Клео Коул - Through The Grinder

The track curved a bit at this particular station, and the train could not be seen approaching unless the commuter leaned forward, peeking around the row of dull green vertical support beams. The Slut was doing just that — leaning a bit over the edge of the platform, watching the approach of her train. One hand held her bag of farmers market produce, the other her double tall cup of Village Blend coffee. No hand free — not to fight, not even to balance herself.

The Genius stepped carefully behind the Slut, the mechanical junk-rumble of the coming train, like spare parts in a washing machine, drowning out any footsteps. This station was one of the loudest in the city — the decibel level making it impossible to hear conversation, maybe even screams. In another three seconds, the Genius would know for sure.

One push. Timed just right. One simple push.

As the red leather coat fell forward into the empty air, then down, toward the grimy tracks, the Genius did hear a scream. And finally there was red on the tracks. First one way. Then another.

As the shriek of the victim was drowned out by the shriek of the R train’s brakes, the Genius backed into the shadows of the staircase, snaked around the corner, wandered back up, then through the turnstiles, and up once more, ascending into the invigorating chill of this brand new day.

Finally, finally, that feeling of accomplishment. Objective achieved…and…time for that cappuccino!

“…And he called to tell me it’s on the covers of both the Post and the Daily News . The cover story, Clare!”

Sitting up in bed, I rubbed my eyes, trying to concentrate on the monologue percolating against my ear. But for a good two minutes (5:02 to 5:04 a.m. Eastern Standard Time to be precise), the only thing my mind clung to was the image of something dark, powerful, rich, and warm.

No, this something did not have bedroom eyes, a Swiss bank account, and a heavy, sinewy frame depressing the other side of my mattress. As a perpetual single mother, I’d had nothing remotely like that on the other side of my mattress for years — sinewy or otherwise — just clean cotton sheets and a sour female cat.

In point of fact, that dark, powerful, rich, and warm something I yearned for was a cup of Guatemala Antigua — one of those smooth, tangy coffees, like Costa Rican and Colombian, which would awaken my yawning palette with a full-bodied, slightly spicy flavor and bracing, rich acidity. (“Acidity” being the pleasant sharpness as the flavor finishes in the mouth, not to be confused with “bitterness,” but I’ll get to that later.)

I sighed, almost smelling the earthy aroma of that first morning cup, tasting its nutty essence, feeling the shudder of radiant pleasure as the jolt of heat and caffeine seemed to flow directly into my veins.

God I loved the morning ritual.

My ex-husband, Matteo Allegro, used to say that abandoning the peace of sleep was only tolerable if a fresh pot of coffee were waiting. He and I never agreed on much. But we agreed on that.

“It’s very upsetting, Clare. Not the image we want for the Blend. Don’t you agree?”

The bright voice (displaying more than trace amounts acidity) on the other end of the phone line was finally penetrating my wake-up fog.

“Madame, slow down,” I said, rising from a half-reclined to a fully upright and locked position. The bedroom’s silk drapes were pulled shut, but it being November, no light would be forthcoming even if they had been open. The break of dawn was over an hour away.

“What is on the cover exactly?” I asked Madame through a yawn.

“The Village Blend,” repeated Madame. “It’s been mentioned in connection to — ”

I yawned again.

“Clare, dear, did my call wake you? Why are you sleeping in?”

I rubbed my eyes and glanced at the digital alarm clock. “I’m not sleeping in. I usually sleep until five thirty .”

“With your bakery delivery at six?”

Madame’s censuring tone was abundantly perceptible. But, because of my enormous respect for my eighty-year-old, French-born ex-mother-in-law, I remained only mildly irritated.

It didn’t matter to me if the bakery delivery occurred at six every morning. All I had to do was roll out of bed, shower, throw on jeans and a sweater, and descend three floors. It wasn’t as if the coffeehouse was fifty miles away. The delivery would be made literally at my back door.

Granted, that hadn’t always been my situation….

Just a few months ago, I’d been raising my daughter in New Jersey, writing the occasional article for coffee trade magazines, a regular cooking tips column for a local paper, and working odd catering and child day care jobs to make ends meet when one morning Madame had called. She’d begged me to come back to the city and manage the Blend for her again as I’d done years before — when I’d been her daughter-in-law.

I’d agreed, partly because my now grown daughter had just enrolled in a SoHo culinary school and managing the Blend meant I’d be in the next neighborhood instead of the next state. And partly because Madame’s generous contract afforded me increasing ownership of the Blend as time went on, which included the incredible duplex apartment above the two-floor coffeehouse itself.

Who wouldn’t jump at the chance to one day own a historic townhouse, complete with a duplex filled with antique furnishings, Persian prayer rugs, framed Hoppers, and working fireplaces, in one of the most in-demand areas in Manhattan? Certainly not moi .

“I’ve never missed a bakery delivery in all the years I’ve managed the place for you,” I assured her flatly, “and I’m not about to start this morning.”

“I’m sorry, dear,” she said. “Of course, you have it in hand. It’s just that never in my life could I bathe and primp in mere minutes. Your morning routine must resemble something not found outside of sports locker rooms.”

O-kay, it’s going to be one of those days.

I cleared my throat, silently reminding myself that this was just Madame being…Madame. After all, the woman certainly had a right to say anything she liked about running the Blend — and not just because she owned it.

Madame Blanche Dreyfus Allegro Dubois, an immigrant refugee of World War Two Paris, had managed the Blend herself for decades, personally pouring cups o’ joe for some of the twentieth century’s most renowned artists, actors, playwrights, poets, and musicians. Mention Dylan Thomas, Jackson Pollock, Marlon Brando, Ella Fitzgerald, Frank Sinatra, Miles Davis, Jack Kerouac, Barbra Streisand, Paddy Chayefsky, Robert DeNiro, Sam Shepard, or Edward Albee — and she’d share a personal anecdote.

So, the way I looked at it, if anyone had earned the right to be a pain in the ass when it came to running the Blend, she did.

Still …it was five in the a.m.

“Madame, tell me again why you called?”

“The Blend has been mentioned in the papers, dear, all of them.”

“In connection to what?”

“A suicide.”

“What is it with New York 1, running the same stories, like, twenty-four times in twenty-four hours?”

My Jersey Girl daughter, Joy, was still adjusting to the array of trivialities that characterized Manhattan life. Just before eleven o’clock, she crossed the Blend’s sun-washed, wood-plank floor on her stacked black boots and ordered her usual double tall vanilla latte.

Current conversation topic at the coffeehouse counter — Basic Cable’s Channel 1.

I must have heard thousands of these discussions in my time managing the coffeehouse — the eccentricities of cabbies, bad Broadway shows, sucky bands at CBGB, Time Out ’s cover stories, film crews that close down entire blocks, trying to sleep through relentless ambulance sirens, kicking cars that block pedestrian crosswalks, the best slice below Fourteenth, Barney’s warehouse sales, the end of porno on Forty-Second, kamikaze bike messengers, the real meaning of some Yiddish word, the difference — if any — among the Indian restaurants lining East Sixth, the New York Post’s Page Six, the precise contents of an egg cream. And, of course, rents, rents, apartments, and rents.