One More Amaretto

The Latin word “amor” means love. I personally think that that’s where humans got the inspiration to make an amaretto. People wanted a drink of coffee that was neither sickeningly sweet nor barbarically bitter. They combined the two for the saccharine yet earthy taste of amaretto – a flavor I come in every morning for in a little shop called “Life’s Brew.”

It’s a warm little place, not too spacious, and not too cramped. From my little seat by the counter, I could watch people. Whether they passed by the window or came in and ordered – I saw them all. Some interesting characters occasionally entered, looking up at the bell on the door that jingled with each swing. Most of the customers were business-type humans who sat down with their Financial Times or dashed out with a hot cappuccino in hand. More than once I had seen them spill such a drink in their haste all over their dark gray or navy blue suit clothes. For the women- pencil skirts, pump high heels, and a form-fitting over jacket. For the men- slacks, a jacket, a white shirt, and a pinstripe tie that didn’t always match.

After the businessperson left, the man at the register approached my small table. “And you ma’am? What can I get you this early in the morning?” said his voice, lightly tinted with a New Jersey accent. He was a casual and polite person- I had hired him myself. In fact, I was creator of this little shop. Years ago, it was, that I conceived of “Life’s Brew” and set about establishing it. Now, however, I just sat by and watched it run its course.

“An amaretto, please,” I replied and told him I’d be staying awhile, so he would simply bill me at the end of the day. He headed off to bring my drink.

As I mentioned before, all kinds of people come in. Often times, these people are artists- both starving and thriving. Most are a combination of writers and painters, poets and sketch artists, who come in for the atmosphere and inspiration. I’d seen young and old artists enter this place, all choosing the frozen slushy coffee, flavored with French Vanilla. Different mindsets, those people had, and sometimes they were the most pleasing to watch.

Presently, one came in and walked to the register, ordering the above mentioned drink. I knew her immediately by the pencil pinning her hair up and the sketchbook in her arms. After she settled into a chair by the window, cold Styrofoam cup in hand, the man at the register approached again with my amaretto. I generously thanked him, and he said “You’re welcome,” again in that friendly accent.

My hands folded around the ceramic mug and lifted it to my lips. The drink was still hot, almost too hot to truly taste, but at least I could smell it – rich and earthy, just the way I liked it. Those artists and poets could have their sugary French Vanilla, and those stockbrokers could keep their black coffee. This was my drink of choice, my seat of choice, my café of choice.

I set the drink down and stared out the window, watching a woman walk by with two children. One was in her arms, the other held her hand. She barely glanced into the shop, likely thinking that she’d just be disturbing the peace if she tried to enter and gain some herself. Humans are like that. Often their fear gets in the way of achieving what they need or want (which, often still, are rarely the same thing). I have seen many like her who pass on despite a small little voice that whispers “Go ahead, try it!” Those are frequently the humans that at the end of life regret not having done more.

Testing the coffee with the tip of my finger, I decided it was warm and not scalding. When I tasted it and let the heat roll down my throat with the liquid, I was instantly proud and thankful at the same time- even if it seems impossible to do so.

About the time I was finished with this cup, a farmer came in. I could tell he was such just by the smell of gasoline and dirt (likely from a tractor) and his worn-looking overalls. Purposeful men these were that worked the land, and just as meaningful were their wives. Each pulled their weight in the world, raising animals and children of their own beside fields of nature. I was pleased with these carefree and peaceful creatures.

He ordered a hot cup of coffee with just a little bit of milk. After he walked out the jingling door, the man at the register turned to me. “One more amaretto, please,” I told him. He fetched the cup and took it back with him, preparing my second drink.

A policeman walked in the door and stood at the counter, waiting for service. I had mixed feelings with these types of humans. Sometimes they could be quite chivalrous- jumping in front of bullets to take the injury themselves, tracking down murderers and thieves. But more often then not, they were barely fit men with bad attitudes and blind obedience to the law. He ordered the same thing as the farmer, only he ordered two (likely for his partner, waiting outside in the car) and a couple doughnuts. He looked like an honest enough man, but clearly not one who was prepared at all times (as policemen are supposed to be) because he ordered a sugar and fat filled food article, rather than something like an apple or a granola bar. Policemen are supposed to be ready to run after and catch a lawbreaker, but I highly doubt any of them can do it with ten pounds of extra gut.

It was after the blue-dressed man left that my drink was set down in front of me. Again I inhaled my sweet signature scent and waited for it to cool down. In the middle of a trial with the heat of the mug five minutes later, in walked a minister. Minister of the church not too far down the street.

“Minister Kasten,” nodded the New Jersey-man, who was wiping the counter clean.

“Good morning, young sir,” I heard the churchman return. Most people knew the major religious leaders of the vicinity. I didn’t have much of a problem with it; I just wished that some of the religions weren’t so nasty to each other.

The man of a patriarchy religion was only stopping for a few biscuits while my thoughts continued on. Religion in almost any corner of the world had always done as much harm as good, no matter what they preached. But at least now there was enough variety of the religions that the threat of domination was gone.

Now, I’m not implying in any way that this pleasant minister even agrees with his religious ancestors, much less that he would initiate a crusade. In fact, he was quite a kind man to make it a schedule of giving charity and helping others, even if some may say it should come naturally.

Those people wouldn’t know what nature was unless it threw a hurricane curve ball straight at their doe-eyed face. And believe me, I would know.

After Minister Kasten exited “Life’s Brew,” I noticed the sun beginning to dip the clouds in warm colors of reds and purples. My drink was quite ready for tasting now and I again raised the cup to my lips for a sip.

The bell on the door rattled again (“Life’s Brew” is a busy place, to say the least) and in walked an elderly man. Judging by the whitish scar tissue on his jaw and hands, I guessed he was a war veteran. He wasn’t wearing any uniform, and he didn’t have any limbs or appendages missing. He was one of the lucky ones.

One of two girls from a table not far from mine rose up while putting her jacket on. Both girls were mere teenagers, obviously one of those beaded-bracelet wearing best friends. Still in the adolescent age then, I thought to myself as the girl did an interesting handshake with her friend and left with her grandfather.

Halfway done. That is to say, with my current cup of coffee. Never with my time spent here. Never.

I actually considered purchasing a small muffin when in walked an interesting couple. It was dark out now, and likely chilly. The man and woman were finishing a giggly conversation as they treaded up the entry rug to the register.

“We’ll have two amoretto-flavored cappuccinos, nice and warm, please,” the man informed him.

“And a cinnamon roll with icing and a knife,” his girlfriend added.

I heard a slight drizzle of rain outside and chuckled to myself. Two amoretto-flavored cappuccinos for two people in love. What did I tell you?

The couple sat down at a table in the corner, where the artist had formerly been seated. I doubt they knew that, though. The man proceeded to lightly flatter her, nothing outrageous or malevolent or inappropriate. She would look down and smile or laugh, tucking strands of hair behind her ears. This was love in the making, likely their first date after a couple weeks of flirting. And what better place to start than in Life’s Brew on a cold, rainy night, with two amoretto-flavored cappuccinos and a cinnamon roll for two?

Only a little left in my mug and what a shame it was too. I say this because the last few moments of my drink were nearly ruined by the next human to enter. It was a man, unsurprisingly, and a rich corporate-type at that. I don’t know what it is in his race that allows such shallow ones as he rise up to such power, but he had plenty of it. So much, in fact, that it had clouded his sense of reality into rudeness.

“Get me some decaf!” he barked at the polite employee. He turned away to fetch the cup to serve the man in when more orders were snapped. “Would you hurry it up? I pay enough for you small towns just to exist, and now I have to wait this long for a cup of coffee?”

I looked the man over with a perked brow and when the man fetching the coffee looked at me, I gave him a solemn nod.

“Sorry people, the weather’s getting’ bad- we’re closing up early!” he said loudly so that all could hear. Most simply looked outside and talked amongst themselves while donning coats and throwing out used napkins. The corporate man wasn’t so soon to leave without his coffee.

“You can get my coffee first, because I’m not going anywhere until then!”

I felt sorry for his ugly face and soul. It is sometimes true that a person’s spirit is reflected on the outside. This was one of those cases, and he was a nasty little demon.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I’d have to put on a new pot and then wait for it to get-” the New Jersey man began, but the demon had already growled and walked out, slamming the door open and cursing out into the rain.

I reclined and sighed. It was sad to make even the lovely couple leave too. But sometimes, that’s the only way to take care of the problem. The kind employee asked if I wanted a refill, and I accepted, knowing he quite truthfully had a pot already warm and finished.

If I told you I was immortal, you likely wouldn’t believe me. You would likely point at the scars on my limbs and the tar on my face, claiming I was nearing the end of my days. You would probably laugh if I told you my true age- you’d tell me that I was long overdue in my stay and my reign. If I told you that I had more power than that spitting CEO, the president, the king, the pope, and all the billionaires in the world you would probably try to send me to the nuthouse (which many have tried to do before and ended with failure weighing heavy upon their brow).

But it’s true. Nothing odd, nothing unnatural, just immortal. I have constantly changed, and yet my roots remain the same.

I was there for Joan of Arc- for her first battle and her last breaths. That was Paris before the cafés. I was the spirit that stood by Julius Caesar and whispered in his ear: “You’re only human.” I watched him and all of Rome leave their mark on history in ink of bloodshed and death. But more so, I was there for Odysseus- there for his challenges in the so-called “Poseidon’s Waters.” I was there when Persephone was stolen from the Earth, plucking flowers in the fields and I was there when Pandora opened that cursed box. I was there when Herman Melville found the tortures of the sea. Yes, I was right beside him, right behind him and in front as he traveled the treacherous seas. I hide my secrets and my treasures in the thick forests of the south- heavy with rain when they’re not in drought. You can laugh at the tar and the scars on my face, but I can laugh at you just as easily in the rain.

The New Jersey man came again with my drink, the third for the day. I watched him as he cleaned up and locked the doors. Then my eyes turned to the window.

The couple was still there, waiting outside in the rain, yet totally oblivious to the cold shower from the night clouds. I sipped my drink, admiring such brave young people. They finished up a slow conversation as the man in “Life’s Brew”moved around the room, putting up chairs. Halfway down the mug again, I was now, and the lovers outside stood still in the rain. When would they leave?

Probably just as soon as I, I thought, which won’t be anytime soon.

Then, as I neared the bottom of my cup, I glimpsed the man and woman again- kissing chastely, nervously. It always should start that way. Uncertainty makes everything worthwhile when it lasts.

Suddenly, my vision of newborn love was cut off as the New Jersey man pulled the blinds. I frowned and finished the last drink of coffee. I set it down in front of me for the fourth time that day and looked up as he approached me.

“What can I get you, ma’am?” he asked, not a bit tired despite the time.

“One more amaretto, please.”