Chapter Six: One More Cup of Coffee

Chapter Six

 One More Cup of Coffee

Much of the … what is the word I want? … adventure in my life has come from Marie’s wanting another cup of coffee.

I’ve never understood how someone who consumes so much coffee can sleep so soundly, so long, so frequently, and in such odd places.  My earliest memories of her all seem to be of her asleep on friends’ sofas, or floors, or car seats.

I went with her to a theatre to see a double bill of an atrocity called Shoe-In, and a performance of Lennon-McCartney songs, which is what I really wanted to see.  But no matter how much coffee I encouraged her to drink beforehand, we were on time for Shoe-In.  An actress and a big box of old shoes.  She would change shoes, and seemed to think that she was assuming different characters.  The audience wasn’t fooled.  Nor, fortunately, did the audience at the performance we saw take advantage of the offer in the ad: bring an old pair of shoes, and the actress-playwright would create a character based on them.

After an eternity of changing shoes and vague ramblings in the alleged style of her grandmother, construction workers, cab drivers, it was over.  Intermission. “I’m really looking forward to Beatles songs.”  “Oh, I don’t know.  I have to get up early tomorrow.  Why don’t we just get a quick cup of coffee next door and head uptown?”

Many cups of coffee later, we emerged from the Keystone Coffee Shop.  The theatre was dark and shuttered.

In Chicago, after a weekend of coffee, she was going to drive me to the airport. “What time is your flight?” “Three o’clock.”  “We have plenty of time.  I need to stop by the office and pick up some papers.”    Much later, leaving her office, “What time is your flight?” “Three o’clock.”  “Good, I need to talk to someone in the bookstore.”  Much later, “What time is your flight again?” “Three o’clock.”  “We have plenty of time. Let’s grab a quick cup of coffee before we go.”

A few minutes later, in the restaurant: “What time did you say your flight is?” “Three o’clock.”  Looking at her watch in alarm:  “You’d better finish up!  We’ve got to move.”

Even carrying a suitcase, I can outrun escalators.  I can outrun the moving sidewalks in O’Hare.   I even got to meet the standby passenger who had gotten my seat.  Not to worry, though; I was able to get on the standby list for the six o’clock flight.   O’Hare is very large, but it soon becomes apparent that the pattern is newsstand, coffee shop, bar, gift shop, newsstand …. endlessly repeated.  I don’t know how many times I looped past them.  I never stopped at the coffee shops, though.

But, if I hadn’t missed my three o’clock, I wouldn’t have experienced what the flight attendant called the worst turbulence she had ever been in.  Good thing I had turned down her offer of coffee, so there was nothing on the tray in front of me to hit the ceiling.

And then there was the time we went to a friend’s production of a children’s version of The Magic Flute (coffee first, of course).  After the show, a quick cup of coffee, then off to another theatre to see a friend in a musical.  Dinner afterwards with some of the cast, which ran long because Marie wanted more coffee.  On the way out, in an undertone to me: “I couldn’t wait to get out of there; we have to get downtown to meet my brother and sister.”  Coffee with them, then a Star Trek movie. Then, of course, coffee.  I walked her and her sister home, and was asked if I wanted to come up for coffee.  I declined.

There were times, though, when I would have liked coffee.  Back in Chicago one windy day in October.  A day so windy that it made the news in Chicago that it was windy.*  The day that roofs blew off buildings.   Stepping out of the Art Institute into the wind, Marie said “You’ve never been to Navy Pier, have you?”  Navy Pier.  Out in the middle of the windy lake.  I tried a desperate measure: “Do you want to get coffee first?”  “We’ll get coffee at the pier.”  A long, long walk in the wind, past Starbucks, past McDonalds, past the sorts of dumpy coffee shops that Marie loves so much.   Repeatedly, and less and less as a diversionary tactic, and more and more as a matter of not freezing to death, I tried to interest her in coffee.  But she wanted to wait till we got to the pier.

It’s a long and windy way out into the frigid darkness of Lake Michigan.  Nothing but soda to be had.

But the ultimate one last cup of coffee was the one in Manhattan that resulted in our getting to the parking lot that closed at midnight at about 11:59:59.  The gate was already locked, my forlorn car plainly visible. 

So, down on the subway to Marie’s sister’s, where she was staying.  “Do you want to come up for coffee?”  Up to The Bronx on the subway.  Feed the neighbor’s cats.  Home.  Out early the next morning, down on the subway to the parking lot.  Up to the little wooden shed that served as an office.  Presentation of the ticket, and explanation that the lot had closed early and I had been put to a great inconvenience, and so shouldn’t have to pay the extra charge for overnight parking.  Payment of the extra charge for overnight parking.

The attendant retreated into the shed to get my keys.  Back at the door. “Come in sir, come in!”  I went in. “Sit down, sir, sit down!”  I sat at the battered card table.  “Don’t worry, sir, be happy!”  An enormous cardboard box was set on the table.  “Maybe your keys are here, sir!”

Many, many keys.  Bottle openers.  Pen knives. Beer bottle caps.  Soda bottle caps.  Pieces of wire, of wood, of cardboard.  Things of no conceivable purpose.  But not my keys.  As I stood up to tell him that, I saw, hanging from a prominent hook on the wall,  a set of keys with a giant tag reading “tan Ford” and my plate number.

I wonder if coffee really does make you nervous?

*Yes, as a matter of fact, I do know that that’s not the reason Chicago is called the Windy City.

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