There is a new coffee shop in town and I’d like to go there and check it out. It’s on another side of town, where other people live who are not like us. Nevertheless, I want to go there. I want to smell the coffee beans roasting. They roast their own, after all. That’s how they do it on that side of town. I want to smell them roasting and hear them grinding and taste the fresh, fresh coffee in my cold, ceramic cup. But it’s so far away, the other side of town. I’m not ever sure there are roads from here to there. I imagine there could be checkpoints and obstacles designed to keep me out. When I arrive, if I can, at the door, will they let me in? With my lowly money and my humble computer full of silly words, will I be allowed? Or will I have to stand outside and watch all those other-side-of-towners drink the coffee I thought might be mine? I don’t know how I would handle that kind of rejection.
We’re not bad people. I know we don’t look impressive, but we’re not dangerous or offensive. We try to stay clean and we hear things about recent styles, trying to emulate some form of fashion. We have ideas and we tell jokes. Our children have a sort of rugged, mongrel charm. If you’ll only give us a chance, you’ll find that we can be good company. And we’re loyal. We will never betray you or turn away. Where would we go? Won’t you just let us in? Won’t you give us a chance?
Back on our side of town we’re working to open a coffee shop. Someone has taken a box and pushed some tubes into it. Someone else wrote “Steem” on the box in crayon. If you close your eyes and make espresso sounds with your mouth, it’s a lot like we imagine a coffee shop machine would be. And we’re making aprons from old work shirts. We warm water over the fire and pour it through funnels filled with dirt and gravel, and it comes out brown. And we scream, “Latte! Latte is ready!” and we smile and cheer. This morning someone yelled, “Cappuccino!” and we all laughed and laughed and I cried a little bit.
Hello, friends. I hope you’re well.
Later. Love.
