Nancy Rommelmann

Coffeehouse Chronicles

13.

"What should I get?"

"Um, coffee?" 

"I'm serious." She pushed his shoulder. He had been telling her about this place since they met two weeks ago, but she had not slept over until last night. He slipped his arm around her; again, the up-rush of emotion, the one that usually lasted only until after the first kiss.

"I don't about this stuff like you do," she whispered.

His pulled her toward him. God he wanted to kiss her.

"All right, so," he said, and stood her before the vertical chalkboard. "You've got regular coffee. Or you can get an Americano."

"What is it?"

"It's espresso, with hot water in it."

"Ew," she said.

He shook his head and steered her to the counter.  "No no, no ew."

"I don't..." And then she was at the counter. 

"Good morning," said May.

"She doesn't know what she wants," he said.

She smacked him on the chest. "Okay, forget it," she said, and looked back to the chalkboard. "I am going to have... a latte." She gave one nod to the girl behind the counter.

"Cool," she the girl. "For here or to go?"

"We'll stay today," he said, standing just behind her, putting both hands on her waist. "You want something to eat?"

She leaned into him; again, the up-swell. "Mm hm."

Coffeehouse Chronicles

12.

"Are you going to tell him?"

Nonni focused on dabbing Danish crumbs with her finger. "I don't know," she said.

"Okay, this..." Laura paused. "That's probably the worst answer you can come up with."

Nonni concentrated on mashing the crumbs. If she looked her sister, she might cry.

"Hey," said Laura, trying to get Nonni to look her in the eye. The younger girl resisted. "Nonni."

Nonni looked up. "What?" 

"Oh, now you're mad at me?'

"I'm not mad," she said, sharp enough that the guy on line with the bike messenger bag quarter-turned away.

Laura shook her head. "You're being incredibly childish."

Nonni turned her profile to Laura and feigned looking at a painting of a bridge on the opposite wall. 

"Hello?" Laura said. Nonni was one of maybe two people in the world, their mother being the other, that could bring on irrational rage. Sometimes she dreamed she was slapping Nonni in the face.

"Nonni, listen to me."

Nonni kept looking in the direction of the painting, but she did not see it, nor the woman in the baseball cap sitting beneath it, she was engaged instead in making her sister know she was being ignored. She continued to stare as Laura said, "Oh my god!" and got up, her knees bumping into Nonni's, fine...

"How are you?" Laura asked. She was embracing a woman who'd come into the cafe, a tall woman wearing interesting brown boots and speaking to her sister in a French accent. The world shrank to a circle, a circle in which her sister and the French woman were laughing and touching each other's hands, Nonni could see only this and feel hotly how she was not in it.

Coffeehouse Chronicles

10.

Matt looked at his phone. The battery had dislodged when Cassi threw it. Seemed to be working. He put it in the pocket of his cargo shorts, hoping she would not wake up and start in. She really had an amazing ability to do that, to fight over nothing.

The cafe was four blocks away. Matt walked, and thought he’d screwed up marrying Cassi. He’d loved her, and she had needed her green card, but it was seeming now like a rash decision. His father implied as much, when Matt brought Cassi home for a visit the year before.

“She’s a beautiful girl, Matt,” his father said, not adding the “but”. It was late summer, a peaceful time on the farm, the harvest in, foals and calves in the fields, the air soft and thick. “Is it that you need to, son?”

Matt told his dad no, it wasn’t that. But there had been pressure from Cassi, to help her, to be a helpful man. And so Matt had been, and was being, and this helpfulness was being repaid by her staying out at night, and accusing him of what she herself was likely doing.

Do I care? Matt asked himself as he came to the cafe. There was a little girl holding a star-wand twirling by the register as the barista with the red hair handed the girl’s mother change.

“Hi,” the barista said. She held out a plate to Matt. On it was a swirled Danish, cut into pieces. “Try this. The baker brought samples.”

Matt took a piece. It tasted like maple and butter and crunchy sugar. He nodded at the barista as he chewed.

“Good, right?” she said, and handed him a paper cup for his coffee. He pumped it himself. As he went for cream, he noticed the woman in the baseball cap, no eyelashes.

Coffeehouse Chronicles

9.

First, grip the door handle. It does not matter (tell yourself) if your thumb in on top or beneath the handle. Pull. Okay. Okay.

Pause on threshold. Look engaged. There are flyers to the left, dance performances, a flying dove; many girls in yoga positions; a line drawing of a lumberjack with his head cut off and blood coming from his neck, don't look at that. Or wait, is it supposed to be funny? Realize you are holding your breath.

Seize as the door opens behind you; turn or not turn, smile or not smile? Fear a smile will look like what it feels like, a crack in a piece of wood. The door is still open, it's closing, it's closed.

You cannot stay in the entryway, you have to go up or down. That girl with the long pretty red hair is behind the counter. She made you relax last time; she complimented your hat. She said it looked soft. It is soft. It's made of a blanket (tell yourself) your mother held you in as a baby, a marigold blanket, yellow light, yellow light coming in the roll-up window. Oh.

Oh, Girl

Coffeehouse Chronicles

8.

Molly sat at her usual spot -- corner table, closest to the roll-up door -- and felt herself exhale, a loosening she experienced each time she came to the cafe. It was the fourth time this week, a good week. She liked to come early and see the same faces: the two men who laughed a lot together at the communal table, the morning barista; the woman who came in around the same time each morning and said a few words to the regulars. Molly had not yet caught her eye, but maybe soon, if it kept being a good week, a good month.

She sipped her coffee, black -- the chemo was making anything sweet taste like metal this week -- and appreciated the sameness, the no-slippage, the daily routine that took place yesterday and would take place tomorrow. The luxury of sameness. Also, to be around people not asking how she was feeling, how she was doing. She was in fact feeling well. She was still in the hellish big curve, but had a sense it was the second half of the curve; that in not too long the road would open to a straightaway. Preferably a scenic road! The 1 in California. Or what about Capri? There must be a beautiful seaside drive in Capri.

Molly looked into her coffee. Everything these days made her eyes wet, including this morning the gratitude that came with thinking she might get to Capri. 

No New York: Adventures in the Town of Empty

Go pledge. Adele's the bomb.

 

No New York: Adventures in the Town of Empty

Go pledge. Adele's the bomb.

 

Coffeehouse Chronicles

7.

James rolled up to the cafe at 6:50, a little earlier than usual. Well, twenty minutes earlier. He'd decided to ride his bike to work today. Not completely unusual, his offices were just downtown, but a somewhat hare-brained idea this week, when he'd have head out to the Bull Run Watershed near Mt. Hood; the feds were making noise again about wanting to cover the reservoirs, which was ridiculous, James thought, as he locked his bike next to hers. Well, he could get a ride out there with Brian.

There was only one customer ahead of James, a pregnant woman with a yoga mat. The girl in the green skirt was handing her change. James did not want his moment to pass so soon. He decided to study the pastry case. Not that he ever bought any pastry, or only a few times, that roll-up thing with the ham. Peering into the case, he was able to surreptitiously see her in profile. She wore her hair short, and yet in the back she had made two tiny pigtails, each no bigger than a pen cap. Just looking at them make James swallow. What was he going to do?

"Hi," May said, to the guy staring at the pastry. "Do you want something this morning?"

Marea, who was behind the counter grabbing yesterday's bank, saw the guy by the pastry case straighten. She'd seen him here before. Youngish, tall, and apparently this morning, struck mute.

"Or just the usual?" asked May.

"Just coffee, thanks," said James, taking the paper cup she handed him, hoping his face was not as flushed as it felt.

Marea stood with May, watching the young man walk out and to his bike. "Ooh, he likes you," she said.

"What? No," said May, but she was laughing.

Bad Girls of LA Literature Redux

Sex! Drugs! Rock 'n' Roll! (as well as bioidenticals, schvitzing and cat care--we won't be restrained!)

It's time again for the (now annual)...

BAD GIRLS OF LA LITERATURE party!

Samantha Dunn

Annabelle Gurwitch

Hillary Johnson

Sandra Tsing Loh

Nancy Rommelmann

Erika Schickel

 

5 p.m. Sunday, May 27th

3380 Ley Drive
Los Angeles , CA 90027

(at the home of Annabelle Gurwitch in lovely Los Feliz)

See ya!

Coffeehouse Chronicles

6.

Francisco pulled the Ram to the kerb. He was running late today. He preferred to be here by 6:15, and it was nearly 6:30. He opened the door of the double-cab and lifted out the plastic tray of donuts. Two dozen, plus three specials, today aqua-icing with chocolate sprinkles. American holidays called for specific colors, pink-with-red for Valentine's Day, green for St. Patrick's. Francisco was not sure why there was an Irish holiday in the States but none for Italians or Mexicans or Hondurans. Most days, which started at 2:30am, getting the donuts frying and decorated and delivered, Francisco picked the colors at random. It was commerce, not art.

"Good morning," said Francisco.

"Good morning," said May, as Francisco passed the length of the espresso bar, swapping today's full tray for yesterday's empty, and heading back out the front door within twenty seconds.  

May picked up the donuts. The aqua ones were hilarious. Who, one might wonder, would eat aqua food? But May did not wonder as she set them in the baking case, knowing the specials nearly always sold first.

Coffeehouse Chronicles

5.

Marea pulled open the cafe's glass door. If the cleaning gal looked like a wood sprite, the man on the settee looked like someone who lived inside a tree, like Father Time with a gin-blossomed nose. She'd seen him here several times this month, always just after opening. At first she thought he might be homeless. His white heard was frayed, and he had a timid look, as though he might not be welcome inside. May, who was the cafe manager; who had been the business's first employee six years ago and knew what was and was not good policy without asking, had several times chosen people to give coffee to, for instance, the silent smiling be-robed young man who Marea had seen all last summer, juggling just outside the cafe's back door, whom May had said was entirely harmless.

This old man, Marea decided today, was not homeless. His clothes were clean, he did not shake, he gave off no odor. He made eye contact with Marea, as he had since the first time she'd seen him. And while he always sat very still with his cup of coffee, no pastry, not reading the New York Times delivered each morning and sitting on Noguchi knock-off table in front of him, it seemed to Marea the man's mind was working quite hard to keep him in place.

Coffeehouse Chronicles

4.

The cleaning company wanted Anya to start at 6:30, but in spring and summer she came earlier. It was light enough to see the cigarette butts and empty cups, the loose pages of free newspapers and occasional oyster shell left on the patio. She held the biodegradable bag -- this city, Anya knew, had strict rules about environmental cleanliness -- in one hand and with the other picked up the trash. She also cleaned the street by the kerb, easier to do at 6:15 as not too many cars had yet parked, not too many people coming yet for their coffee. 

Marea saw the woman cleaning several times a week, but did not think the woman saw her. She did not appear to ever look up from her task. She looked to Marea like a  wood sprite, or maybe a Soviet gymnast, her build light and compact, her copper hair cut in a thick wedge, a style not seen much since the 1970s.

Marea, whose husband owned the coffee shop, had tried to make eye contact with the woman before, to no avail.

"What a gorgeous morning, right?" she said today. 

Anya looked up. Could she just smile and nod? But the woman was waiting for a response. 

"Please," Anya said. "You say more slow?"

Coffeehouse Chronicles

3.

Matt looked at the clock: 5:46. He had slept not at all. He'd been lying there looking at the ceiling since Cassi conked out a little after four, after three hours of her crying and recriminations and threats of going back to Brazil. It made no sense; she was the one who came home at one in the morning, slamming her purse on the kitchen table and starting the tape-loop she'd been on all month: where had he been the night before? Why did he have to study with that girl? She advanced on his desk.

"Meu gatão," she said, the once-endearment sounding so sour he thought she might spit.

"What do you want me to do, Cassandra?" he said, his eyes flicking to the cellphone on his desk. "You want me to not pass the boards?"

Matt was not fast enough; Cassi grabbed the phone and sped to the kitchen. She expected him to follow. He did not. He watched her hips lean against the sink as she read the names of people he had spoken with that day: Evan, Dario, mom...

"So now you are erasing?" she said, throwing the phone at the front door. Still Matt did not move. He was too tired, he could not hold algorithms in his head and the tantrums of spoiled 24-year-old from Sao Paolo. Or he could, he thought, watching the ceiling whiten, but did not want to anymore.

What he wanted was a cup of coffee. 

Coffeehouse Chronicles

2.

May had trouble again getting the key to turn. She meant to bring some spray graphite from home, but she'd been up until two painting and forgot. She drew the key from the lock and smoothed its grooves, thinking of what she'd finished, or nearly finished. She was pleased with it, very. She knew she might find the pleasure unfounded when she clicked the easel's clamp light on tonight at ten, always at ten. But she'd told herself that two nights ago and last night the portrait looked just as strong, stronger, perhaps, than he looked in real life. At thirty, Isabel was getting the sense that she could paint him as she wanted. She was thinking what she might do to the collar of his white t-shirt, maybe add a little rust, as she reinserted the key and it turned. It was 5:42. She'd have to hustle.

Coffeehouse Chronicles

1.

James did not want to read more into it. Yes, she was friendly to him. But maybe that was just the job. Waiting in line, he glanced out the front window at what he knew was her bike. Knew because he'd seen her gliding up one morning at 5:40, James in his car at that hour because a friend had needed a jump. He'd slowed down, not wanting her to see, but wanting to see her. She was wearing the short green skirt he'd seen her in before, he wanted to go slow enough to see her take off her helmet. But he felt creepy. What is she saw him? He thought about going around the block, or parking for 20 minutes and being her first customer of the day. Instead, he drove home and made himself stop in at his regular time.

 

Rammstein Jr.

Seeing Rammstein Monday in Tacoma. Friend sent me this, in anticipation. Din says, "I'd rather see these kids." How great are they?
http://m.youtube.com/#/watch?desktop_uri=%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DbqpRoVxH2jc&v=bqpRoVxH2jc&gl=US

Losing My Shame in L.A.

Great essay by Jinghuan Liu. A clip:

When JD moved away, he left behind household items. One of those was a television, which I initially kept running most of the time to keep myself from thinking about my troubles. But it turned to out to provide more than distraction. I’d watch what was on offer and find myself surprised—correction: shocked—to see how the celebrities in this town operated with so little sense of shame. Zero shame, actually. I’d see one of the Kardashians get arrested for drunk driving or nabbed with cocaine in her handbag. I’d see Paris Hilton talking about a sex tape. “So what?” was their reaction. It was just a chapter—maybe even just another marketing strategy. I was entranced by all the bickering and hair pulling and earring dragging. All done without shame. Was it the weather? Was it Hollywood? And how did people develop that mindset—because I wanted it for myself.

The essay is appears on Zocolo Public Square, a site I like a lot.

Lost Dog: Millet

Our friends Karen and Melissa are trying so hard to find their dog Millet, missing a week now. Photo and details below. Please keep your eyes out. Thank you.

MY SWEET MILLET has been missing since 5/3. She is a medium sized short haired red brown hound mix with fold down ears. She was wearing a green & yellow nylon collar w/ name tag & CELL ph. no. which could have slipped off.

PLEASE CALL OR REPLY:

MELISSA 718 570 9636

PLEASE CHECK ANYWHERE WHERE SHE COULD BE TRAPPED!!! REWARD!!!

THANK YOU!