Pops’s funeral was more like a tribute. A large crowd gathered in the garden next to St. Brigid’s church where several musicians played songs and patrons of the café spoke about his generosity and character. That day was uncharacteristically warm for February. I remember through tears I marveled at the shards of light piercing through the trees, flooding the space with warmth and energy. It was a beautiful way to say goodbye to his body and a reminder that his spirit would remain. It was exactly what he would have wanted, something more like a peaceful memorial concert outdoors as opposed to a sad wake at Kell’s. In my father’s will he requested to be cremated but left no instructions regarding his remains. In my heart I promised that I would do something with his ashes. I would find a way to give his spontaneous, loving spirit one last hoorah.
Sheil lives in the apartment directly above Kell’s. My apartment is one building down and situated above Sam’s Italian Restaurant. Sam’s does not serve any coffee; they send all their customers to Kell’s, claiming we have the best cappuccinos. In return, we let them use a small storage space in our back office. It’s been a worthwhile relationship.
“Martha, I’m going to work seven days a week until we get the books straight,” I said one morning before we opened the café.
“You most certainly will not—you’ll burn out.”
“I don’t know if we’re making money or losing money and I am not going to hire someone until we figure out the finances.”
“I can tell you without looking at the books that we’re doing just fine,” she said, glancing toward the door where several patrons had begun to gather. “Anyway, your father kept meticulous records. If it says we’re in the black, then we are.”
She was right about one thing: my father was a good businessman and record keeper. The café was like a museum; one wall of the long narrow space was exposed brick, completely unmarred. The other side was beige wainscoting that met solid, navy blue paint, which was almost entirely covered by black-and-white photographs. The photographs varied between pictures of famous patrons, musical performances that took place in the café, my father’s friends or employees over the years, and quite a few of me. It seemed there was at least one from every stage of my life. The counter, refrigerator case, and register were old, but still gleaming and the espresso machine, as loud and cranky as it was, sparkled in the light of the low-hung fixtures.
Above the counter was a chalkboard with my father’s simple writing of the beverage names and descriptions. The only place that had visibly been erased over the many years were the prices. I briefly pondered the cost of the very first cappuccino served at that counter. Perhaps a nickel. Times had certainly changed, the prices had changed and more pictures had been added to the wall, but other than that, the café remained the same. The floors were old, worn, distressed wood, but they were cherished like the tables and chairs and the bar that stretched across the front window. I’d spent many summer nights with my father, cleaning and oiling the wood. The scent of citrus oil and espresso always mingled heavily in the tight space.
Pops took great care to preserve the quality and character of the café. I remember one day as I cleaned between each wood slat of a chair, he came over and put his hand on my shoulder. I looked up into his caramel-colored irises. He smiled all the way to his eyes. “Remember to leave your pride inside, luv, but make sure you keep it alive,” he said. The hand-rolled clove peeking from the side of his mouth always emphasized his husky, accented voice.
I wanted to feel that pride in the café while humbly working to maintain its quality like my father had taught me, and even though I didn’t know what the future held for me and Kell’s, I wouldn’t disgrace his memory by letting his life’s work fall apart. I chose to work either an opening or closing shift seven days a week, while Martha and Sheil alternated days. Jenny, who was the only other employee, would fill in the gaps so that there would be two people working most of the time. Jenny had worked at Kell’s for a few years. She was two years older than me and every time I would visit New York, she and I would fall back into an easy friendship.
It had been at least a month before I settled into the routine at the café. I started to recognize the regulars. Joe and his brother Paddy spent several mornings a week at their usual table in the corner. I would often find myself standing close by, shamelessly eavesdropping on their hilarious conversations. The familiarity of the fading Irish accents filled my heart with warmth.
“Somebody requested that type of music? That junk? That shit?” Paddy said to Joe in disbelief one Tuesday morning.
“I believe they did, Paddy.”
“And she played it? Is she stupid?”
“For tirty-tree years I’ve been going to that dance hall, Paddy, and she has been there every single Sunday playing the same music until last week. Somebody must have requested it. She’s not stupid—she doesn’t understand.”
“Does she know English?”
“She does.”
“Well, then, how do you explain it?”
“She doesn’t understand the two—how if you have nice music, people will dance and come back, but if you play that crap, people will leave.”
“Give her another illustration, Joe, to help her understand. Maybe you can tell her that if the food is terrible, people won’t eat it.”
“I actually enjoy the food. I love broccoli, I like stew,” Joe said matter-of-factly.
Paddy looked at Joe with a puzzled but interested look. “Do you like spaghetti and meatballs?”
“Of course I do, but they only serve Irish fare there, Paddy. I thought you knew that.”
Jenny danced through the jingling café door, waving a flyer around like a crazy person, momentarily distracting me from Paddy and Joe.
“Looky looky, cute boy came in last night and asked to put this up, but I’m keeping it to myself.” It was a very simple flyer advertising three bands playing that Friday night at a nearby bar called The Depot. I didn’t recognize the first two but tensed up when I saw The Ivans at the bottom. Guess they weren’t exactly headliners. “You wanna go with me?” Jenny said, wearing a stupid grin.
“What did the guy look like?”
“Hot.”
“Did he ask for me?”
“No, why would he ask for you?”
“Well I met this guy on a plane, and um… never mind. Yes, I’ll go with you, but we’ll have to rearrange the schedule so I can go early since it looks like they’ll be playing first.”
“Who will be playing first?”
“Well, I mean, I just want to see all three bands.”
“Oh, okay, yeah sure, whatever. You’re the boss.”
“Hey, Jenny, just one thing? Did the guy have any tattoos?”
“Oh, yes. He had a big, thick angel wing on his forearm… very sexy. I couldn’t stop staring,” she said, wiggling her eyebrows.
It was Will.
Friday snuck up on me. I wrapped everything up at the café and had a few minutes to run to my apartment and change before Jenny and I met me on the street. I decided on some black skinny jeans, flats, a black tank top, and a little gray blazer. I’ve always been the monochromatic type, never really wearing many colors or patterns. I brushed out my long, dark hair, put on a little mascara and lip gloss, said “Be good” to Jackson, then headed for the door and down to the street to where Jenny was waiting.
“You look amazing, Mia.”
“Really? You are too kind, girl. Anyway, look at you, you look great!” She did. Jenny was much more dressed up than I. She wore a silk shirt with a shimmery skirt and a bomber jacket with chunky heels. Jenny is the polar opposite of me. She’s curvy with blond hair and light eyes.
When we arrived at The Depot, there were a few scattered people in attendance. We made our way to the bar, Jenny ordered a beer, and I asked for my usual going-out drink, vodka soda with a splash of cranberry. The bar was filling up and The Ivans began taking the stage. There was a sprinkle of applause.
“That’
s the guy!” Jenny belted out.
I tilted my head back, acknowledging her. She was gawking at him as he tuned his guitar with his back to the audience. It annoyed me that she was a girl who swooned over musicians. I briefly wondered if we could continue our friendship. I liked Jenny, so I was going to overlook it. After all, I knew Will could get my temperature up, too, but I wasn’t there for his attention. I simply wanted to see if he had any talent. The way he talked on the plane made me think that he was at least a decent guitarist. I don’t know why it mattered or why I cared, but I did.
The drummer and bassist had also taken the stage, but there was no sign of the lead singer yet. Will was wearing black jeans and a plain gray T-shirt; I think we sort of matched. He was wearing black classic Adidas sneakers with a piece of duct tape over the toe of his left shoe.
The band began building up a beat. Will played a soulful and haunting guitar riff while the bassist plucked an equally haunting line. The drums came in low and patient. I was mesmerized. Their sound was dynamic and original. Will was in deep concentration and still slightly turned toward the drummer in the back. It was clear that this was some sort of long intro. I watched as he studied the guitar and slightly manipulated the neck to change the sound. There was a bluesiness to his style, but it was definitely faster and harder. Pete, the lead singer, sauntered out on stage shirtless.
“Yuck!” I gasped. Jenny shot me the look of agreement. I expected him to walk up to the microphone and begin belting out something beautiful to match the music the band was making, but that was wishful thinking.
“Check, Check, one… two… three!” Pete shouted into the microphone. The band stopped abruptly. Will was expressionless as he turned toward the audience.
The drummer smacked the drums one last time, threw his arms up in the air, looked right at Pete’s back, and shouted in a breathy voice, “Fucker!” Pete turned around and flipped him off.
“Can I get some more reverb?” Pete directed to someone offstage. It was clear the band was jamming and the audience was enjoying it, but he didn’t give a shit. He was the typical front-man egomaniac. When the band started to play and he began singing, I was mortified. There was so much reverb on his vocals it sounded like we really were in a train depot and someone was calling out arrivals and departures over a speaker system.
“What a waste!” I said to Jenny.
“Yeah, the band seems really good but the singer is so full of himself and he sucks.” Pete was dancing all over the stage like a fool. Will and the other musicians just kept their heads down on their instruments. When there was a guitar or drum solo, Pete would stand at his microphone and shout “uh huhs” and “yeahs” like a total numbskull. Will onstage was not at all the playful guy I had met on the plane. He kept his head down, his eyes were dark, and he never looked out into the crowd. I might have guessed that Pete’s antics embarrassed Will, but I didn’t think he was flustered easily.
As soon as The Ivans finished their set, I turned to Jenny. “Let’s go. I’m over it.”
“Really? Don’t you want to see the other bands?”
“This was fun. It’s just, I have to get up super early.”
“No worries, girl, the guitarist is delicious, but I think I’m over my groupie days.” I suddenly had a lot more respect for Jenny; I knew we would remain friends.
We dashed out of the bar, never looking back, and made our way toward my place. Back at my apartment we had some wine. I played a few fun songs on the piano for Jenny. That was the bonus of living above a restaurant, no one really complained about the noise. My father had an old upright piano that I loved. It was nothing like the baby grand my mother and David had bought me on my sixth birthday. My father’s piano had history and texture and a character to the sound. Jenny sang along to the songs she knew; we had a great time. She told me I was an amazing musician and I told her she was a great friend and I was glad my father had hired her. Jenny stayed that night in the guest room and we managed to be asleep by ten.
The next morning, I got up at six a.m., took Jackson for a run, and then I made some fliers to find a roommate. I realized with Jenny over that it was nice to have the company and I felt like Jackson could use the company, too. He was thirteen and he had grown up with me in Ann Arbor. He was the constant recipient of my stepdad’s attention, especially my first two years in college when I couldn’t take him with me. He had grown used to having a lot of space and daily walks. It would be nice to have another person help with that responsibility. I didn’t need the money, so I could be very picky about whom I chose to rent the room to. As I left for the café, Jenny was just getting up.
“Hey, I’m going to Kell’s. I’ll see you later. Help yourself to whatever and stay as long as you want.”
“Thanks, girl!” Jenny yelled back as I headed out the door.
I approached Kell’s armed with fliers in hand. Right as I got to the door, I noticed Will. He was sitting at the wooden bar that faced out the front window. He was in the seat farthest from the door, chewing on a little plastic straw, staring out to the street, all broody. He removed the straw and from where I stood, I could see his mouth move ever so slightly. I approached him unnoticed, bent down toward his ear and whispered, “You talkin’ to God?”
He jumped up, arms stretched out to his sides, offering a hug. “Mia! You know I’m not religious. How are you?”
My mind went straight to a visual of Will kissing the rosary crucifix around his neck on the plane that day back in March and I laughed softly. I went in for the hug. He wrapped his arms around my shoulders and I think I felt him kiss the top of my head. We barely knew each other, but it didn’t seem like that.
“I’m really good,” I said.
“I saw you last night at The Depot with Coffee Girl and then you were gone. What’s up with that?”
“You saw me?”
He laughed. “Did you notice we were dressed almost exactly the same? You were like my little twin.” I squinted at him but didn’t respond. We stood there gazing at each other for several moments and then he poked my arm with his index finger and said, “You looked great.” An image of me grabbing his finger and sucking on it shot through my mind. Good Lord! “So what did you think of the band?” he asked.
“The band is amazing, but Pete is a total goober and he’s a terrible singer on top of it.”
“I know, right? We should have known when he wanted to name the band ‘For Pete’s Sake.’”
I laughed loudly at the idea. “No, but seriously, you guys are good. You owe it yourselves to find a decent singer.”
“Pete put the band together, that’s the thing. We can’t kick him out of his own band. It’s just for practice, anyway. At least for me. I’m always looking out for new possibilities. What’s that?” He pointed to my fliers.
“Oh. I’m looking for a roommate.”
“Perfect, I’ll take it!” He was wearing a giant grin.
“No offense, Will, but we barely know each other and I was kind of hoping to find another girl to rent to. I mean, you know, you could be like an ax murderer or something.” I smirked.
“Oh my god, Mia, didn’t you see the movie Single White Female? Have you really thought this through?” He was deadpan, but I knew he was being silly.
“You have a point, buddy. I’ll think about it. In the meantime, can I get you a coffee or something?”
“No thanks, I have somewhere be. Rain check?”
“Will, you can come back anytime during business hours and someone will serve you a coffee.”
He half smiled, then squinted his eyes and said, “But I want to have a coffee with you.”
My legs were trembling and then as if I had no control over my mouth, I said, “The room is yours if you want it. Rent is four hundred dollars, you can move in now. It’s the apartment above Sam’s. But I have to tell you, if we’re going to live together, then we have to keep it strictly friends. Got it?”
He cupped my face with both hands and I felt th
e calloused pads of his fingers on my cheeks. I flushed all the way down to my toes and then my knees buckled. I grabbed his waist as he planted a hard, ridiculous, closed-mouth kiss on my lips. Then he said, “Baby, that’s a great idea!”
“Will!” I shouted at him.
Still holding my face, he cocked his head to the side. “What? This is how I am with my friends.” Just then Jenny walked in the door. Will immediately stalked over to her, grabbed her face and planted the same kiss on her, then sighed, “Hey, baby.” He sped out the door, turned around, and looked at me through the glass. With his arms held out to his sides, he said, “See? I told you. I’ll be at your place at noon tomorrow.” Then he was gone.
Stunned, I turned toward Jenny, who was equally shocked.
“What the fuck was that?”
“That’s my new roommate.”
She chuckled. “Right on.”
What had I done? Friends, we were going to be friends, I told myself. That’s it. But it didn’t seem like Will made rules like that for his life. He reminded me of my father and that scared me.
I turned and began studying the many photos on the wall at Kell’s.
There were pictures of my father with Bob Dylan, Allen Ginsberg, Andy Warhol, The Clash, Willie Nelson, and Patti Smith to name a few. I thought about the future of the café. Although the East Village was now a much safer place for a young, single girl to live, I missed the culture that used to exist. Kell’s had been the hangout, but times had changed. We still had our group of die-hard regulars along with the people sent to us from Sam’s who wanted to sit and enjoy an after-dinner creation, but the mornings were brutally slow for a coffee house. Most cafés had been reduced to a “get your coffee fast joint” where you popped in for your morning latte served up in a paper cup. My father refused to conform to that standard. No coffee was “to go” in our café. Still, back in the day, there was a seediness of the punk rock era in the East Village. The freedom and creativity was rampant, which drew people to gather in places like Kell’s. Gone were those days. I wasn’t entirely sure I would have fit in anyway.
Sweet Thing Page 3