“Regular coffee,” I ordered.
“Regular? What does that mean?” she seemed to say and quickly moved on to another customer. She was beautiful. Everyone here was slim, with clean hair. I felt like an oily otter. When people don’t want to deal with you, they give you a little more time and hope you’ll vanish.
“I’m sorry. What do you want?”
Was coffee still regular? In every bodega in New York City, “regular” meant the same thing. Three sugars, milk, and some watery brown liquid swirled together to taste like home. In Portland, there was no “regular” anything. That seemed to be the whole point of places like the Ace. A voice in my head was saying, “Forget it, Jake. It’s Stumptown.”
“Do you want an Americano?” she finally asked when there were no more customers. I nodded rapidly as she handed me a paper cup and pointed to a pot. I used to be cool. I hung out in Paris with Franz Ferdinand. The Hives took me around Stockholm. Trent Reznor showed me his studio in New Orleans. Ryan Adams too. I’ve met Bowie, Iggy and Lou. The cool me would have asked for her number.