The Coffee Priest/The Same Anyway

I am the coffee priest in that holy place, the coffee shop. Soft music plays as I wait for the time at which I may begin the preparation of my own caffeinated Eucharist.

We’re all here for one purpose: To bow down and worship before the Coffee God. The drink allows us to commune; the caffeine is his blood.

Then, my cue:

“Venti iced coffee unsweetened for Ryan!”

Slowly, methodically I take this holy liquid to the altar. I place one napkin on the counter and place my lid upon it; I dare not allow any part of the coffee vessel to be contaminated by some unclean surface. I add half and half, some Equal, then grab a straw.

As I remove it from its plastic, I grip it approximately one inch from the end from which I intend to drink. If my fingers have touched something impure, I do not want the part of the straw I touch to go into the holy liquid. I also do not want that part to touch my lips. The impurity will be between my lips and the holy liquid, caught between Heaven and Earth in some sort of plastic purgatory.

I replace the lid, insert the straw and withdraw two more napkins to add to the one on the counter, a perfect holy trinity for cleaning up for the next person.

One sip and my communion is complete. Any buzz a sinner like me gets from consuming the holy liquid is merely a side benefit.

***

Had lunch at Central Market, at the little eatery in there.

Weedheads are generally a pleasant enough bunch to be around, even if they’re quite misguided regarding the appeal of scents like patchouli and clothes made out of rough-hewn natural fibers like hemp or potato sacks.

The guy who cooked my vegetarian curry stir-fry had, I believe, genuine Princess Leia cinnamon roll curls peeking out from under his hat.

The hat, in fact, seemed to be made of some sort of wicker. It may have been a welcome mat that had been recycled.

***

The food tasted great, but man, when you order vegetarian stuff there, well, they basically drag your lunch through a cabbage patch. Wow.

***

When I worked at the record store back in the 80s, a man came in who looked different from any other customer I’d had. He looked country for sure, what with the boots and jeans and all. But he didn’t look like the FFA sort we usually had around there. He was a big man, and his skin was dark and rough. He wore his sideburns long and pointed, a style not often seen in 1986. He had a unique and quite overpowering smell, and he asked me for Cajun music. He spoke with a rural Louisiana accent.

I pointed him to our meager selection of cassettes. He didn’t spend long browsing them.

I got tied up in something else. I looked up and he was at the counter with a Norteno (Mexican) music cassette. Accordions, matching outfits. This was the kind of thing we didn’t move much of at all.

“You sure this is what you want?” I asked him.

“Yeah, it’s the same anyway,” he said.

***

That reminds me of something that happened during my stint as a roadie for Randy Pelt and Gold Rush. The band got a rare chance to set up early and have a full-blown rehearsal in a venue. This club featured conjunto bands most nights.

The band ran through a Cajun song (the fiddler could sing in French). A synth played the accordion parts.

And the owner of the club, a Mexican man, asked one of the crew what that was, saying it was the best thing he’d heard them play. “Could you understand what he was saying?” he asked.

***

Happy Friday, amigos.