A Coffeehouse in Montana

Somewhere along the line, you sit down and think about all of the coffeehouses you’ve sat in and wondered about life. You think about the women who’ve said goodbye over tea, the times that a strong cup of coffee has been the only thing that stood in the way of a broken friendship.

I’ve been living in coffeehouses somehow since I was about 17, letting my life sit like a satellite around its periphery and trying to see the sense. I remember the first coffeehouse I’d gone into, way back when I was 15. I think it was called “Rose’s”, and it sat in a shopping center selling cappuccinos to all of the kids with black painted fingernails, blue dyed hair, and the odd nihilist who realizes that nothingness really is better with a medium roast. I went with this couple who were the sort of bohemian types that sort of fit into all three categories in their unassuming little white Honda and polite affectations. The last time I saw them, they were living in San Francisco living off of peyote and cheap wine. It was really surprising to see them finally assimilating.

I still remember how much I enjoyed that night, so very many years later. But it wasn’t for a few years before I started really living in coffeehouses.

The first was a hangout for the kids that went to the Christian college in the town I moved to in high school. It was right by my friend Dave’s house, and he had an older brother that would beat the shit out of him every day when he got home from school. So we’d hang out in this place and spend our lunch money on refills and shit talk in our Ministry t-shirts and long hair, ignorant that the second coming of the prophesied messiah was going to happen any moment and that we were going to miss it unless we stopped arguing about who was the best Black Flag singer (it’s still Keith Morris, motherfucker) and accepted that good ‘ol Holy Spirit that sullied the knees and polished the soul. It was a good thing we had going until one day when Dave went apeshit, beat the hell out his brother, hit his mom with a Snapple bottle, and ran off to squat Melrose Boulevard until he ran out of bad speed and freedom. Now that’s a fella I miss a lot. I thought I saw him playing guitar in Union Square last year, rocking back and forth on dirty heels and sensationally crafted grooves.

I did the poetry thing for a while, driving all over L.A. to read my inarticulately mopey teenage poetry to people who were quite eager to read their own inarticulately mopey teenage poetry. Sadly, some of them were much older. But by this time, I’d read my way through the Beats, and I’d felt very connected to all of this sort of thing, the espresso and the tired bit of clapping, a misplaced affirmation that rang like the cold iron bells of death on the misanthropic gloom of my being. I wonder how I got all of that out of the Beats? Man, those guys were full of humping and jazz and nature, but for the longest time I just couldn’t get those sad little images of Maynard G. Krebs moments out of my head, disapproving frowns ringed in black turtlenecks.

I’ve played my favorite punk shows in coffeehouses, and I’m not going to discount the cups of coffee that bookended performances as the factor. I’ve had some truly tragic and wonderful dates that started out in coffeehouses. I went to three different coffeehouses on one date once. Shit, I had to marry that one. No choice at all.

I read “White Nights” the first time in a coffeehouse. I wandered disconsolate for an hour afterward until I ran into Mikey. That’s when we started hanging out. I became friends with Jonie when I saw her play in a coffeehouse after work one day. I imagine I still smelled like bad chicken, but we got along anyhow. I sat next to Morrissey once in a coffeehouse.

I played on stage for the first time in a coffeehouse with Steve. He’s dead now. I played Paul’s guitar that night, and he’s dead, too. I played my first show with Erik in a coffeehouse. He’s also gone. So is Brad, and he shared that same stage with us a few times.

I was homeless for a while, and I spent every afternoon in a coffeehouse in Hollywood. Imani would join me sometimes and tried to hide her concern. She was pretty amazing, and only insisted on me staying on her floor once. I was happy the other times in the alley behind the coffeehouse. I used to go into the coffeehouse next to the restaurant where I worked back then whenever it was slow. I met my friend Dawn there. She pushed me down once for trying to clean up my own mess. I haven’t talked to her in years, but that’s not why. I saw Karen for the first time in years in a coffeehouse in New York. Years later, I’d still giggle every time I passed it down on the lower east side. I’d gone in and sat at the table next to her and struck up a conversation with a striking blond woman, as though I’d mistaken the two. The chemistry was good, the conversation engaging. Karen tried to cover up her laughing until I revealed the faint and apologized to the stranger-who-was-almost-my-new-friend and switched tables to talk to Karen. I thought that women in New York were delightful. Then I moved there. I had a date with a woman in a coffeehouse who refused to shake my hand. Strangely, I went home alone.

What am I getting out of all of this? Shit, nothing. I’m just a little sad, sitting here in a coffeehouse a few blocks from where I just moved, watching my own reflection in the window watching the snow float down through the cold Montana night. I don’t know why I’m a bit sad; I guess it’s just the feeling of seeing so much of my life as past, wondering what the next step is and how it will all come out. The fear of the unknown, the lonesome hope that sits one breath ahead. But all inevitably in this chair which seems everyplace, and a cup of coffee to drown in.