis.
I am but a mere barista novice, according to Dante. My instincts are good, but I have molto to learn. But he sees my potenziale. Dante sees Shrimp's potential too--but advises that Shrimp is like him, someone who will be a barista to support the wandering lifestyle, as opposed to Shrimp's vero amore (me), who will wander around only until she finds a barista lifestyle to support.
Gurus are so full of themselves with the spiegazione, but with espresso that tasty, what do I care? Keep bringing on that enlightenment.
My Shrimp-love-haze-fog streams so thick I don't sweat Dante's superior abilities. I'm young. I'll get better and better. I totally ace Dante's art and science of espresso-making with the pure love I dose in. And I have my own true love--reinstated, if admittedly indeterminate, but who cares? The here and now is good, good, good. What's Dante got? Caffeinated nerves of steel and a passport.
Also, I am a way better polka dancer than Dante.
"You're stepping on my feet!" I said to Dante after the record skipped from our dance-jumping. I slipped out of Dante's arms and added a penny onto the needle arm of the old portable record player borrowed from Max's apartment. The penny addition helped--the
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Lawrence Welk record from Danny's one dollah LP collection mellowed to basic scratches instead of skips.
Last year on New Year's Eve, after a "just friends" period following our first breakup, Shrimp and I reunited and it felt so good. This year, after yet another breakup and reunion, we had no interest in the Times Square ball-dropping or the champagne. Instead we got drunk on caffeine with Johnny and Dante, played Parcheesi with them, and finished up the celebrating with a round of Lawrence Welk polka dancing. The glamour never stops here in Manhattan.