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2004-09-13 20:30:35 ET The Element Cafe was a small coffee and tea shop on the corner of some anonymous Manhattan brownstone with faded plate glass windows and a dirty exterior which gave off the impression of semi-abandonment and lack of upkeep. The cafe itself, in the interior, was a tight squeeze for a public space though the regulars found the few couches and lounge chairs, which took precedence over walking space, to be quite comfy. They'd sit there from the cafe's opening hour of 10am to it's finally closing time of circa midnight. Their hands would rustle the pages of the books they were reading, their lips would be pursed around their clove ciggarettes which were lit and whose smoke would drift into the one slow moving steel gra ceiling fan which would dissect the smoke's twisting spiral column and spread it out into a strange yellowish off-colour that was the residue on the ceiling. The coffee and tea themselves were not the best around. Bought for cheap from wherever it could be acquired the refreshments greatly varied in taste, blend, texture, price, and pretty much everything else. The hot water was boiled in ancient reddish-brown tea kettles which would whistle like an old style steam locomotive whenever the water inside got hot enough. All in all it was a place that tended to depend on its atmosphere for its survival while ignoring such basic things as quality of product and service. Not that the people behind the counter were unfriendly. It's just that they acted with infinite patience as they brewed their latest money-saving concoctions and spouted off their life stories to anybody who would listen. The man who actually owned and ran the Element Cafe, Tom Sproken, was a man from indetermined mid-western origins. He spoke clearly, announciating and pronouncing every word slowly and clearly as if his speech was something precious. He loved to talk and would take you up on any opportunity for a good conversation. That's how one day I learned the real way how the Element Cafe remained open and in bussiness despite having few customers and even fewer regulars. It was a Thursday evening in late Autumn. It wasn't particularly cold but it was raining and quite dark. I had decided to drop by the good old place and try to get me a cup of good old plain tea. As I stepped into the cafe, removed my raincoat and fedora, I noticed that me and Tom were the only people inside. I took a seat by Tom, put my elbow up on the counter and mused out loud how, with bussiness like this, could the Cafe remain open. Tom's eyes flashed, or at least glinted with a certain spark of excitement and conversation. He leaned towards me and whispered, as if there was anybody around us who might, by any chance, hear us, "Have you ever seen the back? Of the cafe?" I hadn't before. In fact I never even knew thatthe cafe had any extra physical space. But now, looking around, I had spotted a dimly lit door in a doorway. Both painted the exact shade of light wood brown as the walls. There was no doorknob on the door. Just a little black keyhole which reminded me of European style locks. Tom got the key out and fitted it into the keyhole. He twisted his hand and the door unlocked with a click and opened up inwards. Tom felt around for the light switch until he found it and flicked it on. We were in an averaged sized room, measuring 10 feet by 12 feet, made to seem small by the 3 bunkbeds which lined the walls perpendicular and parallel to the door. The mattresses in the bunkbeds, where exposed from under the thing grey blankets, were decorated with pinstripes of varous colours with white space inbetween which was yellowed out and worn. By the side of each bed were umbrella holding buckets. But they weren't holding umbrellas but long wooden pipes painted with long flowing lines which resembled streams curving around a thin trunk. The room carried a sense of strangeness and yet there was a slight familiarity to its design. "What is this place?" I asked. Tom nodded for a second, smiled a teeth-baring smile, and spoke quite proudly "It's an opium den. An old style opium den. The Element Cafe survives through the wonderful powers of the modern opium trade." *************** Eh...I'll write more later. I'm not entirely happy with my writing here. As I'm writing it I'm thinking that three-fourths of the lines could be phrased much better. Less cheesy. |
