Through a Latte Darkly
John Jenkins
It’s Wednesday morning, and I’m on my hands and knees outside Marco’s glass doors, looking at a mat of tiny soap bubbles, a thin scumble of suds winking at me as they dry. He must have cleaned up the doorstep just a few minutes earlier, before opening.
There is no-one else around, luckily. My left elbow is stinging, from where I’d slipped and hit the cement, re-opening a wound from the night before. I pick myself up, balancing unsteadily; everything sparkles too brightly this morning, hurting my eyes.
Not a good start, and I still needed coffee. But I won’t tell Marco about my fall, because a normally alert person—one without a hangover, that is— would have stepped through easily. This morning, even with gumboots on, I would have slipped.
‘And what would sir like—’ Marco asks, as I stumble across him, ‘—besides a good kick in the pants?’
To most customers, he is a model of toothpaste-smile politeness.
‘A café latte,’ I say, and almost collapse on the counter.
* *
I first met him at AA meetings. We were brothers in a way. It was a serious relationship, though on the surface seemed mostly fun and banter, as if the slightest hint of solemnity might kill the rapport.
This morning, Marco is firing up the coffee addict’s favourite steam machine—then briskly levering the chrome handle down.
Smiling as ever, with his customary aplomb, he is immaculately dressed in pressed trousers, white shirt, a bow tie. Just the glance of a smile from him, as I look up. He immediately sees the cuts on my face—from an altercation the night before, or was it the night after that?
A hiss of steam, a sigh under his breath, then rich coffee flows.
With great gentleness, he reaches across now, running a careful finger along the worst scrape on my jaw. ‘You know, my friend, you should really do “Shaving 101 and Basic Life Skills”.’
I laugh nervously, and sip my latte. ‘Thanks, pal.’
It’s always good to be with Marco.
* *
Six days later, and I’m feeling much better, my head almost clear, back at Marco’s for my regular infusion. Though it’s early, the place is full, and he moves with speed. I linger at my spot at the counter, sipping away, until people rush off to work and things go quiet.
‘Do you remember when we first met?’ he says. ‘Back at the meetings? You know, it’s more than five years now!’
As we talk, I show him some DVDs I’d just bought.
‘Hitchcock, heh?’ He glances at their covers, at The Birds and Vertigo, and considers. ‘You know,’ he says, ‘I once did some acting. It was nothing much really, mostly on stage, then small parts on TV.’
He looks again at the cover artwork. ‘As for killer seagulls going psycho, I think you’re safe here. No birds in the café, that I can see. Not even a sparrow.’
And smiles suddenly, ‘You know, I can’t resist a cameo appearance.’ He launches into an impromptu impersonation of Alfred Hitchcock, enigmatically poker-faced and sticking out his belly, pretending to be double his weight.
I laugh, and sip my latte.
‘Hey—this coffee is actually good !’
Marco feigns hurt. ‘What did you expect! My coffee is the best! As the I Ching says, perspiration furthers!’
‘That’s persistence,’ I correct him.
We talk a little about acting; then Marco recalls the time he was an ambulance driver, then psych nurse, before the major and almost terminal disaster of his life, his failed pub business, followed by alcoholism.
‘When I tried to run that pub, I became my own best customer! Nearly drank the place dry. What a binge; always fabulously wasted.’
He brightens again. ‘Now! Dah-dah! I have a very special announcement for you!’ And allows the pause to linger, drawing it out.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘I am going to … buy this café!’
‘Bravo! Congratulations!’ I pat him on the back, then glance at my watch. ‘Hey—must go!’
‘Any plans for tonight?’
‘Yep, I’m um, er, going out.’ I take a last sip, nod at my cup, then slyly change the subject, by complimenting him again. ‘Another of your caffeine masterpieces.’
I had half expected some sort of lecture. But that’s not Marco’s style. Instead, he pirouettes on his impossibly shiny shoes, grabs a checked cloth, and deftly swipes everything in sight. ‘Enjoy … Enjoy!’ he says. ‘But not too much …’
* *
It’s Friday early, ‘the day after’ again … or one after that, or … I’ve lost all track of things. Now find myself tottering on a vertiginous café stool, with my eyes half shut, head in hands.
Marco considers the vision of barely functioning humanity before him, then with a careful and concerned scrutiny. ‘You remember,’ he begins, ‘how I once drove ambulances? It was years before the pub episode, when I still had my wits intact?’
I nod, waiting.
‘It was great to feel useful,’ he says. ‘Ambulance driving was good, but I certainly don’t miss the stress!’
‘Right,’ I grunt.
‘Look!’ he says, ‘Now! I want to wake you up! It’s my way of administering a bit of CPR.’ And with great care, he takes a small coin-like medallion from his wallet. Its shining inscription cuts right through my early-morning haze. It says Five Years, Recovering.
Impressed and suddenly sober, I see Marco in a much more vulnerable light, as he carefully puts the precious object back into his wallet; his hands now trembling; eyes brimming with tears of pride and sadness.
I feel overwhelmed, and am about to say things he does not wish to hear, perhaps some sort of lame excuse about my own situation, when he shakes his head, abruptly flicking a cloth over one shoulder.
‘Don’t say anything! No need to. Neither of us can stand sanctimonious penny lectures, or finger wagging! I just want to see you better. And get clean again.’
He stands there, very sombre, now slightly shaking his head.
‘Life is just one big light bulb joke,’ I say.
He stares at me, I feel embarrassed but he continues. ‘You know the pledge I made. I am responsible when anyone reaches out for help. The pledges we both made, remember … And all the rest of it.’
He pours a coffee, and places it on the counter.
I groan darkly as Marco, watching my trainwreck of an expression, pushes the cup very slowly across the counter with his little finger.
‘Now, here’s an exercise for you, to start the day nicely. So let’s imagine that’s a drink, a real drink. Oh yeah, it’s not even a “serious” drug, you protest, not a real addiction. It’s just common old alcohol. Hey—and everyone drinks. Of course you want it. You have hundreds of excuses. Yes, I know them all. But, look, I’m not giving it to you.’ He smiles, as the cup just sits there, reflected in the polished wood, dumbly obeying gravity.
‘It’s not going anywhere, is it?’
Then I look up. ‘This is getting bizarre, Marco.’
‘So what do you want to do, my friend? What’s your strategy now, how do you deal with it? You don’t have to feel ashamed. Come back to the meetings, please, that might be a start. Fall over, and …’
‘Yeah, I know … get back up again.’ I stare in silence. Wondering, can I really do it?
‘Boo!’ he shouts, and I nearly have a heart attack.
‘Now get out of here, and go home.’ Crossing his arms. ‘And don’t come back, my friend, unless you’ve done some serious talking to that light bulb, the one still hanging dead and neglected from the ceiling in your own private little rat-hole.’
* *
It’s a bright autumn morning, two months later; two grinding, strung-out months later. But I have made the effort, as I explained to him on the phone. And I’ve finally written the first three chapters of my new book, on my favourite film directors. I’ve been talking about it for almost a year. Just talk, until now. And Marco wants me to celebrate.
Not a hint of suds outside, just freshness and birdsong. And I’m clean-shaven, in a new suit, and feeling happy.
As I walk in, a brand new sign above the café says, Marco’s.
Marco is beaming when I walk to the counter. I congratulate him on his café, and new sign. He considers, thoughtfully, ‘The journey of a thousand leagues …’
I complete the saying for him: ‘… begins with a dive into a pool of suds and a bloody elbow … At least, for me.’
‘So what would sir like?’ he sparkles.
He’s in one of his very best moods, I see.
‘My usual café latte, please Marco.’
‘Is that small, regular, large?’ He is barely holding it in, indulging himself with a friendly laugh at my expense, which is also his way of celebrating that I’m back on track.
It feels like old times, after we’d first met at AA meetings and soon became friends. After so many downers, it was great to fool around and joke with Marco, all the while seriously going out of our way to help each other. Then he got truly clean and I, well, slipped a little, and then a lot.
I make a glass-to-lip gesture.
But he keeps on … ‘Does sir have a “keep cup” for the environmentally conscious? Or would you like your coffee in a corrugated or styrofoam receptacle?’
I catch on, and encourage his impromptu comedy routine, feeding him the next line …
‘In a mug, or a cup?’ he persists. ‘Or would sir prefer a tumbler, wine glass, flute, shot, stem, lute, bassoon, oboe?’ he demands. ‘Would you like Fair Trade coffee, or a big fat exploiter? Or perhaps some smooth, hand-crafted, doubly caffeinated bliss for the discerning connoisseur?’
I open my mouth, just about to answer, but nothing can stop him now.
‘Full-bodied, triple-roasted or smooth? Costa Rica, La Cascada? How about Arabica Robusta?’
Every now and then he bangs his flashy parfait spoon down with a loud clunk on the counter, just for emphasis.
‘Don’t forget, we also have vanilla, mocha and beta blocker?’
There’s a tiny pause in his rapid patter, but I’m not quite quick enough to jump in.
‘A cappuccino,’ he continues, ‘or chai-latte? A babycino, perhaps? Or would you prefer a skinny-thingo?’
He slows right down now. ‘Does sir really understand delayed gratification? Can sir cultivate enough willpower, cleverness, strategy—whatever it takes—for you to understand that?’
‘Well, just look at me,’ I say, posing in my new suit. ‘The longer I wait, then the better …’
‘… it gets.’ He completes the old AA wisdom. Then Marco changes tack, gesturing at framed photos of coffee cups behind him, smiling enigmatically.
‘You see, sir, I am also a creative artist! Deftly, I sculpt highly decorative designs, in the froth of your glass—from a great variety of floral or abstract motifs. And today, just for you, I will lovingly render a miniature galactic corkscrew, inscribed in hot, swirling froth—a reference to Hitchcock’s Vertigo.’ Marco makes me a wonderful latte, complete with charming spiral.
‘Mind if I join you, mate?’ he says, suddenly dropping the act. ‘It’s my first for the day.’
We sit down together at an empty table near the window, and life seems more benign here, as we watch the morning sun outside.
‘Cheers, my friend,’ he says suddenly, and we clink cups, the sweet coffee steam rising.
We both know it won’t be easy. We’ve been through all this before. But, this time, I’m feeling strangely optimistic.
‘Two months,’ I say. ‘Two whole months.’