Matt's Coffee Shop

If walls could talk, look no further than myself. I am over seventy years old, according to my owner, Matt. He’s over eighty years old, and started Matt’s Coffee shop in the fifties, when Woodstick was just a sleepy little town. Population 500.

Allow me to share a bit about myself: like the antique wall clock in this busy coffee shop, I, too, bear the marks and stories of a lifetime etched into my surface. Adorning my simple yellow exterior are a black and white photo of the owner and his wife smiling happily, as well as pictures of celebrities like Tom Cruise and Liam Neeson who filmed in the restaurant in the 90's. Near the bottom of my wall, a young child once drew a happy face in orange crayon, which unfortunately had part of it torn off.

As the early morning sun peeked through the shades of the cozy cafe, I sensed something different in the air. I heard people talking for months that the place which I called home would be facing demolition—a towering gray condo with an exclusive penthouse suite that cost a tidy sum– would be erected in its place.

I knew that today would be the last day of business for the owner. Outside the cafe, a line up had formed of new and regular customers hoping to have one last meal. It was a celebration of sorts, the end of an era. It was a sad one, because I, too, would be facing my demise. I, too, believe it or not, am scared of death. I don’t think about it much because doing so makes my paint peel.

I hear some customers speak of the existence of God, and I would love to believe there is one, because I have seen the darkest of humanity, and have also seen the best of you human folks. If there is a God, I can only thank him for some good things I have seen and heard about.

But as the customers started trickling in, I couldn't help but eavesdrop on these customer’s final conversations. Over the years, it was my nature, after all, to listen to the stories and secrets of those who entered through my doors.

I sensed the scattered energy of the first couple –a young man and woman, married with a child, who were bickering about who would get custody of the child because of an impending divorce. The woman argued about her husband’s infidelity, and the man accused the wife of being overweight and unattractive. It was a difficult sight to see; a relationship that once held promise, but was now withering like a weeping willow tree –one that had seen months of drought.

Matt, the elderly owner, interrupted the conversation briefly, "Can I get you guys something to drink?"

The man grumbled. "I don't care, whatever she wants."

The woman, whose anger was barely concealed, said, "Don't be so generous, babe. You know I always ended up paying for my meal anyway! You are so nice to your girlfriend!"

Meanwhile, the 6 year old child with them, had his head bowed, and the couple’s bickering seemed to have drained all his youthful playfulness. I felt myself also absorbing the negative energy of the couple, and the color of my wall was turning a darker gray.

I cast my attention to another couple in their late thirties who sat in booth number six. Both were talking quietly, in deep conversation.

"I don’t want to do this, " the woman said, her voice barely a whisper. "I mean, I am sure we can manage. A baby is not that expensive.”

The man looked at her, his face hardening. "It’s my baby, too. You know I don’t want one now. We can have one later –when we are both ready. If you have a baby, you will be fat and ugly. I will leave you if you have it.”

"How can you be so cruel!" the woman said, her eyes wet with tears. "I don’t think I can do it.”

The man grabbed her hand. "I will be there with you. It’s a quick appointment. Once it’s done, we can go out and party –just like we have always done.”

Their conversation continued, the weight of their decision palpable in the air. It was a difficult situation, and I felt the sad energy of the woman, who continued to cry. Her tear-stained fingers touched my wall which made me feel her pain and disappointment. I was relieved 30 minutes later when the couple left and I noticed the woman’s uneaten breakfast of eggs and toast. The man had finished off all his steak and eggs.

During my years at the cafe, one other memory stands out. It was a Wednesday afternoon, and a couple entered the restaurant, bringing with them a small boy and two little girls.

But the worst thing I saw that day was the sight of a sad boy, sitting there solemnly as the parents and his siblings consumed burgers and shakes. I could sense hurt and depression in the child's demeanor, as his young stomach grumbled with hunger. He wore a long sleeved shirt that hid the bruises inflicted on him by his foster father. I wanted to stop his suffering but I was just a wall, a silent witness to his pain.

As I watched helplessly, I noticed that a young waitress had also noticed the other child was not eating. She secretly held up a sign to the child asking if he was fine, and if he needed help. The child nodded in agreement. Not too long later, the police arrived and the couple was arrested for child abuse. I was so happy that the child got saved.

My attention was now diverted to a couple sitting in booth number one. An old couple, celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary, came in for a humble breakfast.

I heard the man say to his wife, “You are as beautiful as the day we met.” His wife smiled widely, “Thank you, dear. Who are you? Do I know you?” The old man held his wife’s hand proudly and added, “Our first date was called, Bruce Almighty with Jim Carrey. It was like God brought us together and was playing a joke on us with this movie.”

The cafe’s door opened, and the couple’s daughter came in, holding her car keys. She said, “It's time to go now, Mom and Dad. I have to take you to your care homes. I tried, but unfortunately, they won’t put you together because there is no room.”

The older woman ignored what the daughter said. “Who is this man, Mary? He wants to kidnap me!” The old man looked sad and hurt at the same time. The daughter said, calmly, “ Dad, Mom’s dementia is getting worse. She is not the same. She really loves you.” The old man nodded silently, angry at the disease that had robbed him of enjoying the last few years with his first and only wife.

As the day moved towards 5 pm, I turned my gaze to a bunch of university students talking loudly. One of them slapped the other on the shoulder.

“Congrats, bro! You got into the accounting program,” said Sam Gee. He looked at his friend Surdip Dhaliwah who wasn’t smiling.

“Thanks Sam. My parents are happy,” said Surdip. As I listened, I learned that the 18-year-old never wanted to be an accountant, but entered this occupation to please his parents. My wall absorbed the young man's frustration and sadness.

Over the years, I have noticed many of the customers talk of their disappointment in life, and their regrets. I recall one lone female sitting at table 14. She was sipping her coffee slowly and toying with her plate of fries. I noticed that she was texting her friend a message which read like this, “Got rejected again as a writer. Why do I even try? Over thirty manuscripts and many entries for contests and I get turned away.” I couldn’t read what her friend said, but momentarily, she closed her phone and she stared at me (the wall) with a look of anguish and disillusionment.

I wanted to give her encouragement, but felt powerless. During her darkest hour, she needed to hear words that would comfort her and tell her that her stories are worthy too. She needed to hear her inner voice and keep trying, because giving up was not a good option for someone creative like her.

I looked at her and wanted to ask her if she knew that being a successful writer is not all happy times and book signings. I wanted to tell her about this man that I saw in this same cafe some years ago.

He sat in table 16 –a dark haired and mustachioed man. He worked as a reporter and spent his weekends writing and drinking. He asked the waiter for a beer here but the waitress at the time said the strongest thing she had was a glass of cola. On many occasions, he had many of his editors come up to him and congratulate him on his latest book that got turned into a movie.

“You are just what America needs, Ernest,” said his bald-headed editor friend, as he pressed him on when his next book would be done.

A few weeks later, a few college students come in carrying the novel, “The Old Man and the Sea.” The students needed to write an essay on the book and one of them remarked, “Too bad we can’t ask good o’ Ernest what the book is about. I would get an A.” One of them said, “The man’s famous and can travel anywhere he wants, and he goes ahead and kills himself.”

That’s how I learned about the death of this writer, Ernest Hemingway.

As the afternoon sun faded and was replaced by a dark sky and a light downpour of rain, the cafe had fewer customers.

The last few customers were two elderly men who asked for coffees and apple pies and looked around the room solemnly.

“Where will lonely people go now? Why does everything have to do with making money?,” one of them said.

The owner of the cafe happened to be walking by and heard the conversation. He had worked there for all his life and during that time, his wife had died of Covid-19 and his son, suffering from cancer, had died after a fentanyl overdose.

“What shall I do now?,” said Matt, the owner. He walked slowly to the front door and escorted the last customers out. As he shut the door for the final time on his business, a postcard advertising an upcoming Easter church service with the words "Do Not Despair" was blown into the doorway by the wind.

A few weeks later, I heard the sound of hammers and construction men working. I knew that my time was almost up and I was resigned. It was helpful that I remembered that despite many cracks in my frame, I had lived a good life that was full of many happy moments. I had no regrets. I recall the time an English professor was sitting in the cafe, talking to one of his graduate students.

“You really should study the Roman philosopher, Seneca,” he said, going on to say that his teachings emphasized the importance of quality of life over quantity. The professor quoting Seneca said, “It’s not how long you live, but it's how nobly you live.”

I remembered the quote just as I heard my wall began tearing apart with the help of a wrecking ball, and I was nothing but a mass of crumbly cement. I faded away into the light but as I did so, I knew that I would be gone, but not forgotten by people who favored comfort food and a wall that preserved their secrets, hopes and aspirations.

The End

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