Pourin' Java

12:30pm on a Thursday, just South of the Hawthorne Bridge.

“Good morning! Would you like some coffee? Cream and sugar? You got it!”

“Howdy! Cream an’ sugar for ya?”

“Mornin’! Just sugar for you today?”

“Hippie Mike, hello! Black coffee and a cup, coming right up for you.”

“Hey Travis! I can’t remember, you take it black, right?”

These have become regular phrases out of my mouth the past four months. I’ve found myself pouring coffee at the lunches we have on Thursdays and Fridays more and more often. For a myriad of reasons, I think.

Last year and this, I’ve silently dubbed myself as the “Coffee Missionary”. I’m the main one who drinks the stuff. Sure, last year there was a regular drinker, and this year there’s another. One or two who dabble in the decaf occasionally. But none of them as much as I do.  

When we make the brew, I like to think I have some of the better eyes and palate to determine if it’s up to standards. The vat we pour it into is also fairly heavy, so it often falls on me to load it into and out of the car we take the supplies in. And after setting it all up at lunch, there I am next to a line of people waiting for their drink. What is a guy supposed to do, but pour?

“Hi Kate! One with lots of cream and sugar, and another with not a lot of cream and sugar coming right up for you and Jeff.”

“Hi welcome to our lunch, I’m Sam. Would you like a cup o’ joe?”

Often times, it leads to short interactions, without much depth. Exchange cordialities with people, hand them their cup, next in line. But when the line dies down, people can linger there. It turns into an acidic, bitter, jittery water cooler. They can stand and take sips, or get a refill, and we’re able to talk with something else occupying our hands and sight. Quite an efficient way to get some men to open up: have an object or task at hand to distract you.

And, in a life where people don’t get something particular they want and requests all too often go unanswered, I get to be the person who fulfills just the smallest of asks. Most coffee orders are the same. They want an unhealthy amount of cream and sugar. But I’ll still ask almost every time. I want this to be a part of their day when they can be picky. When so much of their days can be just scraping by, and getting food or clothing or toiletries by bulk or from the garbage can, here they can request something particular—not much, just ratio of sugar and cream and coffee—and I will do my best to honor that request. 

And my best to remember any recurring orders. In a coffee order—no matter how generic—I get to know a person. Even if it’s fairly surface level. Recalling what they had last time; their complaints about too much sugar and bringing Splenda packets; already pouring as they walk up and greet me; these are caffeine themed moments of recognition. Recognition that I would say all of us take for granted.

I love pouring coffee. It’s simple. I get to see everyone, at least for a minute or two. I’ll hear a lot of jokes. Learn a lot of names. I’ve been known to dance if the music is right. And, one cup at a time, I get to help build back some dignity and respect for these friends whom I hold so dear.

“Careful! I filled it up a bit too much.”

“You’re very welcome. I’m glad you’re here today.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow? Okay, God bless you too.”

by Samuel Stucki