Nov 2013
Green Tea. Peppermint. Herbal Lemon Zinger.
Deep Roast. Vanilla Hazelnut.
Milk. Sugar. Honey. Half and half.
These choices don’t matter much to me. I get them all for free.
I yank out a packet of deep dark roast coffee and slide it into the slot of a machine
which I believe makes hot drinks.
To be honest I don’t know for sure.
I put a tiny plastic bucket into a chrome and black kitchen appliance and click brew.
It brews. I believe.
In 8 seconds I have a small, steaming cup of black coffee.
I double take, wince, and select another miniature bucket.
Green Tea.
Just in case.
In a New York winter, coffee is power and tea is life.
I feel like some Egyptian deity, carrying my mugs of styrofoam down Bleeker Street.
“Behold Manhattanites, I bring ambrosia unto you.”
My hands are already beginning to shake.
I take the long route to the corner of Mercer and West 4th
knowing that extra 60 meters equates to 30 extra seconds
and about 9 extra deep breaths.
I approach the small chestnut colored woolen boulder very slowly
and walk past it one pace at a time.
I stop.
I check my Facebook.
I take one small step in reverse and then another.
It feels like all of this city is looking at me.
Anxiety without explanation. Something new and old all at once,
like a first kiss. Or a funeral.
I bend, then kneel, then crouch, feeling like an altar boy all over again.
I pat the boulder and it shifts, stirs, and splits apart.
Creamy brown eyes with a hint of yellow
ask me why I’m here.
“Hey man, I--I brought you some tea.
Or coffee, if you want.”
No.
I start to laugh and shake and sweat all at once.
He’s staring at my watch, my shirt, my polished shoes.
I don’t want that.
“Are you sure? I’ll just leave it here…”
My deep dark roast coffee is rejected,
and just like that, the boulder is closed,
Part of the same city I live in, but very far away.
I carry my cups down sidewalks and streets,
not wanting to throw away something which had a purpose once,
like a father’s necklace,
or an expired credit card.
I retreat indoors, confused and covered in some new flavor
of guilt.
I throw my coffee away but keep the tea.
I sip it as I sit down and it tastes much better
than it should.
I stare South out the window,
where I know that boulder still sits on top of a an old milk crate and cold concrete.
I think of my mother, my clothes and my kitchen.
I think of how two people can speak the same language that neither of them understand.
I think of that man inside the boulder,
and how a person might look at him or I and say
“He earned it.”
With completely different faces.
I wonder if Hazelnut Vanilla would have worked better.
Deep Roast. Vanilla Hazelnut.
Milk. Sugar. Honey. Half and half.
These choices don’t matter much to me. I get them all for free.
I yank out a packet of deep dark roast coffee and slide it into the slot of a machine
which I believe makes hot drinks.
To be honest I don’t know for sure.
I put a tiny plastic bucket into a chrome and black kitchen appliance and click brew.
It brews. I believe.
In 8 seconds I have a small, steaming cup of black coffee.
I double take, wince, and select another miniature bucket.
Green Tea.
Just in case.
In a New York winter, coffee is power and tea is life.
I feel like some Egyptian deity, carrying my mugs of styrofoam down Bleeker Street.
“Behold Manhattanites, I bring ambrosia unto you.”
My hands are already beginning to shake.
I take the long route to the corner of Mercer and West 4th
knowing that extra 60 meters equates to 30 extra seconds
and about 9 extra deep breaths.
I approach the small chestnut colored woolen boulder very slowly
and walk past it one pace at a time.
I stop.
I check my Facebook.
I take one small step in reverse and then another.
It feels like all of this city is looking at me.
Anxiety without explanation. Something new and old all at once,
like a first kiss. Or a funeral.
I bend, then kneel, then crouch, feeling like an altar boy all over again.
I pat the boulder and it shifts, stirs, and splits apart.
Creamy brown eyes with a hint of yellow
ask me why I’m here.
“Hey man, I--I brought you some tea.
Or coffee, if you want.”
No.
I start to laugh and shake and sweat all at once.
He’s staring at my watch, my shirt, my polished shoes.
I don’t want that.
“Are you sure? I’ll just leave it here…”
My deep dark roast coffee is rejected,
and just like that, the boulder is closed,
Part of the same city I live in, but very far away.
I carry my cups down sidewalks and streets,
not wanting to throw away something which had a purpose once,
like a father’s necklace,
or an expired credit card.
I retreat indoors, confused and covered in some new flavor
of guilt.
I throw my coffee away but keep the tea.
I sip it as I sit down and it tastes much better
than it should.
I stare South out the window,
where I know that boulder still sits on top of a an old milk crate and cold concrete.
I think of my mother, my clothes and my kitchen.
I think of how two people can speak the same language that neither of them understand.
I think of that man inside the boulder,
and how a person might look at him or I and say
“He earned it.”
With completely different faces.
I wonder if Hazelnut Vanilla would have worked better.
