Welcome to where the seeds of dreams are planted--where one can sip from the charmed chalice of life & meet interesting folk through (hopefully) intelligent conversation.
One never knows nor can expect who will sail into the fray--what we do know is that no soul here is perfect no matter how we try. So let us celebrate & raise our mugs to the idiosyncratic nature of life--to the Kramer's & Norm's of the world, the Roseanne's & Allan Poe's. Some old, some lost, some tortured, some blessed, all souls sharing a drink at the same time in the same place. The ensuing tales are authentic with names trending towards monikers. The flag waving on our doorstep means we're open, so come perk your curiosity in Le Harbor Bungalow Cafe.
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.
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?”
“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!”
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.
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!