Love and Butter
I didn’t go for the food and I sure as hell didn’t go for the service. Most of the girls tending the bar acted like they’d never poured a beer before. God help them with a portafilter. Ordering was an exercise in patience and persistence. Given the obvious lack of experience, the hiring manager must have been focused on other qualities.
Roza was the lone exception to general incompetence. She operated with confidence that only comes through familiarity. Red hair and tattoos flaring, both hands worked independently at once while she held a conversation in front of her and flashed with her eyes that she’d be right over. The cafe fell into rhythm during her shifts. Orders arrived on time. Glasses were never found empty. Strangers talked to each other.
Her youth was even more obvious than her experience. I’d stumbled into a rare environment where the youngest was also the most street smart and battle-tested. As my face became familiar through repeat visits, she’d start to linger a little longer by the space where I sat and worked. Professional interactions gradually morphed into casual conversations.
“There’s no peace and quiet in my apartment anymore,” she started one afternoon shortly after locating me at my usual spot.
“Why’s that?”
“My roommates had a party and broke my bedroom door.”
“What a bunch of animals.”
“They’re crazy. And half of them stay up all night. I’ll probably just sleep with earplugs in.”
She made the drink she knew I wanted and sat it in front of me. I let the conversation trail off while my eyes wandered. A box packed with small rectangular cards stacked upright sat a few inches away, just behind the bar. I extended a finger toward them and tapped the surface as if a nudge might cause them to spring to life.
“What’s this? Do bartenders carry business cards now?”
She slid them away playfully and put on a stern facade, “Employees only.”
“Fine, fine. Don’t let me steal your secrets.”
My eyes darted to fresh ink on her left arm.
“That must be new.”
“Mia Farrow,” she said proudly. “Everyone says I look like her.”
“I can see it,” I told her between sips, but my attempts to redirect the conversation hit a dead end as she shifted back to the place where we began.
“I’ll go shopping for a new one tomorrow. I doubt it’s that hard. I can probably figure out how to — ”
“Roza — Do you want me to fix your door?”
She smiled despite herself.
“Would you mind?”
Deep Brooklyn is home to the quintessential starving artist’s house. Bad luck, extenuating circumstances, or an utter lack of resources come together in a single location starved for space and held together with ambition. Twenty-somethings and younger packed into walls that get them as close as possible to the one city on earth they still believe can save them.
I got there at midday and she met me at the front door.
“My room is upstairs on the left, I’ll be right up.”
The path ahead was littered with vestiges of nights gone by. Half-smoked cigarettes. Bottles on the floor. Dishes stacked on chairs. Nothing where it belonged. I stepped over a pile of discarded laundry to get to an open doorway with chipped wood clinging to its hinges.
Inside the room, her right wall was covered with pictures of her and only her. Taken aback and thinking I shouldn’t be looking, I started to reverse course when she came in smirking.
“I forgot to tell you, I’m a dancer too.”
“How’s that going?”
She shrugged, “It’s fine.”
I averted my eyes as her wall tried to reel me in, turning to find a half-intact door lying by the baseboard. I knelt and took a couple measurements while she looked on curiously.
A moment later I stood and faced her.
“I know what you need, let’s go get you a new door.”
One trek, one purchase, and one well-negotiated Uber ride later, we arrived back at the house and made quick work of attaching the new to the old. Once finished, she swung it back and forth, staring like a toddler who’d just discovered the wonder of a light switch. Finally convinced it was functional, she looked at me satisfied.
“Wanna smoke?”
“Sure.”
She gestured me in and sat at the edge of her bed. I took a seat across from her, back to the wall that had tried to seduce me an hour earlier. Her thumbs and index fingers made quick work of their task.
“How do you like living in New York?” I asked to break the silence.
She looked up as if she’d just remembered I was still there. “It’s better.”
“What was it like before?”
“Bad,” she replied between flicks on her lighter. “I thought I was going to die in Poland. When I was 14 I couldn’t stop partying.”
“Blow?”
“Heroin,” she said as dryly as if she were merely observing it was Saturday.
She paused.
“But it’s good now. People in New York don’t party. I mean…. not really.”
Oh goddamn, you’ve seen some shit huh.
I held my face steady as she extended her arm across the room, inviting me to consummate the ritual. As I inhaled, she sat at attention, eyes actively scanning the scene in front of her, searching for hidden motives to uncover.
“Hey, you’re here — you made it.”
She laughed abruptly, “And with a door that stays attached — who can stop me now!?”
The light in my periphery started to flare. I asked about her story and she ruminated over messy details rife with drama: crazy mom, fleeting romance, uncertain future.
Words slowly filled the room, rose to meet the ceiling, and flowed past the doorway and over the cluttered space beyond it. Ambitions, plans, dreams, and fears swirled through the ether, commemorating the moment we’d collided on our path from where we’d been to where we were going.
Steady conversation eventually gave way to silence. The flow of time started to revert back to its normal pace. I checked the clock.
“Thanks for the joint. I’ve gotta go.”
The next evening I stopped by the cafe. As I entered, she was beaming. Within a few minutes I’d been introduced to everyone there as, “the guy who fixed my door.” After several rounds of “you’re welcome” and “of course” and “really, it wasn’t a big deal”, I settled into my usual spot, ordered, and took inventory of my surroundings.
Spring was losing its annual battle with summer and the cafe had arranged itself to take advantage of the conveniences that come with nice weather. Open doorway, outdoor seating, slow breeze filling the interior.
Outside the window opposite me, a woman took a long sip of her drink, leaned back in her chair, and lit a cigarette with the grace of a Hollywood starlet lost in time. Caught in her aura, I looked on to the point of staring, concentration only broken when Roza sat food and a drink in front of me, still smiling.
“Okay, but really, I — ”
“Roza — you’re welcome — we’re good — go flirt with your customers and make some money.”
Her smile grew wider as she rolled her eyes.
A wiry kid in glasses stared at me from across the room, wondering whether I had a name or some people are known only by their highest-value function. I gave him a wink and he ducked away shyly. Behind me, two guys in baseball caps and oversized t-shirts argued over the right combination of words to secure the interest of a girl they’d met one night earlier, hashing out opening lines in search of the one perfectly crafted to appeal to the right parts of her psyche.
Characters of the day cycled through their own orbits, sending ripples through one another’s spheres as they passed. The room soon began to empty as the day crested into the final hours of the weekend and rolled toward the end of another season. Loud chatter subsided. The time-traveling starlet vanished. On his way out, the wiry kid shot me one last glance and let loose a grin.
As I finished eating, I extended my fingers to the back side of my glass to find a card surreptitiously placed just under the outer edge. I turned it up to read:
“When you’re here you’re one of us. Enjoy our friends and family rate. Made with love and butter.”
I gathered my things, slid cash into the check folder, and left quietly. And she went home to finally enjoy some peace and quiet.
