Epistle 23 – Java

I have a Starbucks gold card, which I think means I hang out there a lot. It’s like your friendly, neighborhood bartender having your “usual” set up on the bar before you even reach your stool. It’s comforting to know there is someplace you always belong. Of course, the barrista (Spanish for bartender) changes more than my shirts, but somehow, despite a bewildering array of ways to serve you a cuppa Joe, they always add a personal touch. “Room for cream?” they ask, genuinely concerned for my every wish. I never request room, thinking I’ll get more for my money, which leaves me anywhere from a half empty cup to a puddle in my lap when I add my own.

How did we ever order coffee in the good ol’ days, without lattes, mochas, cappuccinos and tarantellas? (I think that last one is some sort of dance, but it sounds like it should be on the menu.) I can even remember when decaf was invented—Sanka, I think—so not a lot of menu choices before that. My grandmother ran a diner and all you got was a white cup (made of real glass), with a hot, strong (very strong) dark brown liquid beside a beaker of sugar and a small pitcher of cream, which was probably really milk. But none of this sissy non-dairy creamer or white stuff in little paper bags.

No, sir. Not in the good ol’ days. You ordered coffee, you knew exactly what you were getting. The food service was about the same concept. Regardless of the daily Blue Plate Special, my grandmother gave you a plate of brown, green and white stuff mixed in a glurpy swirl. Her theory was that it all got mixed up in your stomach anyway, so why not give it a head start. Ambiance was supplied by the curly strip of flypaper hanging from the ceiling. One look at that, and you didn’t care about the presentation either.

So much for mellow nostalgia. Back to Starbucks where my gold card (it’s really coffee brown) also allows ol’ Starbuck free access to my checking account so he can make sure I never run out of money while I’m in his store. God forbid I should run out of credit and swoon from a frappuccino attack right in front of the barrista. Talk about service! Oh that my bank should treat me as well as the Bank of Starbucks, which didn’t even get a federal bailout.

And what about the snob appeal? Here I sit, sipping my cardboard Venti, in my overstuffed chair, thinking I should have a cardigan sweater and a pipe. I’ll bet everyone in here knows I have a gold card. The staff continually fawns over me, genuinely concerned for my every need. In fact, just this morning the barrista asked about me.

“Room for cream in that?”

We Will Win

Epistle 18 – Halloween

Autumn in Brewster’s Mill was my favorite time of year. As a lad I could still block out the season that came next and enjoy the brilliant colors, the sparkling sunshine, crunching through the falling leaves, and that special spicy scent in the air—the smell of death. In the good ol’ days, you could burn all those leaves you raked to the curb, and the curling columns of smoke on every street were a cozy end to the green season.

Of course, you can’t burn leaves anymore—to protect the environment, I guess, not to mention all the lawns that caught fire. Maybe burning dead leaves also produced hallucinogens that made young Boomers goofy, sort of a giant, outdoor pot party. Anyway, instead of burning the leaves, today a truck comes along and some guy sucks them up in a big hose. The town leaf sucker.

Of course, the crowning event of autumn is Halloween, the one night when your natural weird habits are encouraged. My first memory of Halloween festivities was the neighborhood Kornstalk Karnival for which my mother dressed me as a really scary . . . Chinaman. There I was, a 5 or 6-year old, tow-headed kid wrapped in an orange oilcloth sheet that came down to my ankles, a Fu Man Chu mustache painted on my face, and a cardboard wok tied on my head.

Terrifying, huh? I can’t imagine where the inspiration for the costume came from since there were no Asians in Brewster’s Mill. Maybe it was that Chinese restaurant we went to on vacation in Milwaukee. Whatever. Anyway, while my brother was honestly earning his treats by ringing door bells, soaping windows and putting fire crackers in mail boxes, I wandered around the Kornstalk Karnival in my Chinese suit, wheedling the adults in charge into tossing candy into my shopping bag. It’s a shame nobody thought to take my picture. I could have been the first Bruce Lee.

Now, the cute little trick-or-treaters are out with their parents and an armed guard on alert for any candy not in a sterilized, vacuum-sealed package. Then, the treats are carefully doled out in exact proportions designed to prevent sugar overload and other assorted dietary maladies. Can you imagine these kids bobbing for apples in a washtub with a bunch of other kids with runny noses? How will they ever build their immune systems?

Of course, thanks to really cool special effects, today’s tykes can get the bejeezes scared out of them by psychos with chainsaws and other instruments of torture.
We had to make do with a stiff Boris Karloff as Frankenstein, a hairy Lon Chaney, Jr. as the wolfman, and James Arness as an arctic carrot, old friends that I’d love to see again but I have to go now. I have an interview for the leaf sucker job.

We Will Win

Epistle 8 – The Devil’s Head Ring

At the tender age of 10, I was battered by the full force of life’s disillusionment. I fell from the giddy heights of ecstasy—a trip to the Wisconsin Dells—to the dregs of existence, all in one horrifying descent.

Today, I am told the Dells is considerably more uppity than it was in 1955, with theme parks, posh hotels, culinary delights and cutesy boutiques. Back then it featured souvenir shops with rubber tomahawks, fake feather headdresses, cotton candy and WWII LST boats that landed our troops on the Normandy beaches, and then probably sank. And that’s not all.

Back in the good ol’ days the Dells had arcades with wet floors, pinball machines (mechanical, not electric), and nickel peep shows that hinted at a lady of questionable character baring her privates, which she almost did just when the show shut off. And she almost did again after you put in another nickel. And another one. The show was a wheel of still photos that you turned faster and faster as your libido soared, until you ran out of nickels.

But that was not the reason for my plunge into the depths of despair. That was due to the Devil’s Head ring with ruby eyes that I purchased for the princely sum of $4.25. In addition to the ring’s obvious esthetic value, it also had a clever “one size fits all” design, which meant you could bend it to exactly fit your finger, just like at Tiffany’s. What a treasure!

All the way home on the bus, I subtly flashed my ring under the jealous gaze of my companions, relishing their envy. All that evening, I nonchalantly strolled about the neighborhood as the adults marveled that someone so young could be so worldly. They didn’t say so, but I could read it in their raised eyebrows and shaking heads.

You certainly can’t leave a priceless piece of fine jewelry like that out for anyone to steal. The temptation would be too great. So I wore it to bed, sinking into dreams of the grand life only a Devil’s Head ring could bring.

I doubt if you can even imagine my despair the next morning as I awoke to find that my left hand was green. It’s true, green. The Devil’s Head ring was not crafted of precious silver. It was made of some base metal, coated with silver paint to deceive even the most expert eye. That reacted with the passionate heat of my 10-year old body to turn my hand green. And one of the ruby eyes fell out. Oh, the anguish, the shame of it all. I was clothed forever more in a suit of cynicism, with a cheap watch as my only bling.

Was Bernard Madoff ever in the jewelry business?

We Will Win