“Martha, I’m going to work seven days a week until we get the books straight,” I said one morning before we opened the café.
“You most certainly will not—you’ll burn out.”
“I don’t know if we’re making money or losing money and I am not going to hire someone until we figure out the finances.”
“I can tell you without looking at the books that we’re doing just fine,” she said, glancing toward the door where several patrons had begun to gather. “Anyway, your father kept meticulous records. If it says we’re in the black, then we are.”
She was right about one thing: my father was a good businessman and record keeper. The café was like a museum; one wall of the long narrow space was exposed brick, completely unmarred. The other side was beige wainscoting that met solid, navy blue paint, which was almost entirely covered by black-and-white photographs. The photographs varied between pictures of famous patrons, musical performances that took place in the café, my father’s friends or employees over the years, and quite a few of me. It seemed there was at least one from every stage of my life. The counter, refrigerator case, and register were old, but still gleaming and the espresso machine, as loud and cranky as it was, sparkled in the light of the low-hung fixtures.
Above the counter was a chalkboard with my father’s simple writing of the beverage names and descriptions. The only place that had visibly been erased over the many years were the prices. I briefly pondered the cost of the very first cappuccino served at that counter. Perhaps a nickel. Times had certainly changed, the prices had changed and more pictures had been added to the wall, but other than that, the café remained the same. The floors were old, worn, distressed wood, but they were cherished like the tables and chairs and the bar that stretched across the front window. I’d spent many summer nights with my father, cleaning and oiling the wood. The scent of citrus oil and espresso always mingled heavily in the tight space.
Pops took great care to preserve the quality and character of the café. I remember one day as I cleaned between each wood slat of a chair, he came over and put his hand on my shoulder. I looked up into his caramel-colored irises. He smiled all the way to his eyes. “Remember to leave your pride inside, luv, but make sure you keep it alive,” he said. The hand-rolled clove peeking from the side of his mouth always emphasized his husky, accented voice.
I wanted to feel that pride in the café while humbly working to maintain its quality like my father had taught me, and even though I didn’t know what the future held for me and Kell’s, I wouldn’t disgrace his memory by letting his life’s work fall apart. I chose to work either an opening or closing shift seven days a week, while Martha and Sheil alternated days. Jenny, who was the only other employee, would fill in the gaps so that there would be two people working most of the time. Jenny had worked at Kell’s for a few years. She was two years older than me and every time I would visit New York, she and I would fall back into an easy friendship.
It had been at least a month before I settled into the routine at the café. I started to recognize the regulars. Joe and his brother Paddy spent several mornings a week at their usual table in the corner. I would often find myself standing close by, shamelessly eavesdropping on their hilarious conversations. The familiarity of the fading Irish accents filled my heart with warmth.
“Somebody requested that type of music? That junk? That shit?” Paddy said to Joe in disbelief one Tuesday morning.
“I believe they did, Paddy.”
“And she played it? Is she stupid?”
“For tirty-tree years I’ve been going to that dance hall, Paddy, and she has been there every single Sunday playing the same music until last week. Somebody must have requested it. She’s not stupid—she doesn’t understand.”
“Does she know English?”
“She does.”
“Well, then, how do you explain it?”
“She doesn’t understand the two—how if you have nice music, people will dance and come back, but if you play that crap, people will leave.”
“Give her another illustration, Joe, to help her understand. Maybe you can tell her that if the food is terrible, people won’t eat it.”
“I actually enjoy the food. I love broccoli, I like stew,” Joe said matter-of-factly.
Paddy looked at Joe with a puzzled but interested look. “Do you like spaghetti and meatballs?”
“Of course I do, but they only serve Irish fare there, Paddy. I thought you knew that.”
Jenny danced through the jingling café door, waving a flyer around like a crazy person, momentarily distracting me from Paddy and Joe.
“Looky looky, cute boy came in last night and asked to put this up, but I’m keeping it to myself.” It was a very simple flyer advertising three bands playing that Friday night at a nearby bar called The Depot. I didn’t recognize the first two but tensed up when I saw The Ivans at the bottom. Guess they weren’t exactly headliners. “You wanna go with me?” Jenny said, wearing a stupid grin.
“What did the guy look like?”
“Hot.”
“Did he ask for me?”
“No, why would he ask for you?”
“Well I met this guy on a plane, and um… never mind. Yes, I’ll go with you, but we’ll have to rearrange the schedule so I can go early since it looks like they’ll be playing first.”