Cafe

Cafe

One night Joe and I decided to drive his burgundy sedan over to the rural wash of Alberta Street. Before Petite Provence, the little art galleries, and the Sicilian pizza place. When Nest was a bar you might get shot in front of. There was no traffic, 19th Century street lighting, only the occasional dark sedan like ours crawling down the street, a plastic bag tumbleweed, the feeling that you were going to get jacked. We pulled up in front of the one light on the block other than the bar that is now Nest, where a man was standing out front looking dangerously aimless.

The plastic window fronted entryway counter looked like one in a methadone center. The 10 X 10 fluorescent-lit linoleum, faux wood dining area was humid with the smell of friend chicken and catfish. at the counter were cigarettes, mad dog, tall boys, and change for PAC Man and pinball. It was like my mother's kitchen except it had video games. We had left the house because it was one of those cool days on the verge of drizzle when everyone at the house felt hungover. The only thing going on was recycled tv and cooking and drinking out of necessity.

It was the beginning of fall when everything feels like it's starting to go underground. It was the first fall since graduating from college, and the first fall I didn't feel like I should be starting school, like I would every fall after that until I went to law school. It felt good to just sit in the hard metal chair with Joe, this petite boy I hardly knew, in the empty Southern joint marked only by a sign outside that said "Cafe." The owner was cooking us some fried chicken and fries. He was a big, commanding man with a deep voice. I wanted his place to last forever.

We listened to the sizzling sound. Joe was smiling and kind of playing with the surface of the table, drawing things on it with his fingers.

"You have to work tomorrow?"

"Yeah, unless I can get Dennis to cover for me."

"How's that going to work, if you have to leave?"

"I don't know. It's probably a bad idea."

"Nobody else cares about keeping people out of the upstairs. I mean, I do, but nobody listens to me. Honestly, Screw's not much of a bouncer. I don't know why you pay him anything."

"He's like a bot, you can tell him what to do and he'll do it, and he's huge. But he goes astray if you don't keep an eye on him. Just having him at the top of the stairs is good."

"Yeah but he wanders off."

We smiled.

"He's a good guy. I'll try and get the night off. The last time I went to work drunk I was yelling at people as they went by in cars, and my job is to keep people quiet out there."

"You'll be drunk. But you keep it together somehow. I just feel lost at our shows. I wander around not knowing anybody wondering what I'm doing there. It's fun, I just feel lost."

"I kind wish I had a restaurant like this."

"It'd be kind of fun to own a business, but hard. I mean, what if you didn't feel like doing it that day. What if you woke up and didn't feel like cooking anything."

"It's like any job."

"I guess, but being the owner, it's a lot more of an obligation. You have to keep things stocked and cook everything and ... I don't know ... I'd have trouble sleeping."

"Yeah but look at this place. It's laid back. Can you think of anything more laid back than selling mad dog and fried food?"

"Selling records. That would be easy."

"That takes a lot of research, and keeping up with shit ... an ever-changing inventory. Not like food."

"That's true, but selling records'd be fun, something to look forward to with your coffee."

"Why don't you do it then?"

"Store owners have this air of having their shit together. That's me? Plus I'm afraid of things that might make me too happy and satisfied. Then it's like, what the fuck am I smiling about. Like all self-important and annoying and shit. Like someone who all the kids come to for advice. I shouldn't be giving anyone advice."

"Yeah, you're right. Who am I to give advice? I'm always telling people what to do. I annoy myself half the time."

We ate our fried chicken and sat at Cafe. actually I don't think Joe ate any fried chicken, he was vegetarian. That was 11 years ago. I ran into Joe on the bus not too long ago. He's an English teacher now. He said he didn't like it that much, but at least he didn't look overly satisfied.

Cristen Hemingway Jaynes
Portland 2009