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!

City Cries Po'

An unsuspecting tourist finds herself lost when looking for one of Baltimore’s museums. With a friend she approaches a man walking along the streets made famous by the popular television crime drama The Wire.

“Which one of these is the Poe House?”

“Look around lady, every one of these is a po’ house!”

Claudette relates the story to the barista as he prepares a couple of lattes for her co-workers at the Fleet Street Market. Discretely in the back of the cafe, a painting leaned crooked on the wall.

"YOUNG EDGAR ALLAN POE" 2002

Oil Painting by cafe patron & Baltimore native Frank King 

The barista has been preparing a follow-up to his 2011 story Poe-etic Licensing. Since that time, what decisions have been made regarding one of the City of Baltimore’s literary museums—the Edgar Allan Poe House? Research led the barista to the following stories:

Could the Poe movie save Edgar Allan Poe’s Baltimore house?

Los Angeles Times 08/08/11

Edgar Allan Poe House and Museum needs a savior

Baltimore Post-Examiner 09/14/12

Poe House to close Friday, hopefully temporarily

The Baltimore Sun 09/25/12

Edgar Allan Poe House vandalized while closed during transition

The Huffington Post 11/26/12

Poe House falls dark as Ravens soar

Winnipeg Free Press 01/26/13

Are the Ravens responsible for the fall of the house of Edgar Allan Poe?

Salon 02/03/13

The City of Baltimore made international news by refusing to continue to fund the museum. It seems Poe carries as devout a following as the Raven football squad named after his poem, just more geographically diverse. Yet the city government is distancing itself from Poe’s legacy? The barista is confused. He realizes money greases the wheels of government, but he also thought tourism accounted for a sizable fraction of the city’s coffers. According the Salon story, Baltimore City claimed it could not afford the $85,000 a year it cost to run the museum. Yet our elected officials afforded an $180,000 commission fee to do its job—restructuring the operation.

The commission recommended the nearby B&O Museum operate and renovate the Poe House, according to the Huffington Post story. So the city afforded another $180,000 to make that happen. Let’s do the math: $180,000 for a commission, $180,000 to a city funded museum, Poe House operational cost $85,000. That amount of funding could have kept the museum open for over four more years.

According to the Baltimore Post-Examiner, the non-profit Poe Baltimore will take over the operations this year, with guidance from the B&O Railroad Museum during its first year. But the city-led transition began on a sloppy note. From the November Huffington Post story:

The (wooden) stairs disappeared days after the (Poe) museum was closed, said Steve Sharkey, acting director of the Baltimore Department of General Services. The graffiti (on the front door) occurred more recently, and was painted over within a week.

A gap in funding left the Poe house vacant and vulnerable—like many of its neighbors. But the city is not the only local entity with a stake in Poe’s legacy—and with the resources available to preserve it during the museum’s time of need.

The barista remembered that not only could he e-mail Poe, but he also could bring Poe to school and even download Poe’s coloring page! From the Salon story:

The Baltimore Ravens have yet to step in and help support the Poe House, in its past or future incarnation, despite many, many calls and newspaper Op-Eds asking them to do so (including the barista’s). The problem? According to a spokesperson for the Ravens, the city hasn’t asked (italics mine).

The Baltimore Post-Examiner elaborated:

Chad Steele, director of media relations of the Baltimore Ravens told the Baltimore Post-Examiner, “We are not aware of anyone approaching (the team) on this. This is an important project, but we can’t do them all. We’re very involved in a number of community projects right now.”

            The barista’s initial stance—offering the Ravens operational duties—changed after reading the Ravens’ lame excuse. “Screw them! I bet their fans don’t even realize why they drape themselves in purple every Friday.”

            “Because it’s the team color,” an unsuspecting patron quips.

            “Because it’s the color of the curtains in the poem,” the barista snarls. “The house is probably better under a nonprofit’s watch anyway—people who actually appreciate the spirit of ‘The Raven’, rather than just the licensing-free marketing appeal. ”

           

“Our Boy is Hurting Right Now”

Leon burps, wipes his mouth and gives thanks for Hungry Andy’s pit beef sandwich. In the well-lit restaurant around the corner from le café, he reclines at his table. It is a gloomy Monday night, a week before Christmas Eve.  The stout, army veteran with beard and build reminiscent of Santa Claus, sole patron in the shop, peers at a television adjacent Andy’s ordering counter. The channel is CNN.

More details emerge in the Newtown school massacre. What really motivated the killer?

A familiar voice interrupts the noise of the newscast.

“Well look who it is!”  The barista strolls into Hungry Andy’s with a cold weather knit cap on his head and stuffed backpack on his shoulders.

“Hey, man,” Leon says.

“Well look at you with the long hair,” remarks Andy as he walks out from the kitchen.

“Gotta hide it at the shop. Can’t be serving hairy grub, you know,” explains the barista as he drops his pack on the chair beside Leon. “You goin’ to the café Christmas party tomorrow?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

The barista walks to the counter, “So, Andy, that was me on the phone, I gotta run.”

“Oh.” Andy turns towards the kitchen to return with a plastic bag containing a cheese steak and a side of sweet potato fries. “Ten dollars.  Neighborhood discount.”

“Awe, thanks, Andy. Keep one for yourself.”

“So I’ll see you tomorrow?” Leon asks.

“Something came up. I’m leaving town before dawn. Won’t be back til late.”

“Where you goin’?”

“Long story. Ask around at the party tomorrow.” With that, the barista pushes open the double doors and walks into the mid-December cold.

Leon turns his attention back to CNN.

He loved his video games. StarCraft. He spent days planning, plotting and executing futuristic war strategies. And then there’s this, Lanza was at a shooting range three times over the past six months, at least once with his mother.

~~~~~

The sun rises, barely visible as it struggles to penetrate the gray clouds in the seven o’clock hour that is Tuesday morning.  The barista and Abby are driving through Delaware, the proud, first state of the Union,

Since the barista winterized the Dolphin, Abby offered her car for the five-hour impromptu road trip. Abby has patronized le café and lived in the Point called Fells years before the barista arrived on the scene.  She often grades the writing of her eighth grade English students during the barista’s Sunday shifts.

 “So this is turning into a type of college reunion,” the barista reflects, “There’ll be folks here I haven’t seen in 15 or so years.”

“It’s nice that so many are making the trip,” Abby responds with sad smile. “No doubt they can use the support.”

The barista digs his sunglasses from his backpack. It is when he rests them on his nose and ears when the daydreams begin.

The year was 1999, springtime. The place was Philadelphia, on a softball field. The barista is on second base after launching a double into the right center gap. Rekos steps up to the plate wearing flip flops. He might as well be swinging a wiffleball bat on the beach. Then he lines a base hit in the hole on the left side—a la Nomar Garciaparra—as the barista races home.

That’s how the season went that spring. That Pi Kappa Phi squad swept the La Salle intramural tournament and advanced to the City Six tournament at Temple where we had our asses wiped. One of the barista’s fondest memories—along with his first inning dinger at Temple to give La Salle their only lead in the playoffs—was of his flip-flopped first baseman.

“It’s about time we stop for some coffee,” Abby decides.

In agreement, the barista pulls into the next rest stop where they stretch their jaws and their legs. It was a short night’s sleep. He tries to wrap his mind around the events of the past weekend. Cooling off the coffee in his newly purchased paper cup, the television wrestles away the barista’s attention.

Abby appears from the sugar and cream station, “We gotta go. At least three more hours—if no traffic through Philly and New York.”

The barista wipes his eyes, nose and makes his way back out to the car.

~~~~~

The New Jersey turnpike is a monotonous drive—straight and flat with smokestack scenery. Toll booths and traffic disrupt the cruise control, while speeding cars weave between big rig trucks which—at one point or another—block one or three of the four highway lanes. In Abby’s car a recording of Storytellers plays on the stereo. It is the bootlegged, unedited, unaired appearance by the Black Crowes.

The barista slips into another daydream during the acoustic rendition of Nonfiction.

It is the autumn of 2003, in the parking lot of Qualcomm Stadium in San Diego—where the barista had been living for four years. The barista scored a ticket to the Chargers—Patriots football game from his buddy JM.  A group of guys are drinking light beer and barbecuing hamburgers and hot dogs next to their cars. A couple of the guys—Ryan and John—recently moved to the southern Californian city. They were college buddies with JM at Northeastern—certain Patriot fans.

“So who are you rooting for?” Ryan asked the barista.

“I don’t have too much of a rooting interest. I kinda like both teams. I’m really an Eagles fan.”

“Eagles?” Ryan said with an air of disbelief.

“Yeah, well, I grew up in PA and went to school in Philly.”

“Where’d you go?” John asked.

“La Salle.”

“Really?”

“Yup. Class of ’99.”

The next question inevitably gets asked when discussing colleges, and invariably—in the barista’s experience—the answer is ‘no’. Unbeknownst to the barista, the law of attraction was in effect.

“You don’t know Rich Rekos, do you?” John asked.

“Do I know Rich Rekos? I’ve only played a hundred beer pong games against that joker. We only pledged the same fraternity. Ha! You know Rich?”

“We grew up together in Connecticut!”

Long, lost brothers: the barista, John and Ryan become instant friends.

*****

It is half past ten o’clock when the barista and Abby pull into a nearly vacant rest stop in Danbury, Connecticut—well, nearly vacant if you discount the lineup of big rig trucks at the weigh station. Most importantly, the bathrooms are quiet so Abby has a place to change into her dark skirt and turtleneck. The barista slides on his gray suit and fixes his green tie from the passenger seat. He then dials Ryan and John. Each are married with children now, and settled in New England.

“Hey, bud,” greets the barista, “You guys want to meet for a bite?”

“Nah, you go ahead without us,” Ryan says, “John’s grandmother made blueberry pancakes. Let’s rendezvous at the church.”

Looking dapper, the barista and Abby saunter out of the gray morning into a bright Danbury deli.

“We’ll take a cup of broccoli soup, a Reuben…”

“And a newspaper.”

They sit by the window at one of the two simple tables and wait for their lunch. Abby reads the headlines.

A week of mourning: Funeral details set for some school shooting victims. 

First responders knew ‘it was something bad’

The evidence: Investigators trying to determine what led to rampage.

--from The News-Times, Danbury, CT

“Reuben and a soup,” the gentleman announces in his New York accent as he delivers the order to the table. “So where are you off to today?”

“Well,” the barista hesitates. “We’re going to a funeral. A buddy of mine’s daughter was a victim of the shootings.” The confession chokes him. As the words flow from his mouth, his stomach twists like a washrag being drained of water. It was the same feeling he first felt upon waking Saturday morning, when he read John’s text message:

Rekos’s daughter was killed in the school shooting yesterday. That was our hometown. Our boy is hurting right now. I’ll try and take care of him as best I can. Horrible.

“I’m so sorry,” the gentleman nods, “Ya know, I’m a retired cop from New York City. And I ain’t seen nothing like what they’ve seen over there. My heart goes out to you and the family.”

“Thank you.”

~~~~~

A line of cars stretch at a standstill nearly three tenths of a mile on Sandy Hook Drive, from St. Rose of Lima Church to a packed diner adjacent the highway. Time quickly approaches noon, so after exiting the highway the barista pulls into a bank parking lot to avoid the wait. As he and Abby walk along the sidewalk, through his sunglasses he notices a man crouching like a catcher, wielding a camera with a long-range zoom lens.

“We just had our picture taken,” notices the barista while the Connecticut State Police herd the media away from the church parking lot and the memorial. 

As Abby and the barista walk across the street, two lines form, wrapping around the entire front of the church—the same church from eight years ago where Rich married Krista. Inside, it is standing room only.

The silence is deafening. The organ begins to play. The hearse arrives. The tiny coffin provokes more tears. The priest’s wand cries holy water. And the stuffed toy horse slouches atop the little casket.

The mother and the father stand near, exuding both courage and anguish.

The barista prays for sustainable strength for the affected parents. He prays for protection and peace for their families. He prays for the change that will thwart this disturbing trend that has taken hold of America.

In Loving Memory of Jessica Adrienne Rekos. May she ride a horse into heaven.

Rich & Krista have now established the "Jessica Rekos Memorial Fund." Donations can be made at any Wells Fargo location, and will be used towards a riding camp/scholarship at Jessica's barn, as well as other projects in her memory. Your contributions to this great cause would be greatly appreciated by the Rekos family. Thanks for your support.

Teasing the Anti-Christ

“As your lawyer, I advise you to chug a Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster!”

   

Last month saw the return of the Fells Fun Festival to the neighborhood. The event not only aligned with Orioles Magic, but also with surprise guests at le Harbor Bungalow Café. The barista turned to face the counter as he steamed some milk.

“P3PO!! Welcome back, broseph!!”

“Surprised?!?”

“Not really. Would’ve been more surprised if you didn’t hitch a ride with mom and dad and sacrificed this booze-fest.”

Brother-of-barista was unemployed and searching for work. He recently earned his law degree, but the results of his BAR exam were still being processed leaving him in a state of limbo.  Mother- and father-of barista followed the barista’s brother in the door.  After exchanging pleasantries they sat at the bar.

“How was the drive down?”

“The drive was fine,” mother-of-barista said. “Parking was the tricky part.” Parents-of-the-barista live 80 minutes via automobile north of the Big Crabcake, in the same house—the Old Creek Home—where the barista came of age.

“Welcome to the city. You see why I choose not to drive.”

“Quit the small talk and bring a cherry and cheese danish this way,” father-of-barista said.

“I thought you were on a diet.”

“I’ll start it again in January.”

“Whatever you say. Here meet Shelly, le café’s new owner.”

As the barista dug around in the pastry case, Shelly and parents-of-the-barista talked about how the barista is great a person.  On this day in particular he was great, as he easily could have succumbed to his hangover from the previous night’s celebration.  The hometown baseball club won their first playoff game in 15 years. The barista believed the victory was due in part to he and his friends’ enthusiasm and insistence of doing a shot for every play that went the Orioles way. Yuengling, Jack and Jose kept the defending American League Champion Texas Rangers at bay.

But if the flattery inflated the barista’s ego, it was only temporary.

“We have some mail for you.” Mother-of-barista passed an envelope across the bar.

“Uh, oh.” The barista immediately identified the source of the letter. “I’ve been waiting months for this response. I self-addressed the return envelope to you in case I didn’t renew my lease over the summer.”

“What is it?” Shelly asked.

“I submitted a story to Sun Magazine for publication. This is the moment of truth.” The barista imagined opening this letter in the privacy of his own apartment, but everyone was anxious to hear the news, so the barista ripped open the envelope and began to paraphrase the letter aloud.

“Thanks…we’re sorry to say that your story is not right for The Sun…this isn’t a reflection on your writing…process is highly subjective…we wish you the best…yada, yada…Clark, I think it’s time for that Gargle Blaster.”

As the barista decides whether to submit his story elsewhere, he would like to tease the opening excerpt for those café patrons who did not read an earlier version last December. Without further adieu, Le Harbor Bungalow Café is proud to present

Laughing About the Anti-Christ

…and other gap-bridging techniques of a self-appointed ambassador between cultures

“Teacher, you know the AntiChrist?”

            An awkward silence came over the sidewalk café.

            “No, Ali.  I don’t know the AntiChrist.  Why?  Would you like to meet him tonight?”  I laughed, trying to lighten the mood.  My students giggled, too.  Was Ali implicating me—calling me out as an antichrist?

There I sat in Rabat—Morocco’s capital city—between sips of espresso discussing the Antichrist with a group of about ten curious Moroccan English language students.  Understanding between us was not a given, it was a challenge.  The sunny, cloudless spring day was a Monday, so we met outside on the patio of a local café.  Across the round, white, wrought iron table sat Ali.  Likely he was asking whether I was familiar with the story about the second coming of Jesus, who is supposed to lead an end-of-times battle against the evil Antichrist as preached by the prophet Mohammed, founder of Islam, and as mentioned in the final book of the Christian Bible, Revelation.  But I also knew Ali was bright and somewhat mischievous.  Had I somehow insulted him?

A native of Rabat, the 24-year old was more interested in slang and clever dialogue than proper grammar.  “Shorty’s got bahdenkedank!” he was keen to exclaim.  Ali gleaned much of his English from trendy American movies and music as well as through written correspondence on the online social networking pages of his American acquaintances.   This learning technique was common among my Moroccan students.  Loose-lipped and short, Ali mixed a manner that was part attempting to keep up with his peers and part trying to take the lead in conversation.  Here Ali had the lead, on a topic he was well versed.

“Yes, I am aware of the Biblical story of how the Antichrist fools good people into worshiping him.   But I understand the story as a metaphor,” I tell my class, hoping to segue into a comparison technique lesson. “Do you think a large bank could be the Antichrist, by deceiving good people into worshiping its money?” 

Months earlier I would have avoided such verbal sparring sessions faster than you could say salamu alaykum.  But two years later, in my Baltimore apartment, burning incense from Jemaa el Fna, I wonder if I was being paternalistic—by challenging their religious beliefs and attempting to expand their minds.  My main reason in traveling to Morocco had been just that:  to expand my mind.