Ten years ago at this time I lived far away and worked in a coffeehouse owned by two guys named Joe. If either one of them had had any kind of sense of humor whatsoever, I would have gotten a lot of joy out of greeting them every morning by saying, “Hey Joe, hey Joe, want a cup of joe?” But I never did.

Looking back, it was a pretty great job for a guy fresh out of college to have. But like every job I ever had, I hated it at the time. And also like every job I’ve ever had, I pushed the limits of what I could get away with. You’d think that, on a slow day when I gave certain customers the opportunity to haggle with me for the price of their purchases, that they’d take me up on it and try to get a bargain. Not one ever did. Maybe the inherent problem with working in a coffeehouse is that you’re mostly serving people who haven’t had their caffeine fix yet. Maybe that explains the dire lack of any personality on their part. I never got a laugh once any time a patron would ask for a small Colombian and I’d say, “We have one in the back. He’s definitely very short but he’s a hard worker. He’ll serve you well.” I mean, that’s comedy gold. But maybe a suggestion of human slave trafficking just wasn’t something most people were completely comfortable with. Nor were they anywhere near being fine with the image I broached when they’d ask for a brownie.

The place was called Stonewall Coffeehouse. Every couple days or so I’d actually have a customer ask me about the name, and I’d have to find some way to gracefully tell them that it was probably because of the giant stone wall holding up the ceiling. I usually failed at the grace part. So sometimes I’d say it was named after the famous U.S. general. But I slowly started to realize that most of the people that ventured the question were effeminate men that would smirk and ask it as if they were actually inquiring what kind of underwear I preferred to wear. When I told them the answer, whichever answer I chose at the time, they always seemed deflated. I later learned that the Stonewall Riots in San Francisco in the late 60’s were a watershed event for gay rights in America, and all those men were either very interested in buying their java from a gay-friendly café, or hitting on me, or both. Or maybe they were just really stupid and honestly didn’t notice the giant wall of stone holding up the ceiling. Or maybe they were a big fan of General Stonewall Jackson.

I worked at Stonewall at the height of my addiction phase, and it ended up costing me my job. There were other factors involved, but no recovering addict should try to make excuses for his weaknesses. One of the Joe’s told me to take out the garbage, and I couldn’t tear myself away from the thing that controlled me long enough to follow his orders. I had to get that crossword puzzle done, and until I did the rest of the world would just have to wait. That’s the way I thought back then, and it was a sad state to be in. I was doing up to three or four puzzles a day. They were always so easy to obtain. Without leaving the café I had access to as many as I could handle just from the newspapers delivered everyday. Before I knew it an hour had passed by and the notoriously hotheaded Joe saw that what he’d asked hadn’t been done, and had the other Joe dismiss me at the end of my shift. Naturally there was some “Joe, can’t you talk to Joe? Joe is just impetuous Joe! You know that Joe! Right Joe?” Then both of us got confused and I decided to accept it.

Stonewall Coffeehouse isn’t there anymore. I think I heard that one of the Joe’s stole a bunch of money and ran off with it. If they never found him it’s probably because the police could never keep straight who it was that they were supposed to be looking for. I’ve kicked my crossword habit, with some difficulty. And I no longer work in the service industry, which is probably the best thing for everyone.