Freedom at the Blackberry Café, Sort of…

Boom-bum-boom-bum-boom…. The day destroys the night, night divides the day… The Doors cause everyone to break into repressed dance. M, the owner, moves his shoulders as he prepares humus. E, the barista, sways her hips as she teaches the new lady how to make an espresso. The barista in training practices her craft while she nods her head to beat. I tap the counter and whisper the words along with Morrison.

Coming to Blackberry Cafe has become a nightly ritual. An opportunity to get out of my parents’ house, drive, listen to the radio, pick up a French soda, just a slice of freedom in my road to recovery.

M greets me with a huge hug. Our history together goes back to when I was a longhaired graduate student and he an employee of the former owner. If this were a normal evening, M and I may spend an hour discussing politics, news, and our families.

“See I told you, you would be fine.” M releases me out of his embrace.

“Getting better each day,” I smile and grab a muffin for breakfast the next day.

“You look good, really.”

“Thank you. How is your daughter?”

“Can you believe it she will be 5 soon.” M walks back to the kitchen.

“Time flies; I remember when she was learning to walk.” (Can I be that old?) I shout back at him.

E patiently shows the new barista how to make a French soda. The young barista splashes soda, syrup and foam over both the bar and back counter trying to master switching the drink from one cup to another and back again.

For some reason, I want to tell my story. I want to explain to E, the new barista, and everyone in earshot why I was here. Why I came in night after night. Why I order everything to go and never stay. Why I dress in warm-up pants and an old t-shirt, the same from last night. Why I was not a loser and this, my sole form of socialization. Or maybe, I just want to try to get sympathy from E. Or maybe, I have no goal in mind and just want to say something.

“I just had heart surgery.” I motion to M trying to explain the hug and compliments.

“I’m still recovering at my parent’s. That is why I come here. It is my little escape. A chance to get out other than work.” I ramble on, but do stop myself before I completely drone on.

“Wow,” E says, and the new barista nods.

They have the stunned look almost all do when I tell them of my condition. The face that says, ‘that sucks, you don’t look at death’s door. you are small, but I would have never thought this.’

“Well, you look good.” E says what almost all do. It is the generic compliment that they do mean, but sounds empty after the hundredth time.

“Thanks,” I take my drink, pay, and leave.

Today, I regret telling them. I put E and everyone in an awkward position. I never know what to say to someone who is seriously sick; why should I demand others come up with words for my problems? Why should I expect them to show new ways of caring I cannot? Also, is it worse to look like a loser who has no friends or a sad sick boy? Either way, you come up short. Maybe, I should have stayed a loser at least then some better clothes and a nicer car I could be redeemed. A sick boy is always a sick boy. It never escapes you, ever.