Has the Barista Been Kidnapped?

Of course not. It's more likely he was taken in by a family of bears and traipsing up and down the Appalachian Mountains. But that's not quite true either.

Well where the frappe is he? A rabid cafe drinker might ask.

Yet again, our barista has his head in the clouds. More specifically, a sound cloud.

Killing Your Audience

The holiday spirit infected the Point Called Fell’s like rabid ratcoon. Le café was no exception. Gingerbread chai’s aside, the barista hauled in a 7-foot, snow-sprayed fake pine, Shelly strung up the cellar dwelling multi-colored Christmas lights and about 30 patrons carried a holiday dish to the café bar to hoot it up over some freshly shucked oysters and booze.

“Hey, how’ve you been? Where’ve you been?” Frank was so excited after the barista walked in the shop, he just missed spilling his glass of red wine on his finely pressed slacks. Instead a puddle collected on the floor before his table.

“Wow, and I thought I was early,” said the barista.

“So what’s with you? It’s been weeks,” Andrea inquires as the barista handed Shelly a jug of eggnog and potato chips.

“So much, where to start? Well, the book I’ve been editing for my friend is now released.”

‘The musician—about forming a band?”

“Yes—exactly. Killing Your Audience…and Why They Deserve It. Are you on Kindle?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s available for download this week. Check it out.”

“Let’s try out these oysters,” the barista made his way towards the back of the room.

“Be careful of them raw shuckers,” Curmudgeon Jim advised. “I have more than one friend who got hepatitis C from them.”

“That’s why you’re supposed to shoot them with vodka,” explained Jawbone holding out a bottle.

“So who is this fellow that wrote the book,” Curmudgeon asked.

“A guitarist I played music with in San Diego. We had a nice run in a band called Riot House.”

“Look here guys!” Picture Jim snapped a photo.

“He volunteers at a high school music program. Couldn’t find a book to guide his students, so he decided to write it.”

“Guide them how?”

“It brings the young, aspiring musician out of his bedroom, through his garage and into the clubs—practically step-by-step. Will’s more a storyteller than a writer—and his stories are priceless, candid.”

Slurrrrrrrrp!!! “Mmmm…tasty oyster,” exclaimed the barista. “Get me some eggnog, I don’t want to catch anything.”

“Save some room for my chicken-fried steak,” said Jawbone.

“I can’t get too filled up, man. I’ve got to perform in about an hour.”

“What? Where?”

“Baltimore Songwriter’s Christmas party. The encore performance of the new eggnog song!"

“Well since you’ll be here tonight, come by Leadbelly’s Christmas night. Odds are I can talk Curt into letting me play it then. This baby’s goin’ straight to the top!”

Noggin’ It Up

 When the brisk wind whistles by

And brown leaves float to the ground

The trees they stand there naked

‘Til winter’s snowflakes abound

 This is the season

To roast a yule log

And settle by the fire

With a glass of eggnog

Nananana, nananana noggin’ it up

Nananana, nananana noggin’ it up

Nananana, nananana noggin’ it up

 Nananana, nananana noggin’ it up!

Be it rum, brandy or bourbon

Cognac, vodka or beer

Mix me up an eggnog

I’ll spread your holiday cheer

When this cup fills me up

And my belly’s a heavy load

Pour one more before I reach the door

And keep me off the road

The ‘nog goes way back

To the Middle-Aged centuries

At full moon near the Caves of Odin

Skulls were raised in ceremony

Later Cluniac monks got real drunk

On a posset of egg, milk & fig

They drank so much of that righteous stuff

Their stomachs got real big

Nananana, nananana noggin’ it up

Nananana, nananana noggin’ it up

Nananana, nananana noggin’ it up

 Nananana, nananana noggin’ it up!

Be it rum, brandy or bourbon

Cognac, vodka or beer

Mix me up an eggnog

I’ll spread your holiday cheer

When this cup fills me up

And my belly’s a heavy load

Pour one more before I reach the door

And keep me off the road

Then along came America

With a plethora of farms,

Cheap Caribbean rum & nutmeg

And a heaping of Christmas charm

Nananana, nananana noggin’ it up...

 

The Angels

I'm a beat up old soul stuck in a town with no heart

If I hear that damn song again I'm gonna swallow real hard

Where are the angels with flowers in there hair?

There aint no such women here, in my beer I will stare

The barmaid is kind enough to hand me a smoke

The sidewalk is cold but that woman's a joke

She can't name a song to play to save her own life

So I stick out my thumb and I hitch the next ride

The club down the road is much of the same

I can't find no coffee & I can't find your name

I'm running in circles & seeing in doubles

Can't you tell my heart's broken? Don't you know I'm in trouble?

So I throw back my beer & I trip down the stairs

And I notice the stars, never knew they were there

Then I felt a warm touch, soft lips on my mouth

She said, "Let's get out of here & travel down south."

The angels are out there sometimes in disguise

Never expected, always a surprise

I picked a flower & duly prepared

And placed it upon her angelic soft hair

Coast-to-Coast in a Tesla

Le Harbor Bungalow Cafe is on a hiatus, as our barista has been recruited on a coast-to-coast road trip in an electric car.

 Please follow along at http://arniesadventure.blogspot.com/

Stinky Joe, part one

Sunday morning’s yawn was a wider yawn than most mornings. But this morning the barista nearly cramped his jaw his yawn was so deep. His commute to open the doors of le Harbor Bungalow Café morphed from a brisk 90-second walk into a 90-minute highway drive. Departing at 6 a.m. from his folk’s Old Creek Home, he navigated his newly acquired set of wheels. A 36-foot Holiday Mansion it was not—though he was dangerously close to acquiring a 30-year old houseboat. So close, in fact, he was forced to scrap a previous story:

“Greetings Landlubbers!”

The barista had been waiting months to utter those words as he walked into his sunny Friday afternoon shift.

“Well if it isn’t Popeye himself!” Steve yelped.

“I can’t sail yet,” the barista spoke. “Gimme a year.”

“You actually bought a boat!” Buck exclaimed.

“Livin’ the dream, baby,” the barista said, matter-of-factly. “Housewarming party next weekend. You’re all invited.”

*****

The barista was docked at a wharf on the east end of the neighborhood—a serene spot relative to the bustling square. A cast of characters trickled over throughout the humid day: Hound, Abby, Buck, Jawbone, Shelly, Leon, Skip, Angie.  Most of the usual suspects were mingling about the deck, cabin and dock. An old-timer named Blu who is a staple at Leadbelly’s sparked a joint. The barista squinted. It’s actually a pocket vaporizer. Angie strummed a guitar while Buck mixed the drinks and Jawbone told jokes. After sundown a couple of the guys lowered themselves in kayaks and paddled beyond the dock while the others at the party indulged in cocktails and cigarettes on the deck of The Walrus.

The skies glowed with a gray haze from the city lights. The moon challenged the red, neon Natty Boh face for the brightest reflection in the harbor. The harbor was a mildly chunky, mossy green. (Think the color of the Incredible Hulk.) Blu paddled his vessel around Hound and attempted to pass the pipe from his canoe to the barista’s kayak, but lost his balance in the transfer and tipped both vessels over—with Hound nearly joining them. The barista got a full swallow of yacht-disposed gray-water as he submerged. This dumping is not only legal, it’s encouraged by city slip managers. Attempting to re-enter the kayaks was as fruitless as a sunbather attempting to unscrew a fresh jar of garlic-stuffed olives, so Blu and the barista swam through the indecipherable muck while Hound and Steve towed the kayaks.

The barista was sick for months. He broke out in a horrible rash and his tongue turned green. No more making out. Unable to work, he was late paying his health insurance and his policy was canceled. Unable to secure a loan due to poor credit from mistrusting a friend in a San Diego real estate investment, the barista was forced into bankruptcy. Depressed, he intentionally jumped overboard with The Walrus’ anchor tied to his leg. His body decomposed—coincidently over the remnants of Fister Mishy, whose limp body Leon tossed into the harbor a month earlier after he died from a fungus infection acquired from the barista’s previous apartment in Fells.

Thank the patron saint of coffee the barista never bought that boat. Now he sports a ’97 Astro Van. Cruising the United States’ route numbered 83 that morning, his excitement bubbled like the contents of a keg transported on its side in the back of a large station wagon. For his new lifestyle was intended to broaden the 90-percent of his life he spent within a six-block radius. This excitement was short-lived, though. As he concluded his 90-minute drive into the city, an impatient woman trying to get around the turning Astro rear-ended him. Unable to wait for two cars to pass, this woman desperately needed to get to the red stoplight 20-yards ahead of the barista’s van. Sunday morning. Seven-thirty a.m.

*****

 “Any word yet?”

Philip Cole limped into le Harbor Bungalow Cafe with the help of his cane.  Phil is a kind old fellow, but his once-happening life has been reduced to a morning blueberry bagel, an afternoon routine of feeding cats, with evenings wishing he never agreed to have back surgery. He and the barista have a few things in common. They both spent substantial time residing in Philadelphia and Harrisburg; they each are performing musicians and they share a disdain for climbing steep staircases to get to their rooms—which, for two-and-half years were 50-yards apart from each other on the same block of Fells. Phil’s question refers to their second commonality, as listed.

“Our next meeting is a week from tomorrow. I should have an update then,” the barista explains.

“It’d be neat if we made it, huh?”

“I have a good feeling—but I hope it’s not too risqué. We’ll see.”

Phil is a classically trained pianist. He plays two or three restaurants or clubs a year. In his heyday, Phil warmed up for Frank Sinatra and scored movies for Andy Warhol. (“He’s an asshole,” Phil once said about Sinatra.) Phil’s been playing piano for as long as Frankie Avalon has been singing—they grew up together in the same South Philly neighborhood.

The barista had been sharing his songs with Phil—copying compact discs for Phil to listen at home—when an idea floated across his mind. Maybe Phil will collaborate on a song for the Baltimore Songwriters competition.

Last spring, Phil agreed.

“So which songs did you like?”

“The first one on the second disc caught my attention.”

“Stinky Joe! Folks request that ditty in all three of my acts.”

“It’s clever. Reminds me of early Tom Waits and Jonathan Richman.”

“When are you free this week?”

“How about noon Wednesday at Big Bertha’s?”

“I’ll bring my bass and recording gear.”

So the duo met at the back door of Big Bertha’s—an oyster house in the neighborhood square where Phil often gigs. The barista carried his acoustic bass, microphone stand and cable bag. Phil carried his black cane. He knocked and the door opened. Phil greeted the chef as they walked by the kitchen.

“Hey, Cole! What’re you doin’ here?”

“Oh, just helping Reg with a project. We’ll be upstairs for a bit.”

On the second floor they entered a room with a 25-foot ceiling. One of the walls was mirrored giving the space more natural light from the windows on the street side—and giving the barista a deceptive feeling there was more than met his eyes. Cafeteria-style folding tables and chairs congregated in the center of the room. A large serendipitous angel hung opposite the windows with white Christmas lights strung from her wings. Underneath, Phil bellied up against the house piano. The barista set up his gear to the right of Phil, tuned his bass to the piano and sipped Chai. Phil nodded at the barista who engaged the recorder.

To be continued…

S.O.S.—“I’ve Been Kidnapped”

The computer keyboard lie soaked on the barista’s desk. Scales lined the keys. The key of C scaled through the 1970's, wood-grained, stereo speakers—Cole’s piano. Startled by the scene having just keyed into his apartment, the barista dropped his gig bag, plopped onto his new desk chair, rubbed his eyes and read the open letter on the computer screen:

 

            Landlubbers!!!

           

I’ve been kidnapped! Again! Save me! Get me a bigger tank! And more food while you's at it! And not that “optimal growth formula” bottom feed! I am not a science experiment!

I’ve lost all track of time. Somehow I ended up in the barista’s apartment—but I much preferred Leon’s basement. Of course le Harbor Bungalow Café—after Leon found that heavenly lake-of-a-tank, was the salt of the water—But now that tank lays unused in this sucker’s kitchen! Then he either wrapped this smaller tank with Christmas lights or dropped acid in my water; I haven’t quite got it figured. Either way, hearing him croon about warm beer and cold women, and stinky ‘ho, is downright abrasive. But Philip Cole? Now that cat can play!

Serenity!—Wisp me away to shining seas of tilapia schools! Anywhere but here! I’ll do anything! Even…even…Wean me on harbor water! I should be wondering when the next tide is coming ashore, not wondering why the barista needs to dry his hair so many times a day.

Affinity,

Mister Fishy

—and that’s another thing. This whole dyslexia-as-clever whaleshit has got to end. Pey-pey named me and if the barista thinks I’d be insulted because I share the name with a human-run company that hunts and sells my cousins for dinner, he’s wrong!