KAFFEROSTERIET

Whatever that means, right?

I can’t even pronounce that shit.

But it’s on a sign hanging above the door and I assume that’s what the place is called. I always come here—I’m a two-to-three-drinks-a-pop regular.

I usually down a few lattes, a bottle of water.

Spend three of four hour hanging out.

It’s settled on the corner of an intersection, one of four points opposite a barbershop, mini-mart, and deli. The building itself is three stories tall, three stories of small rooms with mismatched furniture, creaky wood floors, painted mauve, and shaky tables. The counter is street-level. The baristas: beautiful.

Bluesmen perpetually wailing from the speakers, gravel voiced, fingering their tin guitars and inhaling their harmonics.

Howlin’ Wolf or Tom Waits, mostly.

Old school blues.

From the second floor I study the intersection and it’s respective corners—the Barbershop boys in their spotless coats with their combs and brushes, slinking outside on occasion for a quick cigarette between customers.

The sharp dressed men and women hustling from the Deli with sandwiches clutched under their arms, unlocking their bicycles.

Shady characters at the minimart: Arabs in Adidas, jump suit Russians, and chain dangling Jews. They glare at each other and buy cigarettes and sodas, occupying the street corner like cataracts.

I kick back in my chair.

The legs wobble but it’s cool.

Rain pummels the street outside, drowning the cobblestones.

I purchase another latte.