Jake is not a great friend of mine, his attention spans tops at 4.5 minutes and we never really have anything to say to each other. Yet according to the standards of New York City life, we would be considered “close” considering the frequency in which we bump into each other.

Last night I ran into him at a crowded dimly-lit bar on east 9th street. He saw me before I saw him and grabbed me by my waist. “Hey!” He said, directly into my ear. I’m always slightly disappointed to look up and see Jake, not my dream Mr. Right. It was good to see him, I was approaching the point where I wanted to leave, the decor was hurting my eyes, I could hardly see two feet in front of me, and my friends were restless as well. “How are you!” He smiled at me, the same way any guy would who wants to make a girl feel extra special. I turned to my friends and motioned to them. “You guys remember Jake, right?” They nodded, unimpressed. They’ve never particularly found Jake interesting; then againthey are not from The City and don’t realize how important it is to never burn your bridges, you never know when you’ll need to use someone, and always always always be friendly. Nonetheless he gave them both kisses on the cheeck as I stood back and watched the scene. He didn’t know either one of my friends from holes in the walls. He couldn’t place either their name of their face when I pointed to them, nonetheless he reached over and gave them both kisses. Being not from The City my friends were obviously taken aback by this. “So,” the conversation went dull as it always does with Jake. “Where did you come from?” Ah, the typical fall-back conversation for any New York City scenester in no-conversation-hot-water.

I started looking around and above Jake’s head, desperately searching for other people to talk to as it was painfully obvious this one was over before it even began. “We came from,” I pretended to forget the name of the new popular hot spot we just emerged from, hoping to set myself apart from the rest of the herd that I flocked in here with, “we came from Bar None.” He shook his head in approval, this way okay’ed by him. You have to be careful with this question. Though it may be tempting to truthfully respond to such a question with a name of a lesser-known bar you just came from, if you give them name of an unknown, you become one yourself. The rules are this simple. He looked at my drink. “Can I get you another one?” I had about two sips of my Cranberry-bog and wasn’t even thinking about my next sip from this watered-down crap, nonetheless my next drink. I shook my head, and then smiled to my friends. I believe that because they are not from The City they have a harder time accepting and following the rules. They have a difficult time determining the right time to jump in and life boat me, they don’t know how to save their own selves from dreaded conversations, they just kind of stand there and wait for people to approach them. This is rule #2 which is a definite no-no; never look like you want to be talked to.

I soon fell into the prey. “So, where are you going now?” I hated asking him because I couldn’t care less, but we were really stumbling here and I needed something to say fast. Anyways, we were both too polite to walk away from each other. He motioned with his finger to some place I had no energy to follow. “Float.”

“Promoting there?”

He nodded. “You should come.”

Infamous words. I did go to Float once, an enormous dance stage with flashing lights, beautiful waifs, lines out the door, $8 drinks and $20 just to get in. I dragged my friends there once promising them a “night they won’t soon forget.” We left around 12:30, threw in a movie and heated up last night’s lasagna when we finally got home.

“Do you guys want to do Float?”

Ugh. They broke rule #3. They weren’t engaged in conversation. The follow-up to rule #2 is that you must always appear to be fully engaged in conversation though you have absolutely nothing to say. If you appear talkative, you appear less interested in talking to anyone else, thus more appealing to be approached by the opposite sex.

They both looked at each other and shrugged. Of course they didn’t want to go there, I didn’t want to go there. It would be the same shit at Float, just the three of us standing together next to the bar bashing every waif that came our way with an arm-charm wrapped around her.

“Sure, whatever.” I shook my head. I took that as a no, and gave Jake the news. He seemed really interested. “We’re not going to Float.”

“To where?” He was looking above my head, motioning to some guy at the bar behind me. “Where?”

“Forget it,”

He gave me a kiss, excused himself to my friends, and approached his friends hovering around the bar.. At least he followed the appropriate rules for saying goodbye.

“No sugar,” I politely stated, “Equal.”

Then I smiled and the coffee man smiled back at me. Maybe he saw something in me, I don’t know.

“Ohhhh….” He said way too knowingly, “Equal and coffee, okay!” And then he emptied the content of three pale blue packages into my coffee. He handed me my coffee cup, I slid him my money, and as he wished me a pleasant day, I turned around to say thanks.

This has been our routine for about three weeks now, it’s never different. And yet, every day there is something new I notice about the coffee man. Yesterday I noticed that his gold watch sparkled when the light hit it the right way, today I noticed his tanned forearms. The other day I swore I saw reddish auburn-esque highlights in a full head of hair. It is hard for me, however, to get the full picture of the coffee man because the coffee man operates from within a coffee hut.

Nonetheless, I will never forget the time coffee man offered me assurance things will get better when everything to me was left in the city dump.

That morning of misery I stumbled to his coffee hut and could barely look up into his eyes. “Large coffee, skim no sugar, three equal.” I barely managed the words. As he was sliding my loose change back to me, he cupped it in his hands for a moment, and uttered those most memorable words: “Cheer up,” he said to me, “Things will improve!”

I looked into his square, eyes. “Thank you, thank you so much.” We held eyes for a second or two, I then clutched onto my coffee bagged in brown paper, rounded the corner and headed into my construction site, with an improved attitude, thanks to coffee man.

That day in my cube, I thought about coffee man. Does he have a family? How did he get into the coffee business? Does he brew his own coffee, grind his own beans, handpicking only the best of them? So many questions I had for coffee man. He was such a sweet man working in such a tough city, a city in which one is forbidden to talk prior to coffee.

This got me thinking, the coffee man is a middle-man. He hands over the coffee, allowing his loyal customers to enter the stage of normalcy and acceptance, leaving behind the one of despond and revulsion. The coffee man acts as the medium between the world of the non-normal and the world of the normal. I need my coffee; I need my coffee man.

The next day I sauntered to the coffee hut, checked my watch, looked at his usual breakfast items for sale, and ordered, surprise, my usual. But this time I tried to jazz it up. Why not, I was in better spirits. I had already had some caffeine via my roommate’s flat Diet Fanta left out all night. “Let’s try…one sugar two equal,” I said coyly.

Coffee man stopped dead in his tracks. He looked up at me under his floppy head of black bangs which too often dangled in his face. “You have good morning?” He uttered, stunned at my decision.

“Yes!” I said, too enthusiastically for my pre-coffee stage.

Nonetheless, he tore open my blue packets, poured them into my cup, put the cup in a brown paper bag, looked up at me and then smiled. “You have great morning!”

I slid him my usual, but since today I was feeling good, I gave him a little extra something. An extra quarter to improve his wonderful coffee grinding technology.

Coffee man did not like this. No sooner than leaving his hut, I heard his faint footsteps behind me, “Ma’am!” He screamed. He sounded like a little boy, which was surprising since he was a coffee man. “You forgot your change!”

On this I whipped my head around. I looked for coffee man but couldn’t find him in the herd of people. Where was he coming from? Where was my Colombian coffee grinder, my Spanish lover, my inspiration for good-will towards others?

And then, I found him. I felt as if the wind was knocked out of me. My feet were glued to the hot cement of the New York city pavement but my mind was spinning out of control. In front of me stood the coffee man. Coffee man stood no taller than my waist with a hand like that of a boy’s extended outwards. “Here ya go! Your change!” He had to yell over the loud roar of passersby.

My life, up until now, flashed before me like a car zooming through an orange light. Before me stood a man that was a midget, a Colombian midget..

Poor coffee man, he hid his height by standing on a platform behind the coffee hut! I took the change and walked down the block, where I spilled out my coffee out, as though it were something shameful and contagious.