Two

A single soul stepped into our shop.

The older gentleman was slight of build with shaggy white hair. Wrapped in a dark green puffer coat that reached down to his knobby knees, he looked like a grandpa elf who’d lost his way to the North Pole.

An old red cap, too small to cover his prominent ears, sat on his head, and a cashmere scarf dangled from his neck. Like a remnant from better days, the elegant, camel-colored scarf looked out of place with the ragged cap, inexpensive puffer coat, and dog-eared spiral notebook tucked under one arm.

When the newcomer spotted Esther’s Goth-girl bouffant behind the counter, his pale, blank features visibly brightened. He hailed my zaftig barista with a wave of his worn notebook, and though he was small of stature, his voice was loud and strong.

“Esther, it’s a cold autumn day, but seeing you makes me feel like my spring has sprung!”

Esther put her hands on her hips and exclaimed, “Give it to me!”

The man touched his heart with one hand as he replied, “Courtesy of Robert Burns.” After clearing his throat, he began to recite—

O my Luve is like a red, red rose

That’s newly sprung in June;

O my Luve is like the melody

That’s sweetly played in tune.

With a slight blow, he pointed at her in challenge.

Esther put a finger to her round cheek, taking a moment to think. Then her voice boomed—

Yo! My love be like a new red tat

Inked in freshest fashion.

Yo, my love be like my slammin’ rap

Brash and full of passion!

Matt leaned across our table. “What’s going on?” he whispered.

“It’s a game they play every time he comes in. He throws out a classic stanza of poetry, and—”

“Oh, I get it,” Matt said. “Esther translates it into urban rap.”

“He hasn’t stumped her yet. Maybe today’s the day…”

As Matt and I watched with interest, the elderly man pointed at Esther and recited again—

So fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

So deep in luve am I;

And I will luve thee still, my dear,

Till a’ the seas gang dry.

This time, Esther replied immediately—

So hot you are, my freaky boy,

For work you made me late;

My twisted heart will beat for you,

Till all gangsta crews go straight.

The man laughed. “Very good effort, though your meter was off on that last line. One syllable too many.”

“It was worth a little freestyle, wasn’t it?”

“All right, my dear. I yield. You win again.”

Esther grinned wide, her dark eyes sparkling for the old boy as he sidled up to the coffee bar and placed his order.

Matt turned back to me. “So who is this grandpa poet?”

“He’s become a regular. Lately, he’s the only dependable morning customer we have. Esther calls him Mr. Scrib.”

“Scrib? That’s an odd name.”

“He told her to call him that. He said it was his nickname. The staff thinks it’s appropriate because he spends so much time scribbling things in that notebook of his.”

“He seems to love Esther.”

“Yes, there’s a special bond between them. I’ve seen him walk in and walk out again because Esther wasn’t on duty. She’s the only one he’ll trust with his order.”

“Have you tried to engage this oddball in conversation?”

“Don’t call him an oddball. He’s a sweet man, though I admit he is quirky. And maybe a little paranoid. Tucker thought so, too—”

Tucker Burton was my trusty assistant manager. A part-time actor and downtown director, he’d dealt with plenty of artists who (as he put it) danced to show tunes only they could hear.

“One day when Tucker was working with Esther, he noticed that Mr. Scrib hardly spoke except for that poetry game. Tuck tried to engage him in wordplay, opening with a Shakespearean sonnet.”

“How did that go?”

“Mr. Scrib just gave him a dead-eyed stare until poor Tuck slinked away. Nancy once said that if it wasn’t for Mr. Scrib’s little rituals, he wouldn’t have a personality at all.”

“What little rituals?”

“Just watch.”

As he did most days, Mr. Scrib ordered a large “Coffee of the Day.” Instead of simply grabbing a take-out cup, Esther turned to the stack, asking, “What’s your special number today, Mr. Scrib?”

He closed one eye, as if calculating. “Let’s try number seventeen.”

Esther patiently counted down the stack, pulled cup number seventeen, and filled it. Scrib opened his mouth, but Esther was way ahead of him.

“I remember. No lid!”

Mr. Scrib pulled out a wallet and paid with cash. Then, as he did every morning, the old man slowly climbed the spiral staircase to the second-floor lounge.

“There’s no one else up there,” I whispered to Matt. “But he’ll sit, all alone, in our lounge and write in his notebook for hours.”

“A freeloader?”

“Oh, no. Mr. Scrib will pony up for a refill every thirty minutes or so, but he refuses a fresh paper cup and insists on using the one he selected. And if Mr. Scrib comes down and finds Esther is gone, he’ll leave, too.”

Matt raised an eyebrow. “Another Greenwich Village eccentric.”

“And this neighborhood was built on them,” I reminded him. “Anyway, Mr. Scrib never gives us any trouble. He’s respectful, polite, quiet—”

“AAAAAHHHH! NOOOOOO!”

The bloodcurdling howl barreled down from our upstairs lounge in a wall of shocking sound. The shriek of earsplitting terror was so unexpected that Matt and I froze, mouths gaping like sculptures in a haunted icehouse.

That’s your quiet customer? Matt’s eyes seemed to say.

Once again, the man upstairs made a liar out of me.