I woke up on the couch early. It seemed like only an hour or two since Fibber and her roommate had come in the previous night. I had tried to stay up by reading Sebald but finished the text before they arrived so I blinkingly rested, awakening partially twice as they came in separately, and then a third and complete time when the roommate left at dawn in flip-flops carrying some paperwork. Assuming Fibber would be long in waking I put my shoes on, having slept in my pin-striped slacks and t-shirt, and strolled up Damen. I thought about going back to Atomix but instead, in the name of your continued entertainment, I ventured into Barista Coffee House, Inc.

Depending on your preferences for humor or polite, stimulating conversation, the entertaining portion of the jaunt screeched to a halt. I was skeptical about Barista Coffee House, Inc. from the outside, when I walked by it the previous night on my way home from Atomix. Crossing the threshold did not boost my perceptions. Having carried my new book with me on the walk and hoping to find an arm chair and some morning sunlight I immediately made the decision to get my coffee to go. As if the gate keepers at some kind of mythological temple, two guys flanked the doorway inside speaking at volumes presumably left over from a club or motorcycle ride the night before, about how sexy a woman’s big, round ass was, about how ‘when that thang moves, everybody moves,’ and how much they wanted ‘one of those.’

Beyond the point of no return, I broke off a coffee nonetheless, in a styrofoam cup, from the pleasant Barista, Inc. who called me baby or sweetie which was really endearing but spoiled by the still embarrassing and assaulting conversation that guarded the door. I left a tip, swallowed to seal my ears, looked at the ground, and darted out the door, and drank the elixir while reading Sam Shepard’s ‘Motel Chronicles’ in its entirety before Fibber awoke.

Now, I am not a prude, and my conversations include no less discussion of the male or female anatomy, I merely prefer a bit more well-crafted, subtle, and transformative treatment of human sexuality, rather than the sad and reductive ‘I’m an ass-man’ sort of bluster that the b’hoys at Barista Coffee House, Inc. were crowing. Also not one to limit expression, they can say whatever they want, I’m sure it isn’t going to help them score with the Barista, Inc. Maybe they could have just used their inside voices. I lament that I won’t ever know how well it played out for them.

coffee, cafe, coffeeshop, review, café

Barista Coffee House Inc

852 N Damen Ave
Chicago, Illinois 60622