Steven Hunley
01-13-2011, 04:07 PM
Colette’s Coffee
By
Steven Hunley
“I can’t think of a proper title,” I said to Toby.
He ruffled his blue feathers a bit, refusing to reply.
“And you’re no help at all.”
“Great, the parrot won’t talk, I’ve got no title, and…” I said, shuffling through my houseboat pantry, “I’m fresh out of coffee. What do you say about that Toby?”
No reply was expected but then,
“Colette’s,” he answered with a bob of his head, “Colette’s”
“Toby, you may be bird-brained, but you’re a genius!”
I looked out the window noting the serious fog.
“It’s pea soup out there Toby, but my editor’s on my back. There are such things as deadlines, my fine feathered friend, in the world of humans. But maybe you’ve saved the boat.”
My rent was due, my houseboat had sprung a leak and I needed money and needed it quick. Fog or no fog I would trek to Colette’s. It’s not that I’m afraid of Jack the Ripper or Doctor Jekyll and Mister Hyde you understand. San Francisco fog isn’t London fog. Even I know that. But a girl doesn’t like to go out so late at night alone, fog or no fog. Still, obligations are obligations, and rent was due on my floating palace. I grabbed my warmest pea coat, put on my sailor’s hat,tucked in my hair, and was off. I’d do my best not to get lost.
“Jeez, it’s thick out here,” was my first impression, “I can’t see my hand in front of my face.”
The first steps were easy. A left turn, then a right. The fog stole in. Was it on little cat feet? I couldn’t tell. Then a right turn, then straight. The fog snuck behind me. Then another left, then another. I was buttoning my coat up a few buttons farther when something behind me made a noise. I turned around quickly. It was only a cat, pawing through overturned garbage. When I turned back, I finally came to a conclusion I didn’t want to reach. I didn’t know where I was. Regret took hold of my throat the moment I knew I was lost.
I continued to wander. Time could not be measured. Pilings on the docks wrapped with thick rope was all I could see. The moan of the foghorn in the harbor was all I could hear. It could have been 1800, or 1900, or even 2000. I just couldn’t tell. I needed a calendar or a compass badly. Finally, when I was ready to sit down and cry, I noticed a pink glow ahead. I knew what it was. I recognized it. It was the pink neon outline of a coffee cup!
“Colette’s, here I come!”
Colette’s is a small place run by a red-headed French woman, named, (what else) Colette. I wasn’t just going here in hopes the coffee would give me an idea for a title. The coffee wasn’t enough. There was more. Writers hung out here. You’d always catch at least one. If there were more, then they’d be swapping tales, complaining about editors, doing re-writes or proofing. They were literally a literal crowd. Another thing besides coffee drew them as well. Despite California law to the contrary, Colette would let you smoke in the back room. She got away with it because it was her private property, and technically not part of the restaurant. It faced the bay and had a view. Seagulls soared overhead, misty mornings and bright sunny afternoons sandwiched between and warm warped wooden planks fit snug beneath your feet. Splintered pilings were firmly wrapped with coils of thick brown rope. Fabulous California sunsets exploded every evening with exquisite colors. Brass ship’s bells rang out the hours that never seemed to pass.This was where writers congregated. I couldn’t blame them. It was my destination too.
Colette spotted me when I came in.
*“Who’s here tonight, Colette?”
“Two I don’t know, but you I do, Ma Cherie.”
She gave me two kisses, one on each cheek. You know how the French are.
I walked back through the door and into the cozy room. Talking at a table were two men. I didn’t know either. One was sitting smoking a pipe. The other, just pacing. The room was small, making it easy to ear-hustle. Considering they were talking like good friends, they were an unlikely pair. The one pacing was a stick man, his white duck trousers rumpled, yet he wore a black velvet coat.
“Gee” I thought, “I haven’t seen anyone wear a velvet coat since Stevie Winwood was in Traffic.”
The sitting man was stocky, well built, and wore a neat safari coat from Abercrombie and Fitch. Sitter wore a beard on his face. Stander had a drooping mustache on his upper lip. Stander was chain-smoking cigarettes, while Sitter smoked a pipe. You see what I mean. They were a pair, but like some socks, an unmatched pair.
I must have caught their attention, because they welcomed me to the place.
“You’ll like it here kid, it’s a clean, well lighted place,” said Sitter.
“Colette keeps me in quill pens and India ink, Madam,” said Stander, “and her coffee is superb.”
“Thank you both, gentlemen, I’m sure I’ll enjoy it,” I answered, not telling them I’d been there before.
I took a nearby table and fiddled with the buttons on my coat. My ear-pirate set sail the moment their conversation continued.
“So what’s it about this time?” said Stander to Sitter.
“Bob, it’s like this. An old Cuban goes fishing but has no luck at first.”
“The way you state the matter it sounds awfully weak, almost consumptive,* one might say.”
“You know me,” he answered, “I like to keep is simple.”
The sitter relit his pipe. Stander now pacing, stubbed out his butt, lit another cigarette, then Sitter took a silver flask from his back pocket and emptied a couple of fingers of something into his coffee. Stander took a puff of his cigarette and started coughing.
*
“You gotta watch that stuff, it’ll kill ya.”
“I’m not spitting blood quite yet Papa. Yet I could say the same to you.*”
“A Scotsman telling me not to drink Irish coffee could only happen in Sausalito,” said Sitter taking a sip.
“So what kind of a fish does he catch, your fisherman?” said Stander.
“Well, I dunno yet, but it’s gotta be something big.”
“How about a record breaking tuna. I like tuna.”
“Naw, not enough class. I need a bigger battle, something more dangerous,* more dramatic. I want him catching this fish to be real tough, like it’s some kind of duel or something.”
“Duels are fought by dukes and princes with swords, Papa, not fish.*”
“I*’ll make it a sword fish then, a fricken marlin.”
“That sounds eminently suitable.”
“Sounds good to me, too.”
“At any rate, what is your intent for a proper title?”
“How’s about something catchy, like maybe, Swordfish?”
“That would be much too short. You need something longer, it’s not descriptive enough.”
“Longer! With you it’s always longer! Your sentences are too long, your titles too long. My God man, look at your skinny self,” he said looking up at him, “Even you’re too long.*”
“Being long is just my style. Your problem is, Papa, you’re too short. Your sentences irritate my sensitive soul with their extreme brevity. They’re too short, too simple, and in the end, I put it to you old man, much too declarative.”
“Can it Slim. That’s my signature style. So what’s your newest about?”
“It’s about a boy who gets kidnapped by his own miserly uncle.”
“Sounds weak Bob. Sounds weak.”
Circles of smoke swirled all about them and floated up to the ceiling.
”Well, they wander all over the Scottish highlands in the rain Papa, in the rain!”
“Do they go on a boat? I like it when they go on boats.”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, they do, at times, go on a boat.”
“Do they fish? I like it when they fish.”
“Well I don’t think…”
“Well, do they bullfight? I like it when they bullfight.”
“No, they most definitely do not bullfight. The story occurs in the highlands of Scotland Papa, now how can I have them bullfight?”
“Oh yeah, I forgot. So what are you gonna call it?”
“I was thinking of using The Marvelous Adventures of David Balfour, who, in the Dangerous Highlands of Scotland, was Kidnapped.*
“Too long Bob. Too long!”
They were getting so loud that Colette had to step in.
“Mes amis,” she announced, “You must place a bet. Let fate decide. I flip a coin. Whoever wins decides the other’s title and he must make do with that.” She pronounced it zat, you know how the French are.
“However,” she hesitated, “if it lands on my side of the coin, I choose.”
Then I spoke out.
“Since there are only two sides to a coin, let her. Besides, it’s her coin.”
Colette looked at me and winked.
“It’s a deal.” said Papa.
“I would be more than happy to accede to the lady’s wishes,” Bob said, with a bow and flourish.
Colette reached into her bosom and produced a twenty dollar gold piece,* and tossed it in the air.
Someone called, “Heads,” but it really didn’t matter who.
Stevenson watched it turn in mid-air. The golden glint from the coin reminded him of a peg-legged pirates’ treasure hidden on an island.
A gold dubloon.
Hemingway watched it spinning. To him, the shine on its surface was the reflection of late afternoon sun hitting a bullfighter’s sword in the ring at Pamplona.
The moment of truth.
It flipped and flipped and flipped. It flew up to the rafters then down to the wooden floor. But when it hit, it bounced, landed on its edge, rolled a bit, then became wedged in a crack and stood firmly edge up, on its side.
Although the two were ill-matched as a pair they were twins finally in one thing, they now both had eyes the size of plates, not saucers.
‘Voila!” Colette squealed, “I shall have my way! You Monsieur, will choose his title, and you monsieur, his!”
It was then that both of them, being men of the world, knew they’d been bested.
“O.K. Bob,” Sitter said. “What’s it gonna be?”
“Make it The Old Man and the Sea, since that is what it’s primarily about”
But that’s the longest title I’ve ever used!’’ he whined. “It’ll never sell!”
“You have only to try Papa, so try.*”
“Now, how about you?” said Colette to Sitter. “It is your turn to decide.”
“You make it Kidnapped, Bob, just plain, Kidnapped, that’s all.”
“But that will be my shortest title yet,” he sobbed. “Will my readers know it’s me?”
“That’s for you to find out Bob.”
My coffee was finished. I pushed the cup away and slid out of the chair. I turned to Bob.
“I’m taking my leave Bob, thank you ever so much.”
“I was a pleasure to meet so charming a girl, but if you must leave, fair lady, Adieu.”
Then I turned to Papa.
“See ya’ Pops. I’m outa here.”
“See ya kid.”
“But,” said Colette. “Don’t you need a title too?”
“I’m fine now,” I sang. “I’ve finally got it.”
“What’s that, Ma Cherie?”
“Why, Colette’s Coffee, what else?”
By
Steven Hunley
“I can’t think of a proper title,” I said to Toby.
He ruffled his blue feathers a bit, refusing to reply.
“And you’re no help at all.”
“Great, the parrot won’t talk, I’ve got no title, and…” I said, shuffling through my houseboat pantry, “I’m fresh out of coffee. What do you say about that Toby?”
No reply was expected but then,
“Colette’s,” he answered with a bob of his head, “Colette’s”
“Toby, you may be bird-brained, but you’re a genius!”
I looked out the window noting the serious fog.
“It’s pea soup out there Toby, but my editor’s on my back. There are such things as deadlines, my fine feathered friend, in the world of humans. But maybe you’ve saved the boat.”
My rent was due, my houseboat had sprung a leak and I needed money and needed it quick. Fog or no fog I would trek to Colette’s. It’s not that I’m afraid of Jack the Ripper or Doctor Jekyll and Mister Hyde you understand. San Francisco fog isn’t London fog. Even I know that. But a girl doesn’t like to go out so late at night alone, fog or no fog. Still, obligations are obligations, and rent was due on my floating palace. I grabbed my warmest pea coat, put on my sailor’s hat,tucked in my hair, and was off. I’d do my best not to get lost.
“Jeez, it’s thick out here,” was my first impression, “I can’t see my hand in front of my face.”
The first steps were easy. A left turn, then a right. The fog stole in. Was it on little cat feet? I couldn’t tell. Then a right turn, then straight. The fog snuck behind me. Then another left, then another. I was buttoning my coat up a few buttons farther when something behind me made a noise. I turned around quickly. It was only a cat, pawing through overturned garbage. When I turned back, I finally came to a conclusion I didn’t want to reach. I didn’t know where I was. Regret took hold of my throat the moment I knew I was lost.
I continued to wander. Time could not be measured. Pilings on the docks wrapped with thick rope was all I could see. The moan of the foghorn in the harbor was all I could hear. It could have been 1800, or 1900, or even 2000. I just couldn’t tell. I needed a calendar or a compass badly. Finally, when I was ready to sit down and cry, I noticed a pink glow ahead. I knew what it was. I recognized it. It was the pink neon outline of a coffee cup!
“Colette’s, here I come!”
Colette’s is a small place run by a red-headed French woman, named, (what else) Colette. I wasn’t just going here in hopes the coffee would give me an idea for a title. The coffee wasn’t enough. There was more. Writers hung out here. You’d always catch at least one. If there were more, then they’d be swapping tales, complaining about editors, doing re-writes or proofing. They were literally a literal crowd. Another thing besides coffee drew them as well. Despite California law to the contrary, Colette would let you smoke in the back room. She got away with it because it was her private property, and technically not part of the restaurant. It faced the bay and had a view. Seagulls soared overhead, misty mornings and bright sunny afternoons sandwiched between and warm warped wooden planks fit snug beneath your feet. Splintered pilings were firmly wrapped with coils of thick brown rope. Fabulous California sunsets exploded every evening with exquisite colors. Brass ship’s bells rang out the hours that never seemed to pass.This was where writers congregated. I couldn’t blame them. It was my destination too.
Colette spotted me when I came in.
*“Who’s here tonight, Colette?”
“Two I don’t know, but you I do, Ma Cherie.”
She gave me two kisses, one on each cheek. You know how the French are.
I walked back through the door and into the cozy room. Talking at a table were two men. I didn’t know either. One was sitting smoking a pipe. The other, just pacing. The room was small, making it easy to ear-hustle. Considering they were talking like good friends, they were an unlikely pair. The one pacing was a stick man, his white duck trousers rumpled, yet he wore a black velvet coat.
“Gee” I thought, “I haven’t seen anyone wear a velvet coat since Stevie Winwood was in Traffic.”
The sitting man was stocky, well built, and wore a neat safari coat from Abercrombie and Fitch. Sitter wore a beard on his face. Stander had a drooping mustache on his upper lip. Stander was chain-smoking cigarettes, while Sitter smoked a pipe. You see what I mean. They were a pair, but like some socks, an unmatched pair.
I must have caught their attention, because they welcomed me to the place.
“You’ll like it here kid, it’s a clean, well lighted place,” said Sitter.
“Colette keeps me in quill pens and India ink, Madam,” said Stander, “and her coffee is superb.”
“Thank you both, gentlemen, I’m sure I’ll enjoy it,” I answered, not telling them I’d been there before.
I took a nearby table and fiddled with the buttons on my coat. My ear-pirate set sail the moment their conversation continued.
“So what’s it about this time?” said Stander to Sitter.
“Bob, it’s like this. An old Cuban goes fishing but has no luck at first.”
“The way you state the matter it sounds awfully weak, almost consumptive,* one might say.”
“You know me,” he answered, “I like to keep is simple.”
The sitter relit his pipe. Stander now pacing, stubbed out his butt, lit another cigarette, then Sitter took a silver flask from his back pocket and emptied a couple of fingers of something into his coffee. Stander took a puff of his cigarette and started coughing.
*
“You gotta watch that stuff, it’ll kill ya.”
“I’m not spitting blood quite yet Papa. Yet I could say the same to you.*”
“A Scotsman telling me not to drink Irish coffee could only happen in Sausalito,” said Sitter taking a sip.
“So what kind of a fish does he catch, your fisherman?” said Stander.
“Well, I dunno yet, but it’s gotta be something big.”
“How about a record breaking tuna. I like tuna.”
“Naw, not enough class. I need a bigger battle, something more dangerous,* more dramatic. I want him catching this fish to be real tough, like it’s some kind of duel or something.”
“Duels are fought by dukes and princes with swords, Papa, not fish.*”
“I*’ll make it a sword fish then, a fricken marlin.”
“That sounds eminently suitable.”
“Sounds good to me, too.”
“At any rate, what is your intent for a proper title?”
“How’s about something catchy, like maybe, Swordfish?”
“That would be much too short. You need something longer, it’s not descriptive enough.”
“Longer! With you it’s always longer! Your sentences are too long, your titles too long. My God man, look at your skinny self,” he said looking up at him, “Even you’re too long.*”
“Being long is just my style. Your problem is, Papa, you’re too short. Your sentences irritate my sensitive soul with their extreme brevity. They’re too short, too simple, and in the end, I put it to you old man, much too declarative.”
“Can it Slim. That’s my signature style. So what’s your newest about?”
“It’s about a boy who gets kidnapped by his own miserly uncle.”
“Sounds weak Bob. Sounds weak.”
Circles of smoke swirled all about them and floated up to the ceiling.
”Well, they wander all over the Scottish highlands in the rain Papa, in the rain!”
“Do they go on a boat? I like it when they go on boats.”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, they do, at times, go on a boat.”
“Do they fish? I like it when they fish.”
“Well I don’t think…”
“Well, do they bullfight? I like it when they bullfight.”
“No, they most definitely do not bullfight. The story occurs in the highlands of Scotland Papa, now how can I have them bullfight?”
“Oh yeah, I forgot. So what are you gonna call it?”
“I was thinking of using The Marvelous Adventures of David Balfour, who, in the Dangerous Highlands of Scotland, was Kidnapped.*
“Too long Bob. Too long!”
They were getting so loud that Colette had to step in.
“Mes amis,” she announced, “You must place a bet. Let fate decide. I flip a coin. Whoever wins decides the other’s title and he must make do with that.” She pronounced it zat, you know how the French are.
“However,” she hesitated, “if it lands on my side of the coin, I choose.”
Then I spoke out.
“Since there are only two sides to a coin, let her. Besides, it’s her coin.”
Colette looked at me and winked.
“It’s a deal.” said Papa.
“I would be more than happy to accede to the lady’s wishes,” Bob said, with a bow and flourish.
Colette reached into her bosom and produced a twenty dollar gold piece,* and tossed it in the air.
Someone called, “Heads,” but it really didn’t matter who.
Stevenson watched it turn in mid-air. The golden glint from the coin reminded him of a peg-legged pirates’ treasure hidden on an island.
A gold dubloon.
Hemingway watched it spinning. To him, the shine on its surface was the reflection of late afternoon sun hitting a bullfighter’s sword in the ring at Pamplona.
The moment of truth.
It flipped and flipped and flipped. It flew up to the rafters then down to the wooden floor. But when it hit, it bounced, landed on its edge, rolled a bit, then became wedged in a crack and stood firmly edge up, on its side.
Although the two were ill-matched as a pair they were twins finally in one thing, they now both had eyes the size of plates, not saucers.
‘Voila!” Colette squealed, “I shall have my way! You Monsieur, will choose his title, and you monsieur, his!”
It was then that both of them, being men of the world, knew they’d been bested.
“O.K. Bob,” Sitter said. “What’s it gonna be?”
“Make it The Old Man and the Sea, since that is what it’s primarily about”
But that’s the longest title I’ve ever used!’’ he whined. “It’ll never sell!”
“You have only to try Papa, so try.*”
“Now, how about you?” said Colette to Sitter. “It is your turn to decide.”
“You make it Kidnapped, Bob, just plain, Kidnapped, that’s all.”
“But that will be my shortest title yet,” he sobbed. “Will my readers know it’s me?”
“That’s for you to find out Bob.”
My coffee was finished. I pushed the cup away and slid out of the chair. I turned to Bob.
“I’m taking my leave Bob, thank you ever so much.”
“I was a pleasure to meet so charming a girl, but if you must leave, fair lady, Adieu.”
Then I turned to Papa.
“See ya’ Pops. I’m outa here.”
“See ya kid.”
“But,” said Colette. “Don’t you need a title too?”
“I’m fine now,” I sang. “I’ve finally got it.”
“What’s that, Ma Cherie?”
“Why, Colette’s Coffee, what else?”