Opens late and opened til late, patrons come when they please, dragging fresh water from the mist of icy lakes and sea salt from the dunes with them. No matter, says I, coffee is the only thing on offer, the only thing that matters. It picks up the flavors of the smoke and the peat and the salt like a fine single malt. But the dregs run oily and smooth, giving it body and substance to bolster a fragile soul.
The early crowd shirks work, swigging the last drop and scrying the grounds for portents. Early, you see, is 9-ish when I have found my own courage at the bottom of the mug. The lunch crowd comes ravenous and haggard, the day’s vital juices already sapped from limbs involved in industrious pursuits. They barely notice the food, lost in an endless torrent of mail. But I serve them anyway. Even the distracted need victuals.
I like the afternoon crowd best, the idlers, the misfits, daydreamers worn down by a mere half-day of usefulness: students focused on becoming, elderly gentlemen in tweed playing chess while embellishing yesterday’s fly fishing. The lovers, the romantics, the men and women of leisure, a dying breed, all great coffee drinkers of limited means.
The evening pays my bills: Primal urges groggy from lunch now revive and seek kin. Downtrodden and worn, these guests arrive with shoulders sagged, but hours later they leave sprite-footed. Mondays it’s Mike the Musician mixing illegal downloads through hotwired speakers. When Mike flakes, though, any guest’s playlist will do. How a person deejays says much about them.
Tuesdays the editorial board of the Grumbler Tattler meets guided by two Supreme Rules: No flaming and absolutely no orthographical mistakes. The latter are tallied – every baker’s dozen leads to a round of drinks on the offender. Samantha does the artwork. Tom makes copies. I am editor-in-chief, publisher and creative director. It’s free for members, a buck for newbies.
Wednesdays the Club of Florence meets – only cynics would call it bullshitters’ night. We are Popperian and demand verifiability, the only true skill left in this post-fact age. A year ago, we installed an AI to catch logical fallacies; just last night we hooked a red herring.
Thursdays is karaoke, where drink flows copiously, to drown out the crooning. The Grumbling Strings and Pipes, our house band, is fledgling but only last week, John Gray – of the Vermont Grays – played rhythm for the prettiest rendition of the Battle Hymn of the Republic you ever did hear.
Fridays is open mic. Catfish talks about fixing his truck, JB recites his cowboy poetry, which mostly includes his wife kicking him out of the trailer home, then taking him back the next day. Billy says that he hung with Hemingway, though he would have been 13 years old at the time. When patrons get rowdy, we threaten them with Hank’s OpEds – that never fails to hush.
Saturdays we dance: waltzes, foxtrots, disco, two-step - anything but salsa.
Membership will get you an issue of the Tattler and coffee-as-a-service. I take no credit, no debit, cash only. Plastic encourages usury. For members, we offer a reading room, The Staxx, a collaborative offline library. Bring your own, leave what you have. We stock everything from Aquinas to Zola and plenty of pulp between. Premium members get the Top Flop, a couch on the second floor with a view of the ocean. Folks from all over the world have come to visit: Swedes, Kiwis, Octogenarians. I’ve been pinged, boinged, digged and stumbled upon. A review of your stay on Instagram earns you pancakes with extra syrup and bacon.
And me? My name’s Harvey P Grumbler (the P stands for P), entrepreneur extraordinaire, High Lord of Low Tech. My cooking skills are middling, my slow waltz magnificent. What I lack in skill, I overcome in pluck. Former tea trader, I traveled the Far East looking for the perfect leaf with nothing but a toothbrush and pair of skivvies to my name. Then one day a bomb in Bali blew off my right arm and popped my right eye. My wanderlust cured, I switched to coffee retail.
I collect eyepatches and have one in every color and pattern imaginable: plaid, paisley, and puce. The guys find it quirky, the ladies find it sexy, sometimes. I have three right prostheses of differing lengths, with hand, hook, or hammer for dancing, cooking, or building, respectively. Ladies get the hand, unruly customers the hook: I can plant it on the table and jerk it off my stump with a single yank: Even the toughest crumble. In the evening, I can clean my arms under the steam spout of the coffee machine.
I saw the maw of the whale that day in Bali, but I am not a drop-out – I am a check-in. I am a port for the world’s curious. And on Sundays we’re closed.
About the author
Douglas MacKevett is a writer and mythologist based near Lucerne, Switzerland. His work focuses on short-form fiction, spoken word and myth. When not crafting stories, Douglas enjoys the Swiss Alps with cross-country skiing in winter and hiking in summer.
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