Repairing a Refrigerator

Living the life of a barista, like that of a bartender, one is subject to a multitude of stories.  Good stories highlight the imperfections of life, the triumphs and the coincidences.  Retired folks and vagabonds alike, have stories enough to fill their own personal bibles: stories of sailing, serving overseas in the military, on the road with the band, winning the lottery, romance and lack of romance.  One tale that branded itself into the barista’s memory was Buck’s.  Buck recalled visiting his preteen children at their mother’s house one recent weekend.  Interrupting the innocent, quality family time was Buck’s 9-year-old daughter massaging her cheeks with a vibrator.

“Where did you get that?!” Buck bursted.

“In Mommy’s desk?”

“Go put it under Mommy’s pillow.”

“What is it for, Daddy?”

“Nothing…she can tell you.”

“Hmmm…I bet she uses it to relax.”

At that remark Buck lost his composure and released a hardy, pink-faced chuckle.  How can a father remove such a scene from his brain?

~~~~~

We never know, nor can expect, who will sail into le Harbor Bungalow Café—especially after hours. 

Upon receiving the news that she sold the shop, the barista promised Jennifer not to tell anyone until she conducted a staff meeting six days later.  His patience was tested—like the silicon-patched roof of the Dolphin in a rainstorm—each time a patron asked, “So what’s new?” If that’s not the most common question the barista hears at the shop, then he’ll stop writing in the third person.  And if keeping Jennifer’s news a secret was like putting a cap back on a shaken bottle of Flying Dog ale, holding back the following story—which was relayed to him independently two times, days later—was like attempting to tap a keg of Natty Boh after it bounced down the stairs to a dingy Fell’s Point cellar:  a cellar not unlike the cellar at le Harbor Bungalow Café.

Two nights before the meeting that Jennifer planned to formally introduce her staff of four baristas to the new owners, she met with Shelly at the shop.  They were nearing the conclusion of about a month-long negotiation.  Shelly agreed to buy le café with her husband, but the shop was her project—explaining the covert conference of two.  The sun had long set, the curtains drawn and the front door was locked.  Fister Mishy lapped around his tank.  The trap door to the storage cellar was open, blocking the bathroom door.  Paperwork detailing the transfer of ownership may have been on the table before them.  Nonetheless, business was being conducted.  Suddenly, the sleigh bells hanging from the front door began to clang.  A key was turned.  Two baristas appeared, drunk, and carrying a toaster.

“Oh…hi.  We just came to use the bathroom.”

Jennifer was flustered.  “Uh, this is Shelly.  She’s here to fix the ‘frigerator.”

Soon after, one of the baristas commenced a goofy, intoxicated dance—unbeknownst to him, before his future boss.  The baristas said they came from a neighborhood tavern.  Apparently the bathroom at the watering hole whence they came was not good enough.  So the bulky trap door was brought to the ground and the barista proceeded into the bathroom while the ownership was being transferred beneath his glassy eyes.  The scene left Shelly bewildered. 

“That’s the exact story they told me when they abruptly keyed in months ago, when I was training Lizzy,” our barista said to Jennifer after he answered her frantic phone call later that night.  “I’ve used Dogwatch’s bathroom.  It’s fine…what do you think they were up to?”

Jennifer could only speculate.

Two nights later certain baristas must have wondered why the refrigerator repair woman was attending the staff meeting.  A sense of befuddlement clouded the dense, café air.

“Meet the new owners of the café,” Jennifer said.

The color drained from certain barista faces as quick as the urine drained from their bladder two nights prior.  Not a word was spoken about the incident.  No apologies offered.

Not many folks at le Harbor Bungalow Café like the feeling of being taken advantage.  So Shelly invited a locksmith to the meeting.  He installed a new front door lock faster than half the staff could prepare a couple of proper large, dirty, iced, soy gingerbread chai lattes—in the background of the meeting.  Our barista found it challenging to disguise his smirk.

Touché—but it’s going to take more than a new lock and key to repair this refrigerator.

The Delicate Art of Sacrifice

Decisions reverberate—especially big, life-altering decisions like the one made at le Harbor Bungalow Café last month. 

When the barista commenced his present stint at le Harbor Bungalow Café, it was no secret that Jennifer had ideas of selling her cozy, quaint, warm and tasty coffee and pastry establishment.  In fact, it was her first attempt—which imploded late in the process—that was a topic of discussion during the barista’s first week on the job.  Nearly a year and a half later—and six years since Jennifer bought the shop—the day arrived. 

“It feels like I’m breaking up with you,” said Jennifer.  The barista sensed something was up, but had yet to connect the dots as they strolled down Broadway after work.  “I’ve sold the shop.”

“Wow…congratulations!”

The responsibilities of running a coffee shop while raising a family are many.  For Jennifer they overlapped.  Her daughter was raised at le café.  Her infant son was a regular morning visitor in his car seat.  Now he too, can walk.  Jennifer’s was a delicate juggling act.  Where she once sacrificed aspects of her family life to manage the shop, now she decided to sacrifice part of her professional life by transferring ownership to an enthusiastic couple.  The barista understood.

“Please stay and help out the new owners,” Jennifer encouraged as the factory lights across the harbor twinkled and reflected in the night water beyond the square.  The barista noticed how tough the decision was for Jennifer. 

“Of course,” the barista said.  “I have no plans otherwise…have I met the new owners?”

“I don’t know.  They’ve been in the shop a few times recently.  She’s blond, her husband has close, dark hair…I think their teenage kids were with them once.”

The barista actually remembered a couple that fit Jennifer’s descriptions.  They stuck out from the crowd not only because they tipped very well, but also because they referred to the barista by his first name—without the barista introducing himself.  A tipoff.

“So will you continue baking for the shop?  You’re not going to totally disappear, are you?”

“I hope to (continue baking).  We’re still working out some of the details.”

 This could be exciting, thought the barista.  The infusion of le Harbor Bungalow Café.  The binging was over.  The purging has commenced.  Like Jennifer, the barista also experienced a sense of relief.  Relief that certain aspects of le café overdue for change will now be changed.

But how will le café be changed?  And why was Fister Mishy sacrificed?

Let me introduce you to Shelly.  She’s here to fix the refrigerator.

Murphy's Law

“Those generators kept me up all night,” a red-eyed and irritated Kathleen said. “Make it a large today.”

Walking out the front door of le Harbor Bungalow Café, patrons are used to seeing Kathleen’s antique shop, the Chess Club, Ped Ex, and J.A. Murphy’s Irish Pub across the street.  But for two weeks, a reality television crew occupied a string of five trailers obscuring the storefronts and taking half a city block of precious parking spaces.  The natives were restless.

“I’m gonna kill Keith!” Riggs yelled before ordering a dark chocolate mocha.  It was about 8 o’clock in the morning, but on this neighbor’s clock it was high noon.  “They’ve got a bundle of wires lining our breezeway…my girlfriend’s got paint on her new coat after their half-ass paint job dripped on our gate—all without a word from that clown.  I’m never going into that bar again.”

Keith is one of the owners of J.A. Murphy’s, the establishment that applied and won an appearance on Spike TV’s Bar Rescue.  Keith is a both a fun-loving boozehound and a persistent businessman who attended university with the barista’s brother.  After losing half his staff to a new tavern around the corner, Murphy’s took a turn for the worse, shutting down for nearly a month.  The barista investigated during the re-opening, slugging a few beers while watching the Orioles game as he often would do, but with the air conditioning busted, fans circulated the stench from the dirty taps and the frat house floors making his Yuengling taste like a Natty Boh.  Intolerable.  Now about six months later, twenty-two cameramen, producers and the like patronized le Harbor Bungalow Café on their work breaks.  The Los Angeles-based crew’s visit spanned two weeks—but they only planned to be on the job for one week.

“We found some mold on the subfloor and it turns out the jousts are not up to code,” said one of the show’s producers as she ordered some muffins for her colleagues.  “So it looks like we’re gonna be here for another week.”

The barista is far from a reality TV buff, but he sensed Bar Rescue, now in its second season, was either underinformed or conducted poor research.  Word is that the show paints, rebrands, decorates and drums up dramatic relationships—things visible to a television camera. So gutting the basement and replacing 36 hidden floor jousts appeared an unintended "rescue" procedure, but nonetheless contractually binding.

“Yeah, we’re way over budget,” the producer admitted as she carried away a carafe of coffee for the newly hired construction crew.  “But once we saw the problem we were obligated to say something.”

The big winner from the barista’s perspective is the owner of the building.  Many buildings—especially row homes such as Murphy's—on the Point called Fells are a couple hundred years old.  One bar even predates the independence of the United States—the same bar Edgar Allen Poe drank his last drink before passing out in an ally wearing someone else’s clothes.  This history may be one of the draws for programs like Bar Rescue, Homicide and The Wire.  Is it any surprise a neighborhood this old has so much structural wear and tear?  The building owner was under no timetable to fix the issues.  Bar Rescue had deadlines to meet.  The production picked up most of the tab.

In the meantime, most of the television crew had nothing to do.  They were communication majors, not construction workers.  So they flew home and back—cross-country.  A flatbed truck appeared across the street to receive wheel barrel loads from the cellar.  Rumors of dead rats bounced off the café walls.   The barista and Jennifer were grateful for the spike in business.  Few others the barista encountered had any sympathy towards the project.  The barista understood.

*****

“So Friday’s the big day I hear,” the barista asked the show’s producer, after speaking to her crew upon their return.

“Yes!  Finally.  Come by at 9 tonight.  We’re giving away free beer,” she replied with a sigh of relief.  The barista had a gig with the CR Experience at Betters of Lead that night and could not attend.  But two nights later he popped into Murphy’s Law—the rebranded J.A. Murphys—and got the scoop from Dan, Murphy’s spiked-haired, tattooed bartender and musician.

“Wow, man! This place smells great!” the barista said taking a deep breath of the fresh hardwood floors.

“Hey, buddy!  Great to see ya.  Welcome to the new joint,” Dan said with a handshake.  “What are you having?  We’ve got a whole new tap system.  But only four of them are hooked up tonight.”

“Hmmm…”

“I recommend the Kilkenny.”

“Irish Red, by Guinness.  Sold.”

It is no stretch to say that Kilkenny was the smoothest, creamiest tap beer the barista had consumed this past year.  Proper Irish Pub-style brew—from someone who has visited Ireland.

“So what’s the deal with the new name?”

“Well, the show wanted to move from the bad associations with J.A. Murphy’s.  So they suggested Murphy’s Law.  You know, ‘anything that can go wrong, will go wrong’.”  That explained the new photos hanging opposite the bar: a banana peal being stepped on, a cow fallen through a ceiling onto a businessman’s desk, among others. 

“Ah…you’ve got a new menu, too.”

“Yeah, it’s short and sweet.  Suits our small kitchen.” 

The barista read the menu: “Healthy” Grilled Cheese—deep fried, Fell’s Fries, Meatball sub…  “Simple pub food.  Nice.  How ‘bout another Kilkenny?  ...So other than the floor debacle, any other surprises?”

“Check this out.  They took a sample from our cutting board.  Not one, but a colony of E Coli.  That’ll be in the show.”

The barista should have been surprised, but he wasn’t.  “How’d Friday night go?”

“Packed.  People waiting outside two hours in the rain.  It kinda sucked, though.  Most of our regulars couldn’t get in.  More people just interested in being on TV.”

Figures.  A fickle, trend-following crowd.  Loyal, regulars outside.  Pissed-off neighbors.  Murphy’s Law in action.



Cash Crop

The barista blames Santa Claus—rather, the myth of Santa Claus—for why he pays attention to certain theories about life and current national and world events. On the surface, the idea that an obese fat man from the North Pole breaks into homes through the chimney to give you things is charming. If only security systems were common in his neighborhood during his formative years. Then the barista may not have been so naïve. Much later he wondered if “Santa Claus” was created by sinister means: An immoral fable on how to bribe your children. He felt deceived.

Earlier this month sprung Groundhog Day, a holiday celebrated in the United States—especially in greater Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania and among devout Bill Murray fans. For the international readers, the idea of Groundhog Day is to instigate an over-sized rodent someone named Phil out of the earth to notice his shadow. If Phil sees his shadow, we are to prepare for six more weeks of winter. Not as clever as Santa Claus, the barista realizes, but just as far from the truth.

“Do you want me to keep the door open?” a patron asked the barista as he stepped outside into to abnormally mild air..

“Yeah, sure. I’ve got spring fever.”

"I’m afraid to think what this summer’s going to be like,” Buck said before he chomped into his veggie wrap at the bar..

“And Jennifer said tomorrow they’re calling for 70. Winter—the groundhog’s ass!"

More truth lies in the rumor that Jennifer is raising prices at le Harbor Bungalow Café this spring. It is no secret to the barista that coffee, sugar and paper prices are increasing nearly as fast as home prices increased last decade. Many café patrons are local business owners and equally unsurprised.

“You hear they’re calling for $5 gasoline this summer?” Buck asked.

“Good. Get more people off the roads.”

The rumor as to why this price inflation is occurring is fascinating yet foreboding. In the barista’s mind, this rumor is closer to reality than both Santa Claus and a weather forecasting groundhog. The expression "money doesn’t grow on trees" is a myth, a deception. Money—as in dollars, pesos, euros—metaphorically has been growing on trees for some time now. Fooled again! The big men will continue to print more money—money with no backing—until it is worthless. Hmmm…Then what will people exchange for coffee?

Blackout

“Get ready, FOX News is stopping by at eleven-thirty.”

The barista turned to read the clock on the microwave: 11:01.  “Really?  What’s the occasion?” he asked Jennifer through the telephone.

“They’re looking to interview people about the new Internet bill.  What’s the shop look like?”

“Well…ummm…sparse.”  Inside le Harbor Bungalow Café’s warm confines was the barista, a first-time patron, a work-from-homer secluded around the corner in the back and Fister Mishy. 

Many patrons pass their time at le Harbor Bungalow Café because Jennifer offers free wireless Internet.  Maybe the blackout kept them away yesterday, a day one of Baltimore’s local evening news programs came searching for their presence.  Copyright activists have provoked free-speech advocates with a proposed bill before the Unites States Congress.  Yesterday a score of websites—most notable being Wikipedia—staged a blackout, intentionally shutting down operations for 24 hours to raise awareness of a potential law they believe is against the First Amendment of this country’s Constitution.  Popular web behemoth Google did not participate in the blackout but they did raise awareness with a black rectangle diagonally masking their logo.  Other websites adopted similar tactics.  The barista signed an online petition urging his congressmen to oppose SOPA (Stop Online Piracy Act) a week prior, but the details of the acronymed bill escaped the barista as he served coffee that morning.  So he warmed up to the two reporters soon after their arrival.

“I think I got the free speech aspects of this thing, but how does it hit home.”

“It’s a copyright issue brought on, in part, by Hollywood…and the music industry,” the reporter explained with a smile as her cameraman staked out a position by the pastry case for a potential interview. 

“That reminds me of those ASCAP laws, where small bars were threatened with fines if their hired musicians performed songs which were copyrighted—unless of course, they paid an upfront usage fee.” The barista adjusted the microphone clipped to his shirt, which he wore for a sound check.

“Right.  That still occurs.  Now they are targeting sites like YouTube and holding them responsible—not the people who post there.”

The implications of SOPA for a website like Wikipedia could spell its demise.  The encyclopedic website houses sourced content, but those sources now may want compensated for the content Wikipedia—to the barista’s knowledge—publishes free of charge.  If Wikipedia has no means to pay and loses its content, its credibility would be questioned even more than it is now.  But do we need Wikipedia anyway?

“Do you use the Internet?”

A customer chuckled as if the reporter asked if he breathed oxygen, “Yeah, I’m using it right now.”  The barista noticed the ear buds the guy was wearing before he prepared his Americano (no space for cream).

“Have you heard of SOPA?”

“Ah huh,” the patron agreed to an interview and conducted a spiel concluding with Netflix’s influence on the home movie business.

The barista has worked on both sides of the copyright issue.  During his first serious job out of university he worked for a newspaper syndicate in San Diego.  It was his job to license content—i.e. advice columns, political cartoons, comic strips, and editorials—to out-of-town print publications and websites.  It was a common method to gain exposure and extra wages for a professional writer.  But it was near impossible to police the entire Internet from reprinting the licensed content without permission.  Is SOPA their lawyers’ solution?  He wondered.

Most professional writers and journalists at the time—and even now—were not especially well compensated.  These are not typical upper class jobs.  Writers and artists the barista knows personally would love their work to be promoted, played to new audiences, forwarded via email or linked from a blog.  Imagine an author complaining that her book was available to read for free at a public library.  But at some point they need to collect, to make a living.  But at the cost of free speech? 

Not long after the syndicate gig, the barista played in a bluegrass trio in Weed, California.  They booked many gigs in the Mount Shasta vicinity at bars under pressure from SOPA-like ASCAP laws.  These non-corporate, non-franchise establishments—in towns of less than 5000 population—could not afford the ASCAP music licensing fees.  They felt bullied by henchmen of major recording publishers.  One bar owner complained he could not legally play his I-Pod during business hours under the new copyright law.   The affected owners instructed bands like the Fat Sack of Bluegrass only to play traditional songs in the public domain and originals for these gigs.  Scratch the banjo-Zeppelin tunes.  Playing copyrighted material came with a risk—the bar could be fined, shut down, with the musicians left searching for another gig.  The barista sympathized with the owners.  To the barista, the law seemed like an awful large net to cast as it targets independent businesses just getting by, who are not making money by the music they play.  Do radio stations pay licensing fees?--online or otherwise?

Another pumpkin frosted cupcake for thought:

“Have you ever wondered why the song “Happy Birthday” is not sung in any movies?” a patron once asked the barista.  “Because it costs a small fortune to buy the copyright.”

The barista better warn Jennifer, lest she some day post a birthday party clip at le café on her Facebook page.

(Editor's note: Click here to view the television news clip)

The Dolphin & the Dilemma

Keeping the Hive Alive…Why do cities grow or die? It’s all in the math.

 “Are there more of these?” patron Jerry asked as he read the new cover story of The Urbanite resting on the café bar.

“Behind the front door is the rack,” the barista said motioning with his soapy hand across the bar to his left.

The freebie was the first issue of 2012 for the glossy Baltimore magazine.  Jerry wanted to relate the article to his concentrated collegiate studies on urban planning and/or administration.   The Cincinnati Bengles fan is a seemingly bright fellow who tutors children of rich parents.  The conversation between Jerry and the barista evolved into the topic of automobiles, when from the next table over, patron and house guitarist Jim turned his head.

“I know how to get 50 miles per gallon in my truck,” he said grinning, while he adjusted his beret.

A baffled look crossed Jerry’s face.  The barista has heard Jim’s story before.  He remembered Jim mixing some sort of concoction with his gasoline.  

“When I get some wheels I’ve got to get that recipe from you,” the barista said, being careful not to slice his fingers on the bagel knife as he submerged his hand in the bubbly water of the café’s sink.

“Anybody can find it on the Internet,” Jim replied, typing on his laptop machine.

Just then, a spark flicked in the memory stores of the barista’s head.  I have some wheels.  The Dolphin!

“Per chance, do you know how to fix a leaky roof of a camper?” the barista asked as he dried his hands.

“Aluminize fiber roof coating for trailers.  It’s expensive, but it works,” Jim said with a nod—and without hesitation.

Jim patronizes le Harbor Bungalow Café often.  He will stop by for lunch or tea before giving guitar lessons later in the afternoon.  Sometimes he’ll give a lesson right in the café.  He’s played the guitar for more years than the barista has been alive (in this lifetime).  An encyclopedia of information accumulated in Jim’s head over the years, though some may call him a curmudgeon.  His was a compelling answer to the barista’s $3000 question—the amount he has been asking for his camper in an online classified advertisement the past few months.

1986 TOYOTA DOLPHIN MOTORHOME

$3000

           

22-foot, Class C RV, has three beds, refrigerator, sink, 4-range stove with oven, dining table for two, toilet and shower.  Only 78,000 miles on a four-cylinder, SR-52 engine.  Mechanically, it runs fine.  Cosmetically, the roof needs some repair and the rear AC needs replaced.  This great camping vehicle drives like a small U-haul and can easily fit into any standard shopping mall parking space.  I once lived in it for 10-weeks, but now live in the city and do not have the space nor time to use it.

Should the barista pull the ad, give the roof repair a final attempt and drive the Dolphin another day?

“If it were my camper, I’d run that baby into the ground and then get rid of it,” Jerry said.

The sentimental value of the Dolphin to the barista is through the roof.  Maybe that is why it leaks.  He acquired the recreation vehicle within a week of his being laid off from the newspaper industry in 2009.  After six weeks of repairs and customizations, the barista drove over 5000 miles across ten weeks, from California to Pennsylvania in time for the Christmas holiday with his family.  The investment paid off handsomely; he was ready to move on.

But like a chocolate croissant walnut roll, the road is tempting.  And after the fourth cup of Costa Rican Estate black coffee, the barista’s mind shifted into overdrive.

“You’re right, Jerry.  Why give it away when I can drive it into the ground?—then give it away!  No bargains!”

The Dolphin remains in Pennsylvania.  It needs to move.  Can the camper survive in the hive?—In a dying metropolis?   Maybe, like The Urbanite said, it’s all in the math.  Hmmm…20 + 12 = Carpe Diem.

New Year's Day: 2012

Storm clouds conspire in the southwest over the peaks and through the valleys of West Virginia's Allegheny Mountains.  Dusk approaches like the head of a snowman rolling down a hill.  The barista wonders how much further to the overlook near the top of Seneca Rocks.  The back of his hands sense cool, sporadic raindrops.  The cinnamon girl is out of breath and offers to wait behind, resting her tokus on a fallen tree trunk along the side of the trail.  The leafless trees provide poor shelter.  A brisk jog shortens the distance to the intended destination.  Around the third bend in the trail about a football field length later, the barista spies a 12x12-foot deck hanging over 1000+ feet of air; space.  The mountain ridge in the distance is still visible--but not for long.  The barista gives thanks while he admires the view.  Creeping, gray clouds instill a sense of urgency.  The barista investigates the trail above the overlook:  WARNING: Dangerous cliffs.  Climb at your own risk.  The wind accelerates as the rain turns to hail  The barista crawls on his hands and knees over a few boulders, peaking at the view to the east.  Another gust of wind slaps the barista on his bearded face.  He snaps a photograph before sprinting back down the trail.

Happy New Year.