Caf-fidelity

For those of you on Naseeb.com, I posted this up in my journal earlier today. Comment here or there if you're so inclined. Enjoy!

For three years, I bought my morning joe from a nice Afghan coffee vendor on the corner of Hudson and Houston. He was a tall and spindly man, so gaunt in appearance that his clothes always seemed to wear him, instead of the other way around. He brewed a mean coffee with a smile and often threw in free bagels or muffins for me. He asked after me with genuine concern if I happened to be out of the office and sometimes, he brought his son to work with him. The rolypoly boy would stumble out of his dad's van and bid me hello, his eyes glazed with boredom.

The coffee vendor was fast and efficient. He knew how I took my coffee (medium with skim milk and two Equals) and always had a cup ready for me when I reached him. Yes, I had a good thing going.

During the summer of 2004, however, I noticed something different about the coffee: it tasted horrible, as if an athlete's feet, recently removed from a pair of sweaty socks and sneakers, had been soaked in the beverage. I nearly gagged and, dumping the cup with its contents in the trash, I bought a weak coffee from the office cafeteria.
While the coffee vendor was back in top form the next day and the day after, the nasty coffee made a comeback the following week. The days of the week when I had good coffee progressively lessened, while my palate became increasingly accustomed to the taste of what I liked to call "skunky feet coffee."

That's when I began to notice the coffee vendor parked on the corner of Hudson and Morton. I happened upon him on my walk from the Christopher Street path station to work every day and wondered what kind of coffee he brewed. It couldn't have been worst than skunky feet. Nothing was as bad as skunky feet.

Yet, I continued going to the Afghan vendor out of guilt, habit and a sense of loyalty. His coffee might have been skunky, but he still smiled warmly at me, didn't he? He still told his son to say hello to me, and he still gave me freebies. How could I stop going to him?

The first time I crumbled under the promise of a decent cup of coffee, I almost whispered my order to the other vendor. He was an older man who, I'd later discover, came from Egypt. As deft as the Afghan vendor was, this one moved almost lethargically, not caring about the line that grew longer and longer as he carefully prepared one cup of joe at a time.

And the coffee was delicious. I was smitten.

On that day, I rushed past my Afghan vendor, pressing the coffee into my side so that he couldn't see it. I couldn't meet his eyes the next day when, as usual, he had my cup ready and waiting for me when I reached him. Our conversations--my side of it, anyway--became forced and awkward. I wondered if he knew that I was occassionally buying my coffee from someone else. I braced myself for the day when he would confront me.
Eventually, I stopped going to him altogether. When I walked past him, I made sure to look at the building to my right with feigned interest, so that all he saw was the back of my head...which really, could've been the back of ANYONE'S head. I practically jogged by each time, as if I was rushing to make the light or a meeting.

Even now, more than a year later, I sometimes steal a glance at him, standing inside his cart, tending to the caffeine addictions of men and women, who struggle to wake up in the early hours of morning. I look away before he sees me.
This past summer, I saw his boy leaning against the hood of the van, consuming large gulps of air as he yawned one, two, three times. He saw me before I could look away and he smiled.

Good coffee is worth it and coffee shouldn't taste like feet, I reminded myself as I skittered away.