Off to Argentina: Rest in Peace, Otts

The sound of birds tweeting turned the barista’s head on his pillow.

“Call me when you get up…it’s about Otis.”

Jennifer’s text message was foreboding.  During the returned phone call, the sad, inevitable news was delivered.  Otis had passed away at the weathered age of 79.

Thin veils are worn by many characters here at le Harbor Bungalow Café to respect and maintain a certain amount of privacy.  Just as bungalow is a mask for row home, Otis has been a mask for Otts (or Autz, as I’ve seen it spelled both ways).  Now, as Otts passes into the afterlife, the thin veil known as Otis will be checked at le café door.

Like many retired, single men, le café was a second home to Otts.  A retired merchant marine and jazz musician, Otts came of age at the Point called Fells.  He was Jennifer’s very first customer when she opened her shop six-and-a-half years ago.  One of the first things our barista learned on the job was to set Otts’ morning paper cup of coffee (which was served with a dollop of whipped cream) aside behind the counter, so he could re-use it that afternoon when he returned from the neighborhood Good Will.  Often, Otts would return with a second-hand treasure—but only if he scored a good deal on it.  The barista remembers an electronic keyboard, an African mask, a gemstone necklace and never before has he seen a couple of fellows so excited about a hardback, unabridged Bible-of-a-dictionary like the one Otts found and gave to Frank.

“They don’t make these like they used to,” Frank said at the time.

~~~~~

Two years ago, not long after the barista first moved to the Big Crabcake and landed the position at le café, he found himself scrambling for a place to live.  Misplaced trust earned him a place living out of his backpacker’s tent in a spare bedroom—which one had to walk through to get to the bathroom.  While living there, the barista never realized so many English-language words had meanings opposite of what he learned in school.  Words such as loyalty, promise, contradiction and faithfulness were used as if his girlfriend was running for political office.  The old-timers’ unabridged dictionary was deemed irrelevant. 

“What would you think about house-sitting at my apartment,” Otts said.

“What?...Really?...When?”

“I’m going to travel to Argentina soon,” said Otts.  “I’m just waiting for a good deal on a plane ticket.  Probably some time around the holidays.  I have a lot of things that I’d like to have someone keep an eye on.”

“What will you do in Argentina?”

“I’m thinking about opening a café.”

The barista was taken aback.  Was fortune finally smiling down upon him?  Was Otts serious? 

The old-timer checked the fluctuations of his stock portfolio on his laptop computer, placed it behind the bar and retired for the afternoon.  “Think about it,” he said.

The barista picked up the telephone and dialed Jennifer.

“What do you know about Otts and Argentina?”

“Ha!  He’s been talking about that trip for awhile,” she said.  “So long it’s getting harder to take him seriously.”

Other patrons heard the story as well.  One even went as far as to suggest Argentina was a metaphor for the afterlife.  The barista was desperate and had nothing to lose so he visited the old fellow’s place after his shift one, gray afternoon. 

Only a few blocks from le café, the old Polish community hall had double glass doors and a buzzer at the busy sidewalk entrance.  A few minutes later Otts appeared, and with his hands shaking as if he were reaching for his morning cup of coffee, he pushed open the doors for the barista.

“Come on inside.”

The building was large and smelled like a retired folks home, which it seemed to have morphed into over the years.  They rode the elevator three or four floors up to a wide, dormitory-style hallway with high ceilings.  This was no row home.  Otts keyed in his apartment door.  The first room was the kitchen with a view of the bedroom behind it—a studio apartment at first glance.  Items were stacked and cluttered on the dining table and counters.  The walls were covered with paintings and African art.  The floors were filled with shelves, coffee tables, end tables, speakers, turntables, an entertainment center and his bed—like the barista’s, a simple mattress on the floor.  Walkways were narrow.  It truly looked like a Good Will outpost.  If not for the high ceilings—10 or 15-feet high—one would feel swallowed up. The barista didn’t own many things at the time, but the few he did wouldn’t fit—or would get lost—in this joint.

“Here’s another room,” Otts said.

Ah, ha!  The bathroom, the barista thought.  But it was also a bedroom—packed with more stuff: musical instruments—including an upright bass—shelves, trinkets, cool, unique souveniers—enough to open up a shop of his own.

“So is most of this stuff staying here when you travel?”

“I can move a few things to my storage unit,” said Otts. “But for the most part, yeah.”

The barista was grateful for the offer and thought hard about how this could work, but in the end he politely declined.  His situation carried more urgency and he was able to land a nice private, empty space even closer to the café a few weeks later.  His patience was rewarded—the same patience, with the same definition as the one he read about in the old timer’s dictionary.  The barista’s mind was at ease.  

*****

Soon after his move, the barista again found himself in the old man’s apartment.  This time it was a sunny day.

“See, I accidentally knocked it off the table and the dust cover cracked,” Otts said as he toyed with one of his three turntables.  “If you want it, it’s yours.”

The barista lost a few things in his hasty move, two of which were a turntable and stereo receiver. (He managed to rescue his vinyl collection.)  He gave Otts fifty bucks for a receiver and Otts generously gave him the functional, dust-coverless turntable.  He then drove the barista to his new home down the street.

Otts never did make that trip to Argentina.  For that, the barista was sad.  But to get a fleeting glimpse into this man’s life—a man who lived a full life and who reminded the barista of his own grandfathers, was a pleasure. 

“Top my coffee with some whipped cream today.  This one’s for Otts.”

The day before Jennifer broke the news of Otts’ passing, the barista learned that Art, another former daily patron and musician passed away.  Two days prior to that, he learned skin cancer got the best of George.  The barista fondly remembers George as the man who would ask for his receipt and take the numbers on his bill to play the lottery at Royal Farms.  He promised he would share his kitty with the barista when he won. May they, too, rest in peace.

For more about Otts, see the previous post What’s Shakin’.

Camper Karma

“I’ve got a door here, man! This thing’s un-drivable!”

These words were spoken at a fairly high volume by our barista to the driver of an 18-wheel big rig truck.  The Caribbean gentleman walked around the front of his nicely polished red machine—decorated with quotes from the Bible painted on its doors—fairly fumed after not being able to make a right turn at a traffic light onto a two-lane, 30-mile per hour speed limited city road known as Eastern Avenue.

“You’ve got to mooove!”

The barista knew that he was parked legally.  He also knew that he was not going anywhere with the unhinged, rear door of the Dolphin in his hands.  What should he do?  How did he ever get in this position?

*****

“Sorry I’m late, I overslept the alarm.  This never happens.”

Monroe was scheduled to open the shop that Sunday morning.  It was a good day for the barista to arrive early—a hot, sticky, summer Baltimore a.m.—which he did.  Her words sounded eerily familiar.  Words the barista may have spoken in the past to another blond barista.

“Don’t worry.  It’s nothing I haven’t done.  At least you’re here.” With three customers already at the door, our barista was grateful to have the help, though he heard from a not-to-be-named patron that Monroe has been late before.  So he didn’t leave her completely off the hook.  “But you know, Monroe, now I might have to rewrite your college letter of recommendation.” 

Riiiiiing, riiiiing…

“Reg, it’s for you.”

“Yehllo?”

“This is Jackie from EZ-Storage. How are you today Mr….”

Not good if you’re calling me at work on a Sunday morning.

“Your camper has been vandalized.”

“What?!  When?!  How?!”

“Overnight, somebody must have climbed the fence after the electricity went out.”

“Electricity?”

“The grid went out and our back up never kicked in.  We may not have the video.”

“Well, did they break in?”

“The police officer doesn’t seem to think so.  But you should come over here and check it out.”

The barista just started a rare Sunday double shift.  Not much time for extra-curriculars on potentially the café’s busiest day of the week.  But soon after lunch he mounted his trail bike for the Park called Patterson and then into Highlandtown where the Dolphin was stored. 

He understood this section of Highlandtown was poor and rough, but his camper was parked on a busy road behind a gated, keyed entry and seemingly safe under 24-hour surveillance cameras.  At the time the barista figured the Dolphin’s chances of being left alone were better here rather than parking in the densely populated Point called Fell’s—which is a chore given the narrow streets and the overpopulation of automobiles.    Plus, the potential for parking tickets and vandalism is fairly high.  Without a driveway or garage, parking pretty much sucks in the city.

Sweat dripped from the barista’s brow as he keyed in his code to lift the gate.  The 3-mile trip usually takes him 15 minutes on bike.  This day’s ride was closer to ten.  He sped past the office where Jackie stood and angled straight for the Dolphin.  Pieces of the door lay on the ground in the distance as he turned the corner.  He slowly hit the breaks and took a closer look.

*****

A hungover Buck was in the café that Sunday June afternoon when the barista originally received the news.  For lunch the barista made him a grilled wrap with cream cheese, apple slices, deli turkey, tomato, lettuce and a good showering of Frank’s hot sauce.  Three days later Buck got the rest of the story, ordering the same lunch. 

“So what’d they say?”

“Well, the cop said in his report there wasn’t a break in.  But I swear I locked the front door—which somehow was left unlocked.  Plus the glove box was open, along with the overhead compartments!  Thing was, though a blanket was flung around, I don’t think he took much of anything ‘cept the change in the console—which was lifted and placed on the passenger seat.  The cop is such a slacker.  He could give a shit.”

“What about the door?  You got insurance?”

“Not comprehensive.  I figured behind a locked gate and under a surveillance camera I’d be alright. Huh!...So I have to somehow rebuild this door.”

“You should take it to King Architectural Metals.”

*****

Though the burglar broke in through the Dolphin’s back door, he must have locked it behind him.  EZ-Storage finally received a video from that night showing a young male using some sort of rock in a failed attempt to break the back window.  But with a crowbar-type device, he managed to pry open a hole wide enough to reach his hand and arm around to unlock the door.  About a minute later the video showed him exit from the driver’s door.  So much for the police report stating only “vandalism”.  The barista telephoned the police officer and received no reply.  He tries not to judge the competence of the force by this one example, but then remembers the rant from the owner of Broadway Bicycles who said Baltimore is fourth in the nation in bike thefts.  The barista’s bike was stolen from the first floor of his apartment the month after the Dolphin break-in.  But that’s a different story…Or is it?

The metal shop Buck suggested was adjacent a traffic light on a two-lane, 30-mile per hour speed limited city road known as Eastern Avenue.  He found a parking spot on the corner and waltzed in.

“I need a door for a 1986 camper van...”

“What are the measurements?”

“Hmmm…”

“Here’s a tape measure, come back with the numbers.”

The barista had put off the inevitable long enough.  He needed to unlock the back door to properly assess the damage.  But he knew this would likely cause the door to collapse.  There was no guarantee he could secure it back in place.  He procrastinated at the storage unit so he wouldn’t have to leave the inside exposed while he was in the metal shop.  Now was the time.

Key.  Click.  Boom.

Half of the aluminum door frame remained on the hinge, while the other half stayed with the door—which now laid flat on the sidewalk.  The barista measured the damage and was grateful the door frame—despite being separated—was in salvageable shape.  Repositioning the crooked, busted door back on the camper was no treat.  Well, unless you were one of the curious pedestrians walking by.  The Styrofoam door needed to be carefully—and simultaneously—slid inside the top and hinged part of the frame.  The skin was loose from the damage—on both the interior and the exterior of the door.  Gravity was no help.  Neither was the cars speeding by.  And neither was that foghorn blowing for the fifth consecutive time.  Can’t he see I’m busy?

“You’ve got to move!”  A stout, Caribbean truck driver’s rig was nearly jack-knifed attempting a 90-degree, right turn between the center concrete median and the side of the legally parked, door-less Dolphin.

Two men’s miserable situations collided.  The barista tossed the door between the couch and table inside the Dolphin and pulled off a seven-point, not so much turn, but adjustment to his parallel park.  The trucker waved directions at the barista through his rearview mirror before waddling back to his wheel.  The barista fretted.  The trailer nearly cornered the Dolphin’s shower.  Then somehow, the large man maneuvered his beast of a machine between the concrete center road divide and the Dolphin, and never looked back.

It was soon after, with the barista in his most frustrated mind, that an angel appeared.  Of course, the weathered, middle-aged man with a gray go-tee and large hands did not appear to be an angel.  That’s part of the beauty of the story.

“What was that about?”

“Too many people in the city, I suppose.”

“I heard your story in the metal shop.  This your camper?”

“Sure is.”

“I’ve got a Toyota camper, too.  `Bout the same year as this.”

“Right on.”

“Say, I’m a metal sculptor,” the stranger continued as he surveyed the damaged door.  “I’ve got a welding shop in Ellicott City.  You find the material, I’ll help you piece it back together.  Bring it by on a free weekend.”

“Are you serious?”

“My name’s Bill,” he said, as he handed the barista a business card.

*****

About three weeks later Bill and the barista were swapping traveling stories as they pieced, stuffed, glued, clamped, framed and welded that busted, 26-year old door back together.  Little Feat and the Allman Brothers Band played on the stereo in the background.

“We were in the mountains east of L.A….not even December and we watched it snow…”

“…Then the cop looked in my pack of cigarettes and found the joint.”

The campers parked next to each other looked like long, lost brothers.  The storm had passed in the barista’s mind.  It was again, light and clear. 

"What do I owe you?"

"Well, just $30 for the materials."

"What? No, no. Take this," the barista handed Bill five 20's.

"I didn't help you for the money," said Bill.  But he did accept two 20's for the material.

Then in the distance, both of the men could hear a light howl. 

“What’s that noise?”

“I’m not sure.  But it sounded like it came from the road.”

"Sure did.  I'm itchin' to get back out there."

Freedom

Surrounded by pillows the barista lay.  The oscillating fan next to his bed kept the sweat from beading around his temples, for now.  Non-reliance on air conditioning makes him feel strong.  Amazingly, the un-watered Christmas tree clippings that garnish his room have retained their green needles.  If they can deal with the heat, so can I.

Today is Independence Day here in the United States.  The barista prepared le cafe for the pre-fireworks festivities at the Point called Fells.  Amongst the patrons nobody except for Mohammed could answer the barista’s holiday trivia question, “Who was the first country to recognize the United States as an independent nation?”

“France?”  photo Jim guesses.

“Nope.”

After all, one can say they are independent all they want, but until one’s neighbors’ acknowledge it, freedom is a myth.  Do you know the first country to recognize our independence?

This morning as he laid in bed, the barista wondered what he liked most about America.  Where was his freedom most apparent?  The National Parks.  The great outdoors.  In nature. He remembered that his travel journal was stashed near his pillow.  He began to read about his recent trip to the Blue Ridge Mountains in Shenandoah National Park.  What is more American than a summer RV camping trip?

The Shenandoah Mountains kindly greet the cinnamon girl & me as we awake at our campsite.  The Dolphin motored us to this near-empty camp ground a day prior, but we chose to pitch a tent anyway.  Sleep under the stars.  As we unpacked the yellow & gray backpacker’s tent a three-foot diamondback greeted us from out of the brush. Not coiled, but wrapped over itself, the rattler was neither threatening nor threatened.  Cinnamon was not stirred.  I said, “Hello”.

After munching on some pepperoni calzones baked in the camper we started along a Mattew’s Arm circuit trail: Overall Run.  On about mile three we winded up along a forested ridge where a moose-of-a-bear stumbled along. Initially I thought it was two or three bears.  But as the black furry shadow approached from about 40 yards away between trees and boulders, I realized this was the biggest bear I have encountered outside of a zoo--easily 600 pounds, maybe 700.  The beast must have sensed us watching him as he turned his head in our direction.  We retreated back down the trail out of sight.  I readied the pepper spray as a last resort, nearly prepping the camera as well.  As we hoped, the intimidating, pointed-eared creature disappeared upon our return to the ridge about five minutes later.

About half way along the 9.5 mile circuit, we discovered a timely swimming hole.  I had been on the lookout for a place to cool off from the 90-degree (F) heat.  The pool was about six feet deep; beneath one bubbling cascade and above another.  Enough room for about four people to kick it without being up on each other.  Sixty degrees and refreshing!  Cinnamon wet her feet while I dove right on under, bandana and all.  Memories of Shasta & the Righteous Hole surfaced.  A few other hikers found the swim before & after us, but we had a good 20 minutes of privacy.  The view above & below the rocky cascades was calendar worthy. 

After regrouping, we began towards Overall Run Falls—a 93-foot waterfall hidden amongst the trees of the Blue Ridge.  We rested at an overlook where the sun would soon drop across the valley.  On tired legs we trekked up & up & up, back to the campsite where the Dolphin meditated.  Too tired to fix anything fancy to eat, we snacked on hummus & salsa.  I made time for a star-glaze then met my cute travel companion for some mountain dreaming.  It was a wonderful 35^th birthday.

Happy birthday, America.

Fox & Bear

A bear stumbled to the city,

after hibernation.

A fox wandered from the alley,

caught his attention.

Far from the forest what are you doing here?

The fox was jilted & she needed some cheer.

And for the bear, the same was true.

They traveled & they sang,

The two became one.

But the fox moved so fast,

And the bear could not run.

Where are you going? I'm content right here.

The fox felt jilted & she needed some cheer.

And for the bear, the same was true.

The fox ran away,

It's all the bear's fault.

Can't find the words,

To unlock his heart.

Back to the mountains I don't like it here.

The fox was hot & she needed a beer.

And for the bear, the same was true.

And for the fox, the tears were true.

And for the bear, the same was true.

A Summer Day in March

Today I declare a turning point!  The city bugged the barista like a spoiled kid with clueless parents.  The mountains drew him as the moon pulls the tides.  Resistance was futile  The Dolphin was poised.  Dumb asses at work and at home brought the barista down.  If not for the cinnamon girl, I’d be gone by July.

Deano nearly turned on the conditioned air in the car as he drove the barista back to the Big Crabcake. 

“It nearly feels like June today,” the barista said to his pops. “But maybe we should save the Freon for summer.” 

Spring fever gripped the barista like a slugger grips his bat in the Grapefruit League.  He was returning from a weekend at the Old Creek Home to ring in Mart’s 33^rd year on the planet.  While there, he patched the roof of his mini-recreation vehicle.  The Dolphin sat idle on Deano’s driveway for a year-and-a-half.  It had to move.

The barista armed his self with a silicon gun, climbed out the skylight and lathered all around the 27-year old roof.  He installed a new battery for the engine.  He propped up the ceiling above the overhead bed with a bamboo rod.  Beads of sweat dripped down his cheek, so he slugged a Lord Chesterfield Ale.  He wiped away the mouse turds bordering the sink.  He aired out the mattresses; then aired out his lungs.  He reminisced about the 5000-mile road trip he took in the Dolphin nearly three years prior.  I’m cycling back—back to the mountains.

But the soil under the barista’s feet proved fertile.  He did not know at the time, but he was about to be promoted at le café.  Responsibility knocked.  So he would stay.  He hired a new staff.  He embraced the position Shelly graciously offered him on Jennifer’s thoughtful recommendation.  But he planned an escape to the mountains—if only temporary.  Shasta was too far, but not Shenandoah.

"Not Her Type"

A special treat lies ahead.  For those who have ever desired to more easily visualize the establishment which is the inspiration for le Harbor Bungalow Café, for those who have patronized the shop and listened to the barista retell the story, and for those who have read last November’s blog post Potentially Reciprocating and patiently awaited the result of Luis Guanzon’s music video production, enjoy.  The barista raises his mug to both the director and the musician, and is proud to present “Not Her Type”, a music video featuring Julian Roso.

What's Shakin'

Through the distorted glass of an empty cookie jar resting on top of the bagel case, the barista spies a frail, old man with a gray moustache and leather biker hat having just walked through the open front door.  His eyes seemingly hypnotized by the pastries greeting him at the café entrance.

“Otis!  What’s shakin’?”

Otis used to be the regular among regulars.  He was Jennifer’s first customer when she bought the shop at the innocent age of 24.  But months prior to Shelly taking over the business, Otis’ visits became less frequent.  The Dead End Tavern became a recurring beneficiary of his presence. 

“Oh, nothing.  I’ll have a coffee.” 

The weathered man’s hand shakes like a possessed slot machine lever with attention deficit disorder as the barista hands him his coffee.  Otis embraces his inner child with a fluff of whipped cream on his beverage.  The barista prepares him a chicken salad wrap.

“So have you been playing out lately?”  Otis blew the saxophone in his heyday.  Gigged all around town.  Lived the life—explaining his shaky hands.  He and the barista often talk music.

“Sa matter of fact, I’m sittin’ in with some friends tonight.”

“Where?”

“Leadbelly’s…but the big gig is on the 25^th. I’m on all night with Curt and Crissy.”  That reminded the barista…he never got the time from G-Tore, the young, acoustic blues duo he was to play with tonight.

“So have you seen Jennifer?”  Jennifer was a local celebrity in the point called Fell’s: A young college graduate and entrepreneur thrust into business world.  Easy on the eyes, especially to old, retired men such as Otis.

“Yeah, she was in the shop yesterday…and I heard this morning, too,” said the barista as he tucks some spinach in the black bean wrap with the chicken salad he whipped up seconds earlier.  “I schedule her on occasional Saturdays.”

“Schedule her?” Otis seemed confused.

“You didn’t hear?  Sally asked me to manage the shop.  So I’m in charge of the scheduling, hiring, et cetera.”

“Ahh, congratulations.”

The barista had been fairly modest about his promotion, choosing to focus on the task rather than talk about it.  While choice baristas were digging their graves, the barista was searching for recruits to attend barista camp.  He planned to loosen his lips after a reliable and deep staff was in place.

Eight O’clock.  It was the G-Tore on the phone.  The barista would have to hustle to make it on time:  Close shop, shower, eat, warm up & go! 

~~~~~

The barista slung his bass over his shoulder and briskly walked down his apartment stairs, along the sidewalk, over a cobblestoned street, then diagonally across the piazza of Fell’s to Leadbelly’s.  G-Tore was about to begin their second set.

“Let’s give a hand for Reggie.  He’s gonna join us for this first one.”

Shit, no warm up beer.

The guys waved the barista to the front corner of the bar.  Practically all the bar stools were taken and standing room was tight around the narrow, row home-of-a-bar.  He plugged in and followed the slow blues progression.

“They call it stormy Monday…but Tuuuuuesday’s just as bad…”

The barista met the G-Tore duo at the open mics they frequented at Leadbelly’s.  The 20-something vocalist has a 50-year-old’s voice: scruffy, yet soulful.  The acoustic guitars weaved and resonated dynamically.  They were quick friends and the trio would jam on songs by the Allman Brothers, The Band and Phish.

The barista is searching for another fun gig.  A year ago, the barista tripped into a summer festival tour with Angelique Henle.  He traveled from Kansas to Maine--weekend warrior style.  But since Angie’s label folded last autumn, she put the band on hiatis.  So the barista plans to lure her, along with the G Tore, Hound and Curt & Crissy to le Harbor Bungalow Café. Sally wants to host open mics at her new shop.  The barista has been playing open mics in the neighborhood for a year and a half.  He's forged connections.  Why not pull as much talent as you can gather in one room?  See what happens.  So along with Otis' hands, that's what's shakin.

Following is a clip from the barista's 2011 summer festival tour.  That's our hero playing his bass.