Eight

That old sign was the start of our solution, and the beginning of big problems. Of course, I didn’t know it at the time. The night of our staff meeting, when Nancy asked for help identifying the embossed steel plate, I simply answered—

“It’s a vintage sign, Nancy.”

Esther stepped up to it. “I don’t remember seeing it before. Where did you get it?”

“Upstairs in our attic. It was time to rotate the art on our walls, so I went through our collection, as I usually do. The sign was in a big blue trunk, packed together with all the writers’ portraits and the rest of the pieces that I hung up this morning…”

It was also the very sign that Mr. Scrib had hurled down the stairs during his heartrending breakdown. But I didn’t see any reason to remind Esther of her friend’s bad day.

“What is the Writer’s Block Lounge exactly?” Esther pressed, examining the antique. “Is it a real place? Or is this sign some kind of archaic meme? A joke someone made for a college dorm?”

“It’s no joke,” I said. “The Writer’s Block Lounge was real. It existed right here at the Village Blend.”

“Here? When? How long ago?”

“Several decades, at least. Back when Madame was running the place…”

Everyone in the Village knew “Madame” (as we all affectionately called her). French-born Blanche Dreyfus Allegro Dubois wasn’t just my employer. She was my mentor as well as my former mother-in-law, long esteemed in the specialty coffee trade—and in Greenwich Village. She’d spent more than half a century caffeinating and caring for the artists, actors, and writers who’d flourished in this bohemian neighborhood, which was how she’d acquired the shop’s vast collection of art and artifacts in the first place. Much of it was sketched, painted, donated, or doodled by the talented customers who’d patronized our Village Blend over the decades.

“Tell me more,” Esther urged.

“I don’t know much more. I remember Madame mentioning that a group of writers once used the Village Blend’s second-floor lounge to meet and collaborate.”

“Like the Algonquin Round Table?” Nancy asked. “Or those Inklings?”

“Not at those levels, but—well, I guess it was the same idea.”

Esther frowned in thought. “So these writers formed the group themselves?”

“I assume so. Madame said they met each other here in the coffeehouse. She also told me she’d never served up so many double espressos.”

“Writer’s fuel,” Esther cracked.

“Writer’s what?” Nancy asked.

“Writer’s fuel,” Esther replied. “Definition: noun. A beverage non-writers refer to as ‘coffee.’ Often consumed in large quantities to stimulate productivity toward a fast-approaching deadline. Also see: Magic Beans; Hallelujah Juice; Antidotes for Writer’s Block. Usage example: ‘If it weren’t for the writer’s fuel, my WIP would have been DOA.’ ”

“Sounds like the writers I know,” Dante said. “And the artists.”

“And the theater people,” Tucker said.

“I think we’re onto something…” Esther began to pace. “Do you all realize there’s a modern version of this writers’ lounge concept?”

“Oh?” Tuck leaned forward. “Where?”

“In Tokyo. One of my slam friends, who spent a year in Japan, told me about it. He said they call it a ‘Writer’s Café,’ and the people who work there help customers reach their writing goals.”

“How do they do that?” Dante asked.

“They use proctors, and timers, and prompts. Some customers want the help meeting deadlines, and others just prefer a quiet place to concentrate on their work without distractions.”

Esther paused. “In fact, I have another friend—well, she’s more like a competitor, really. Anyway, procrastination is her middle name, which is unfortunate because she’s up for a big slam competition in two weeks.”

“Is the problem writer’s block?” Tuck asked.

“More like lack of concentration,” Esther said. “Lachelle works nights as a bartender, and she can never seem to get enough work done during the day. Too many distractions, she says. I told her about that café in Tokyo, and she said she’d sign up in a heartbeat if the place was local.”

“I know someone like her,” Tucker said. “Howie’s a playwright—or fancies himself one. For now, he works as a Broadway usher. The boy is young and ambitious, but he’s been writing the same play for more than a year.”

Tuck dropped his voice an octave. “The poor kid is stalled on the third act.”

“I know a comic book artist who keeps missing deadlines,” Dante said. “He was so late with his last project that he nearly blew a gig with one of the twin giant publishers. They’re giving him a second chance, but it looks like he’s about to blow that one, too.”

“Artist block?” Tuck asked.

Dante shook his shaved head. “Tony earns his rent as an Uber driver. He works nights and has two roommates who do remote work in the afternoon when he’s trying to sleep or work on his art. With phones ringing and constant chattering going on a closed door away, he could use privacy and some motivation, too.”

“Sounds like they all need a destination,” Tuck said with a little smile.

“Exactly!” Esther exclaimed. “And that destination should be the Village Blend’s new and improved Writer’s Block Lounge.”

“Interesting,” I said.

“Are you sure we can manage it?” Dante asked.

“Sure, I’m sure,” Esther said. “In fact, I’m better than sure. I’m positive. You may not know this, but I am great at poking and prodding people.”

Nancy rolled her eyes. “You don’t say.”

“But do you think that’s enough?” Dante pressed.

“Poking and prodding is the easy part,” Esther said. “This space is comfortable, cozy, and has a great history of inspiring artists—so it’s got excellent vibes—”

“And coffee!” Nancy noted.

“You’re right,” Esther said. “Our coffee drinks are superb, and creative types always need caffeine. But let’s think about this, because we can offer so much more—”

“What do you mean by more?” Tuck asked.

“Pastries?” Nancy guessed.

Esther shook her head. “I was thinking more along the line of our own expertise.”

“In what?” Nancy asked. “Making latte art?”

Esther ignored her roommate and turned to Tucker. “You have years of acting and directing experience, right? Enough to give good feedback and tips to your Broadway usher friend and others who aspire to write for the stage or screen.”

Tuck shrugged. “I guess I do, come to think of it.”

Esther pointed at Dante. “Our resident artista can handle coaxing and encouraging the budding comic book, manga, and children’s picture book illustrators. And I can turn up the heat for writers, poets, and even lyricists who have deadlines.”

“That all sounds great,” Nancy said. “What do I do?”

Esther rested her hand on her roommate’s shoulder. “You have the most important job of all. You, Nancy, will help caffeinate them!”

Nancy’s head bobbed. “I can do that!”

Esther faced me. “So, what do you think, Ms. Boss?”

Suddenly my staff of baristas was staring at me, waiting for an answer. They understood the decision was mine, that the Village Blend was not a democracy. If it were, I knew by the excited expressions that the vote would be a unanimous “yes.” In the end, Esther not only won over her fellow baristas, but she’d also convinced me.

And that night the Village Blend’s Writer’s Block Lounge was officially reborn.