BREAKFAST AT THE UP TOP CAFE.
At 5:30 AM on a Friday, at the end of August, the sun had not yet broken the horizon of brick buildings and the rattling cage of the elevated in downtown, Chicago. Old Roy, a very large man, walked with a cane, his thin white cotton shirt already wet under the arms. Young Charles, a tall teenager with thick glasses, loped half a step ahead of him wanting to go faster. There were open windows in the apartments over the small shops and businesses the men passed. An occasional window fan or wheezing air conditioner droned like cicadae. The two men slid through the humid air talking quietly.
“Damn, it’s hot already!” said Young Charles, looking at the sweat glistening on his outstretched arm.
“This isn’t hot! Man, you don’t know hot,” his elder said. He puffed slightly at the effort of walking; his bad hip making him grimace. “N’orleans. Now, that’s hot. You step out in the morning there, your glasses fog up. All of the wrinkles in your clothes just drop away. You learn to leave early and you go slow. Nobody with any sense is in a hurry in the summer.”
“Is that why we’re walking so early and slow in the morning for breakfast? It’s not like the Up Top Cafe won’t be there later this morning? I wish we could be in that AC right now,” said Young Charles.
“You never know”. Old Roy paused and then began his story. “There was this place back home, like the Up Top Cafe. Best breakfast in the ninth ward. Had murals painted on the sides; Kings and Queens and animals bowing to them.”
“What, you mean like the Lion King?” asked Young Charles.
“It was called SIMBA'S. Simba means lion, you know. The owner’s name was Simone Barton, SIM BA. She could cook! I loved that woman, I mean for real. But come Katrina…” He paused to think. “ I went back there a few months after the storm, but she’d left. The building was gutted. The murals were washed away up to seven feet off the ground, leaving just the tops of the crowns, and two birds in the treetops. Gone."
The two walked in silence for a few moments. Young Charles looked down trying to imagine it. His boss stared ahead. It was as if it had happened yesterday.
“So you left?” asked Young Charles.
“ I rode my bicycle over the bridge at Pontchartrain and then out of the city. Got a lift from an old couple in a pickup truck. I rode in the back while it rained. They had all their precious things in that truck; boxes of family pictures, a sewing machine, a big metal lockbox, tools, suitcases, and cardboard boxes of books. The books were getting soaked. The couple didn’t have a tarp to put over it all. I was wearing a poncho, you know, one of them cheap plastic deals. I put my poncho over the books. It was a long night. They dropped me off the next day in Tennessee. The old man came around to help me get the bike out of the back. I told him to keep the poncho… for the books. He placed his hand on my forehead and blessed me! He was some old country preacher I guess? He told me they kept the Bible up in front to stay dry. But that those books were his treasures."
"He said that God helps those that help themselves. And books are one of the ways men help each other. It’s like the words of God coming from men’s mouths through their books, the old country preacher said to me. And that was my calling! I knew my mission in life.”
“So, is that why you have a bookstore?” asked Young Charles.
“I am glad to hear you ask that. It means you are paying attention.”
“We’ve walked to the Up Top Cafe a dozen times, Mr. Roy. You’ve told me stories; some of them more than once. But you never told me why you sell books before?”
“You never asked me, young man. But now you know. You should ask more questions. You’ve got to be curious about the world if you’re going learn anything,” said Old Roy looking at the boy’s face.
“So… why today? Why did you tell me about the books today?” asked Young Charles.
“Because… it was fifteen years ago today that I left. It clicked when you said it was hot today. It was hot then too, just before Katrina hit. The rains came. Then the floods. Then the Exodus. Those ideas are all connected in my mind.”
“Do you miss New Orleans, Mr. Roy?”
“Does a boy miss his momma when he has to leave home too soon?”
“Well, I guess that depends on what his momma was like. I mean if she’s not…,” Young Charles started to say.
“Stop!” That was a rhetorical question. Means you’re not supposed to answer it.” said Old Roy, annoyed. They crossed the street and stood in front of a store window displaying Mardi Gras decorations. “ Well, we’re here, and I’m hungry!”
Young Charles held the door as Old Roy stepped up into the Up Top Café. They were the first customers of the morning. Gladys, a greying middle-aged woman stood behind the counter and smiled at them as she poured two coffees. Without glancing at the menu on the chalkboard Old Roy said, “I’ll have the usual, Gladys, but just black chicory coffee today; no cream. I need to cut back on the fat.” He patted his belly.
Gladys marked her pad as she called over her shoulder. “Grillades and grits, pain perdu, blueberries…” She looked over at Old Roy. “Honey, we’ve got fresh beignets this morning.”
“Oh, you know I can’t resist. Okay. And one for the boy.” Old Roy smiled.
“What else for you, Honey?” she looked at Young Charles.
He stared at the board of handwritten specials speckled in French “Ah, just ham and eggs.”
“That’s your usual isn’t it, Mr. Charles?”
“I guess so.” He smiled, feeling more adult. “Yeah, I guess so.”
The two men sat in their usual booth. Old Roy didn’t bother to slide in all the way. He hoisted his cane over his lap and set it next to the wall. He pulled some napkins out of the dispenser and wiped his forehead.
Gladys brought their coffees and beignets. Old Roy closed his eyes as he bit into the light pastry coated with powdered sugar. He chewed slowly with obvious pleasure.
Young Charles took a sip of the bitter coffee and added sugar and cream. “So, you left fifteen years ago? That’s when I was born!”
“Eat your beignet before it cools off," said Old Roy.
“Do you think you’ll ever go back again, you know, to live?”
“I go back in my mind nearly every day. You know, imagination is a powerful thing. But I also go all over the world and into the minds of thousands of people who write those books we sell.”
“Do you ever wonder what happened to Miss Simba?” Young Charles asked, licking the sugar off of his beignet.
Old Roy laughed. “I do!” There was a touch of sadness in his voice.
"Well, what if you was to come here some morning and she'd be the new chef? And you’d go back to your apartment and she’d cook for you! And you’d read aloud to her at night from your favorite books. And you’d get married!”
“That’s a good story, Charles. You have a great imagination. It’s a lovely dream, like thick sweet cream in my coffee. I can taste it. And I want it. But…” He looked across at the young man who had powdered sugar on his hairless lip. Changing the subject, he said, “Maybe you’ll be an author someday? Hum? Write one of those books that we sell. You think?”
“Order up”, the cook called from the kitchen.
“You gentlemen want more coffee?” Gladys asked from behind the counter.
“Bring it on,” said Old Roy, his arms raised like a preacher.
“You know, It was hot walking here, but now I’m cold?” said Charles, hugging his arms.
“You’ll get used it," said Old Roy watching for the rest of breakfast to arrive.
“And I guess we’ll be hot again walking back to the bookstore," said Young Charles.
“So you say. So you say," said Old Roy spreading a fresh napkin across his lap.
“And tomorrow will be another day,” Young Charles said, his hands folded.
“You never know,” Old Roy said. “But let’s hope so. Amen.”
Copyright © ℗ 2020 by Ken Oguss.
All rights reserved.
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