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The coffee was sludge, thick and greasy; it needed three packets
of sugar to make it bearable. But we sucked it back anyway.
I was doing my best to put on my "hey, great coffee, look at me,
enjoying my cuppa" face, because we all knew that mature women
enjoy their coffee. At fourteen, maturity is a hot commodity.
At this point, coffee is akin to high heel shoes or the frosty
lipstick in my newly acquired purse. It's a sign that I've made
it. It's a sign of independence.
Not a connoisseur among us at fourteen, no sir. But Friday afternoons
find us, religiously, slurping the stuff back like liquid gold
at Frank's Donut Hole. The "Hole" is the closest it gets to the
requisite greasy spoon in this town. A major plus was the fact
that it had no minimum. The downside, of course, was the atrocious
brew they passed off at 79 cents a cup.
But hey, we didn't know the difference yet. And it was only the
beginning of a long and happy courtship between us (our little
gang of gals) and coffee.
Despite its deceptively simple wording, "wanna go for coffee?"
was actually a cryptic form of one of the following:
a) I really need to talk about something
b) I have got the greatest gossip
c) I'm bored and I've got to get away from my parents
d) I need advice and counseling
e) I have no reason whatsoever, I just want to hang out with you
for a while
Going for coffee became the vehicle, the purpose, for sitting
on our duffs and doing what we did best. Gabbing. About boys.
About school. About each other. About the future. About absolutely
nothing. And it was delightful, every second of it.
All good things come to an end, and in this case, all bad things,
too. We finally discovered that a cup of java wasn't supposed
to leave you with six-day heartburn. We discovered the barrista.
Oh, the foam. Such beautiful sprinkles. Could you top me up with
a little more whip cream on that puppy? How about whole milk this
time? Maybe a double grande? And one of those marvelous little
pastries on the side?
Snobs, we were. Café latte, mocha, machiatto, espresso snobs.
We still came for the talk, but it wasn't the same. We spent half
the time admiring the merchandise on the walls and the other half
eyeing cute turtleneck-wearing academic types sitting in the corners.
It was a place to see and be seen. But, I confess, the coffee
was divine.
These days it's more like "coffee's brewing in the kitchen, let
me put the baby down for a nap" sort of thing. Life is getting
busy. Too busy. Too complicated.
The mugs are mismatched (garage sale finds), and sometimes its
only coffee-mate instead of creamo. It's good coffee, fresh ground,
nicely brewed. The table is old, the chairs a bit wobbly. And
it's good to sit in the kitchen of a friend, and do what we do
best. Gab. About husbands. About jobs. About each other. About
the kids. About nothing.
But before it all gets really rolling, a child needs changing
or a spouse comes looking for food. Laundry has to be finished.
Carpets need to be vacuumed. "Wanna go for coffee" has become
a bit of a war-cry. It's a remembrance of the lazy-dazy freedom
of being fourteen.
To tell the truth, I'd give up the next fifty low-fat, extra foam,
double shot, tall lattes for one more foul-tasting, charcoal black,
gut bomb, coffee shop special at 79 cents a cup
Back then, a diner booth covered in cups and an overflowing ashtray
was like central command headquarters for planning our missions
– what boy we were going to ask to dance, what college we were
going to attend, whether it was best to move to New York or London
after graduation. And the possibilities were endless. Not only
that, but the possibilities seemed, well…. possible.
And boy, did we know how to laugh. Laughed like we'd bloody invented
it, like no one before us had enjoyed the comic genius of being
fourteen, sixteen, eighteen and surrounded by friends. And love,
let's not forget that. Swooning when the boys came by, aloof at
their own table, making their own plans. We'd scratch initials
into the tables, "I love so-and-so", secretly hoping that the
intended boy would see it.
It was grand. Truly, truly grand, and desperately under-appreciated
while it was going on. It's funny, you never realize when you're
making memories, never realize which things will be important
in ten or twenty years.
I think I might just take a drive out to old Frank's place. I've
heard it's still there, with Frank screaming orders over the counter
in his thick Chinese accent. Last time I was there, maybe five
years ago, he stared at me for about ten seconds, then smiled.
"Long time, no see, hey?" he said, and started pouring a cup of
coffee for me. He remembered my two creamers, three sugars; stuck
them on the side of my saucer. Handed it to me, nodded towards
the tables, smiled and walked away when I tried to hand him my
79 cents.
It was like coming home. It was delicious. It was the best sludge
I ever drank.
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