Staying at home is one thing. Staying at home when it’s beautiful weather outside is totally another.
And especially after a day when everything that possibly could have gone wrong has in fact gone wrong, the one thing you want to do once you’ve had breakfast and gathered your appearance to some semblance of normalcy is to kiss your fiancée’s forehead who is sitting on the bedroom floor in her pajamas, having a morning Zoom coffee date with Ani, our dear friend, and to head to the front door, open it, and within seconds, be outside.
All I see is blue. Crisp, uninterrupted, endless, welcoming, magical sky blue. Not a cloud in sight. The buildings around me I choose not to see, and I look straight up, something I’ve been doing often recently.
Reluctantly pressing the pedestrian call sign with the body part I believe I’ll be using the least during this citywalk journey – I decide it’s going to be the bottom joint of my left pinkie this time – I cross Colorado Street, through the alleyway with overhanging light bulbs which Aida and I have dubbed, in self-delusion, Andalucía, and make my way through the Green of the Americana. A lady in a white shirt is sitting on the grass under a tree near the Tory Burch store, with her back facing the path. Not far off, a baby lies asleep in a covered stroller. I don’t see the young man who was doing drunken mountain-climbers a few days ago; maybe I missed him today. I throw a final glance toward the balcony of my client, to share a hello in case he’s outside; he is not. I pass The Cheesecake Factory, the Apple Store, H&M, Forever 21, and start heading up Central Ave.
The destination for my walk is shockingly unsurprising. Alarmed to find out that I was out of coffee beans and that the grinder’s hopper revealed little evidence of sufficient beans to brew a double-shot of espresso, my next stop became instantly clear.
Around the turn of the year, sometime near Christmas time, having exited California Highway 134 eastbound left onto Central Avenue to head home, Aida and I did a double-take when we passed by a row of clean, floor-to-ceiling windows, protecting the inhabitants of the high-top tables and cushioned seats inside from the nippy weather outside, as they used mugs for palm-warming gloves and their books as face masks. Moments later after we reached home, Google Maps would reveal to us the name of our favorite place for the next few months: Ideology Coffee.
Reading those two words placed next to each other, one cannot help but conjure mental images of avant-garde intellectuals cozying up to their copy of Das Kapital in a fin de siècle pub in Paris, surrounded by pipe smoke, learned banter, and, well, coffee. And while this spot at the corner of California Avenue and Central Avenue was non-smoking and not one professed Marxist was in evident sight, it did become Aida’s and my corner to study, work, write, and, well, drink coffee.
I raise my tube scarf to cover my mouth and nose, in obedience to proper protocol, and notice Lisa and Paul waving to me from inside. A young lady has just picked up her coffee and is headed out. Stepping in, I take an exaggerated but necessary step to my right – six feet, remember? – and allow her to pass. Lisa and Paul both have bandanas on covering their own faces, drooping from their noses as they smile.
The entrance hasn’t changed much from the way we saw it a couple weeks ago during our previous visit to this caffeinating sanctuary. The corridors leading to the seating area are still chopped off with neatly positioned chairs, supporting a string with a sign that reads “No Public Restrooms.” The notice on the door reminds visitors that only one person is allowed inside at a time. Paul’s friendly ginger hair and Lisa’s oceanic blue eyes are unmistakeable and uncompromised – accentuated, even – by the face coverings they’re wearing. The owners of Ideology Coffee, they’re a charismatic couple from Minsk, Belarus, which makes this corner all the more endearing given the rarely-spoken Soviet Union connection we share.
The shelves where they place the beans for sale are empty. Paul preempts my question, maybe sensing the incipient look of horror in my eyes, even though they were partially hidden behind my tinted aviators. “If you’re looking for beans, we’re out. We’re getting a UPS delivery of a whole new batch this afternoon, but I don’t know when.”
I don’t notice how, but our talk of beans instantly but smoothly transitions to the coronavirus. With all the things that this virus has taken away from us – our freedom, our conveniences, our sources of income, and the simple act of hugging our loved ones – one may think that we would want to retain control of anything we have left, including the topic of our conversations. Yet as much as we are aware that it’s totally up to us to forbid this virus from conquering the last inch of our daily existence, we still willfully decide to spend even more time talking about it, forgetting to feel any kind of guilt or regret in doing so, because sharing – even, or especially so, if it’s about our pain and difficulties – is a fundamentally human act.
Lisa notices how the warmer weather has led business to pick up a bit, but just a bit and surely not enough. Paul interjects to juxtapose these – the weather and the business – with the week prior when it rained non-stop. I carefully wonder aloud whether businesses now are still required to pay rent; Paul informs me that they do, and it’s smart going to not let it pile up. Lisa ominously concludes that due to this, certain businesses would end up permanently closed. I hope I read her correctly that, fortunately, she’s not referring to their own.
They ask about our travel plans to Armenia, and it’s my turn to lay bear our trials and turmoil. Our flight has been cancelled a second time; we got the news yesterday. Next flight isn’t up until mid-May, and then again we don’t know if that’s going to happen either. I’ve reached out to our property manager to see if we can extend our lease for a while; Airbnb is another option I’m looking into. We’ll see.
From above his red bandana, escaping from among his serene and steady gaze, I see a crestfallen look in Paul’s eyes. He does not show it, will not acknowledge it, and I would not voice it, but both of us know it’s there. Lisa shifts her position back and forth, forgetting to raise back her bandana which has slid off and is now hanging from her mouth instead of her nose. Her composure is calm and confident, her choice of words forceful, and again from amongst this escapes an unnoticeable quiver of uncertainty.
I wonder how I look right now. I wonder how I sound when I speak. Maybe his gaze, maybe her voice, are but a reflection of mine? Maybe we have to confess our vulnerabilities, if only in this way, to uplift and protect one another? Maybe through mirroring our humanness can we allow our humanness to not fully and finally succumb to this virus?
Paul places a medium-sized to-go cup on the counter with espresso at the bottom, nestled around chunks of ice gutting out like cliffs. When was the last time I had espresso in a to-go cup?, the question flashes through my mind. I pick it up, give the cup a whirl, and let the liquid amuse my taste buds.
Later on, as I would step off of Lexington Street onto Brand Boulevard, hidden from the world under my barista beanie, sunglasses, and tube scarf, I would give the cup a final twirl, suck on the last remaining drops of watered ice coffee, and toss what’s left into the recycle bin, and catch myself thinking: even in the most horrible of times, even in the absence of all answers, I can still hit “pause” with a sip of coffee.
And that’s a whole ideology right there.
Chronicles 