I'm suffering from Victrola withdrawal. Every morning for the past 15 years I've been going to my cafe of choice and writing a dozen longhand pages of what I officially call "braindump". It has become as necessary to my day as brushing my teeth, and when I miss a session or two I get cranky.
When I was living in Somerville, my mornings were spent at the now-defunct Someday Cafe. Four year's worth of notebooks were filled at my window table. I had a crush on the cute barista with the shaggy hair and bright eyes. He never charged me for coffee. I picked wildflowers from the library lawn and put them in his tip jar. The Rasta guy who worked alongside him told me that my smile lit the place up every morning and if I failed to come in, it was like the sun hadn't risen. When I'd slyly put a dollar in the tip jar, he'd return it to me with a reprimanding glance.
In New Haven I had the Daily Caffe -- the Original Coffeehouse as far as I'm concerned. Tall black booths, unbelievable Granitas, and you could smoke. A lot. The head barista there gave me Stevie Ray Vaughan mix tapes, a black Rickenbacker guitar, and taught me how to play.
Last year, when I lived on Queen Anne, Caffe Ladro became my hangout. The front of the cafe had shop windows with round tables on elevated platforms, and I liked to perch up there and gaze down onto the sidewalk. Gus was my barista, and he's the one that got me hooked on quad iced americanos. I still drink them now, even in winter. One morning he said, "I bet you could use a bonus shot today." I nodded, and promptly deepened my caffeine addiction. I'd stumble in pre-dawn and he'd hold up a clear plastic cup and four fingers, eyebrows raised. I'd nod. Gus had an endless wardrobe of indie label shirts. Sub Pop, Barsuk, Loveless, Saddle Creek. He alternated them with local band shirts -- The Long Winters, Death Cab, Thee Emergency. His daily goal was to get me to take off my chunky headphones and listen to whatever CD he'd put on in the cafe. The challenge started one morning when I was writing in the window, and in between songs on my walkman I heard a familiar violin filled with longing. I pulled my headphones off to listen and he looked up from the espresso machine he was scrubbing with a white rag. "You are not playing DevotchKa right now!" I called out in disbelief. He smiled and continued cleaning. "You approve?"
And so when Meadowlands or Burn the Maps failed to get a similar response, he dug out the bootlegs of the Frames playing at the Iron Horse, or an unreleased EP the Wrens had put together in college. We chattered excitedly about the monthly Neumo's line-up. Then I moved to Capitol Hill and Gus moved to Italy.
For me, it was back to the mothership -- Victrola. My first day in Seattle I sat outside Victrola in the June sunshine drinking iced coffee. The girls to the right of me were detailing the previous night's band showcase at the Crocodile, and the boys to the left were debating the validity of various John Vanderslice side projects. I was giddy. This was why I'd moved 3,000 miles.
That year I spent mornings at Victrola in the huge open windows with the sun splattered across my quickly-filling lined pages, submerged in the heart of this city. I didn't need headphones. When they ran out of perfect CDs, they put on John in the Morning on KEXP. I'd gush excitedly -- "It's John in the Morning -- in the morning! In the cafe! In Seattle! I live here!"
The newness has barely lost its luster as I find myself at the same cafe three years later. Upon hearing the rumble of my scooter as I arrive, the barista has my quad iced americano -- extra ice -- waiting for me. I stumble in, soaking wet, shaking water from my feet like a cat in the rain. But I am smiling; it's my favorite part of the day. A luxurious hour or two imbedded on the page, at my little wooden table with the cool slate top. There's a couple that comes each morning and ties their Labrador outside the window and I watch him, shiny eyed and glossy, wait attentively for their return. At 8:00 the barista takes his morning break with his beautiful blond girlfriend, and they share secrets quietly on the red velvet couch. By the end of the second album, I'm sucking the last drops of espresso from between the ice cubes and it's time to wrap up whatever I'm writing. The rhythm is soothing. It holds me together.
This week I'm back on foot again, and Victrola is 8 blocks from my apartment, uphill in the opposite direction of work. Going there would add half an hour to my already aggravating commute. So I've been going to Grand Central Baking Company, which is on the way. GCBCo has free refills going for it, but in the winter it's drafty and loud and feels like a factory. This morning some suit was having a business meeting in there, talking so loudly that I couldn't even drown him out with my music. I moved to get away from him but found myself sitting by the door, which opened frequently, letting in blasts of damp, icy air.
Having my morning routine usurped makes me crabby. I felt like an actual crab, gnashing my claws and scurrying about, looking for someone to pinch. I still wrote, but had a similarly irritating experience yesterday morning. Looking forward to repeat performances of this variety does not coax me out of bed at 6 AM on these cold, dark mornings.
It wasn't this cold last year, was it? I don't remember it being this cold. Maybe that's because I had a car. I must admit that it's infuriating to bundle up for the freezing rain and leave for work to see the car that is no longer mine parked in front of my apartment. Boy Former now lives a few blocks away and often stations the Golf on my street. My clownfish still on the dashboard, my PAWS sticker still in the window, the keys no longer in my pocket. It's maddening and makes me bitter.
This morning, a friend of mine told me about this author who floundered around for years before her first book was published and she became a successful author. Reflecting back on the fruitless experiences and struggles of her youth, she no longer viewed them as frustrations, but as research. As many a writer will echo, "It's all copy."
Here's to a stockpiling a lifetime of writing fodder.
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