A Pleasant Distraction

Coffee and jazz on a somber day

At the Blue Note Coffeehouse, I hope for a pleasant distraction on a somber day. Finding a window seat, I gaze at the passersby, savoring some delicious coffee while listening to Miles, Coltrane, and Cannonball Adderley.

My thoughts drift like the aromatic fragrance of java, a Miles Davis trumpet that seems to have no beginning or end, just a meditative middle. The music in the background changes from fast to slow, familiar to foreign. Jazz makes me want to go on forever.

I watch the customers grab their cappuccinos and pay little attention to the jazz playing in the background. But to me, jazz is my sanctuary, the cool ocean breeze on a hot summer day.

My cup of coffee is brewed fresh without cliché, and it takes a strong Guatemalan grip on me. It stimulates all of my senses. I can hear the notes better and feel the company of chattering strangers in their ceaseless meanderings.

I feel more like a part of the world when I drink my cup of jazz, despite the sorrow of my loss that seems to linger like a melancholy song.

I forget the funeral for a while and enjoy my coffee and jazz reverie. There’s a cool breeze from the Pacific through the front door. I can smell its salty air and hear the seagulls barking. I can think of all the times my wife and I spent an easy day on the beach with our backs to the sun.

The coffee flirts with me for a few seconds then flows down my throat in its creamy smoothness. A bass-plucking rhythm of Mingus plays overhead. Nearby, the coffee is being ground inside a big silver vat, turning over and grinding its soul. A diligent young man in a Thelonious Monk T-shirt keeps stirring as if he’s in a trance.

I squeeze the ceramic cup like I’m holding a saxophone and relish the coffee’s warmth and rich taste. I barely touch the tip of the mug, savoring its natural beauty and making sure not to burn the roof of my mouth.

There are a variety of patrons in the coffee shop. Some hipsters, others old like myself. There are cool cats, beatnik types, and professionals who order their sweet brews between meetings and conference calls.

“Another cup of coffee is fine,” I say to the barista who asks me if I want a refill.

She resembles Peggy Lee, with shoulder-length blonde hair, giving me the fever. The employees at the Blue Note are always so pleasant. They make the coffee-drinking experience more personal than the other local coffeehouses that are in business only to hear their registers ring.

“Monty,” she says. “Did I make that one okay?”

The barista asks for my wife and refers to us as a couple of lovebirds.

“She’s not with me today,” I say, not wanting to bring up the subject of death.

My lips touched the coffee cup as gently as I kissed my lovely wife, who looked like Diana Krall but couldn’t sing a lick. Together, we’d spend hours enjoying one coffee after another, floating through the day in a caffeinated bliss, listening to Miles play “So What” on the horn.

Having a perfectly brewed coffee makes me so excited that I get more sugar and mix it mindfully into my drink, stirring my spoon into a meditative swirl. I want it warm, not hot, creamy, but not milky. I want it as lovely as the Horace Silver Quintet playing “Song for My Father.”

My feelings ebb and flow with the changing of the records. If I could play an instrument, I would play my life in moments, moments that would blend seamlessly into one another, weaving together my life story.

I open another pack of cane sugar and pour it into my coffee like a sweetened waterfall. Some days there isn’t enough sugar and drum solos.

I prop my foot on a chair, take another measured sip, and inhale the fresh air coming through the open door. Looking into the coffee, I imagine myself as a young man and how proud and tall I stood. I was always so confident, even as a scruffy teenager. I guess I got it from my parents, who encouraged me to keep my head held high, no matter the circumstances.”

“Could you get me another refill, please?” I ask Peggy Lee the barista.

She seems smart and level-headed, a college student studying who knows what but understands the alchemy of life, how the mixture of certain edibles and musical notes makes for a delicious combination.

“Could you concoct something French this time, a really jazzy number?” I ask.

Peggy Lee responds with a type of coffee called noisette, “A French version of espresso,” she informs.

“Oui, Oui.”

I look at my watch. My wife’s funeral is at noon. The impending gloom will soon cover me like a rain cloud. I don’t want to be late.

She often met me here at lunchtime, so I imagine a slender woman with a white floppy hat walking toward me with a smile. She was like an Old English Sheepdog with bangs over her eyes and could get on the dance floor and swing to Bennie Goodman’s big band sound. An exotic dresser, she showed off her shapely legs with always a pair of sparkly heels on her feet.

My wife and I shared the same love of coffee and music. She was a big Ella Fitzgerald fan and clung to every one of Ella’s resonant notes.

“A cup of fresh brew is like a good jazz singer,” my wife said, “honest, not deceptive. Visceral, but with a pleasing texture.”

I close my eyes and imagine my wife ordering a frothy Dalgona latte. The thought swirls around my head like the jazz guitar lick in “Freddie Freeloader.” Whenever she’d meet me here, I’d stand right up and give her a long, sensual kiss. It didn’t matter who was watching.

I wipe a tear from my eye and take a last sip of coffee. I know I must leave, but I also know that my wife would want me to stay and enjoy another jazz number. My family will worry if I don’t show, so I wipe some coffee residue from my scraggly goatee, say goodbye to Peggy Lee the barista, and do a little shimmy to the exit. I want my wife to smile on her funeral day.

© 2021 Mark Tulin

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