The Ghosts of Baristas Past

At some point, I'm going to stop getting coffee every morning before work.  But not today.

It's by far my favorite part of the day.  A latte and the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, Substack, the New Yorker.  Writing in this space.  Occasionally, answering an e-mail or two or working on a document, although I prefer to have 30 minutes or so to myself, not to work.  

Dose.  Bongo Java.  Sump.  The Well (Music Row or David Lipscomb).  Honest Coffee Roasters.  Crema.  8th & Roast.  The Henry.  Portland Brew (R.I.P.).  Wolf and Scout's (R.I.P.). 

For sure, this has been the morning coffee phase of my life.  It started, I guess, when JP was a baby and we began taking long weekend morning walks in the City Elite (stroller).  Until then - and this is slightly past age 40 - I had not been a coffee guy.  Not at all, which is strange, considering how much I love coffee now.  

Chad, a tattooed and facially pierced longtime barista at Bongo Java, took a liking to JP, and for some reason made me a Mood Elevator.  Double iced mocha with hazelnut (very light on the mocha) and an old school Bongo Java drink, off the menu by then.  And away I went down the rabbit hole of coffee, coffee shops, baristas, and all that comes with those things.  I drank a thousand Mood Elevators over the years, many while sitting at a table in Bongo Java with JP or Joe sleeping in the City Elite beside me while I read the New Yorker, surfed the internet, or wrote in this space.  

Other times, I finished a night run at Bongo Java, just before close, and Hunter made me a nightcap Mood Elevator.  I talked with him for a minute or two, then walked home to our first house in Elliott Avenue.  A more simple life for me in many ways and a more simple time.  Before my mom's diagnosis with Alzheimer's, before Carley got sick, before Jude's parents began to slow down ever so slightly.  

And, certainly, before I began to lose colleagues who had been important to me professionally, like Don Young, Mark Hartzog, Steve Cox, Don Smith, Gary Rubenstein, and so others.  And before we lost Dave to a brain tumor.  And before I had so many friends battling cancer, like Lance, Scott, Christa, Kelly, Reid, and Shannon.

So many baristas in so may coffee shops that I saw and interacted with regularly.  I called them my friends, although in truth, they were more like acquaintances with whom I shared a smile or a kind word almost every day.  At Bongo, Chad, AJ, EJ, Adam, Ayla, Chuck, Hunter, George, Megan, Rachel, Mitch, Josh, and many, many others whose names escape me now but who are referenced throughout the earlier days of this blog.  

At Honest Coffee Roasters, Anthony, Nick, and too many others to name.  All gone from my life, as working as a barista is by its nature a temporary, transient occupation, I think.  People do it as a certain point in their lives then move on, either working as a barista at a coffee shop somewhere else or moving into a different phase in their lives by beginning a career or starting a family.  

The strange part, though, is that I'm still here.  Getting coffee in the morning before work or on a Saturday/Sunday morning before a busy day of driving to practices and games for Joe.  The baristas change but my routine stays the same, at least for now.  The coffee shops for the most part stay the same, too, with the exception of those I have lost, like Portland Brew.  

Someday, perhaps soon, I'm going to change my routine and stop getting coffee every morning.  But not today.