I turned and began studying the many photos on the wall at Kell’s.
There were pictures of my father with Bob Dylan, Allen Ginsberg, Andy Warhol, The Clash, Willie Nelson, and Patti Smith to name a few. I thought about the future of the café. Although the East Village was now a much safer place for a young, single girl to live, I missed the culture that used to exist. Kell’s had been the hangout, but times had changed. We still had our group of die-hard regulars along with the people sent to us from Sam’s who wanted to sit and enjoy an after-dinner creation, but the mornings were brutally slow for a coffee house. Most cafés had been reduced to a “get your coffee fast joint” where you popped in for your morning latte served up in a paper cup. My father refused to conform to that standard. No coffee was “to go” in our café. Still, back in the day, there was a seediness of the punk rock era in the East Village. The freedom and creativity was rampant, which drew people to gather in places like Kell’s. Gone were those days. I wasn’t entirely sure I would have fit in anyway.
Whenever I had to make a decision, I would hear my mother’s voice of reason. I knew we were not the same, my mother and I, I was sure of it. After all, I was my father’s daughter, too. But sometimes I felt her path made more sense. The safety and predictability of her thought-out plans was appealing to me. She was sensible; she made decisions with her head. Yet even though my mother was the more grounded parent, growing up I continued to heed my father’s words; his passion was contagious. The last time I spoke with Pops, he reminded me to give love and get it in return and to quit fixating on my future. It wasn’t your typical father-daughter talk, but then it never was with him.
My stepdad, David’s, advice on the other hand was mostly logical and usually in the form of a written exercise. If I had a hard decision to make he would say something like “Draft me a list of pros and cons, Princess.” My mother would always be standing right behind him, nodding in full agreement. Before I left for Europe, he insisted that I create a detailed itinerary complete with train schedules and weather forecasts. It was a bit over the top, but it came in handy.
Pops’s only words before I left for Europe were “Have a blast, luv, and stay away from the opium in the Red Light District.”
In the more recent years at the end of every phone call we shared, Pops would address me by my real name and quote Arthur Rubenstein. “Remember, Mia, ‘Love Life and life will love you back.’” He was the eternal lover and optimist; he took it seriously and he wanted me to do the same. I imagine that he and Will would have hit it off.
When the café phone rang I darted behind the counter. Martha grabbed the receiver and in a singsong voice answered, “It’s a beautiful morning at Kell’s. Oh hi, Liz, how are you?” I listened intently as Martha spoke to my mother. I kept my back to her, looking out into the café, but I was hanging on every word. “Oh yes, dear, Mia is adjusting quite well. Really?”
I turned around, shot my hands out, and mouthed “What?” to Martha. She shrugged her shoulders and continued listening. “I’m not sure, Liz. Mia is right here, though, if you’d like to talk to her.” I frantically shook my head back and forth, signaling a firm no. She held the receiver out to me and arched her eyebrows. I took it from her hand but stood there transfixed before putting it to my ear. After Martha disappeared into the café kitchen, I looked over at Jenny, who was slowly catching on. She darted to the espresso machine and flipped the old monster on.
“Oh, hey, Mom!” I yelled. “It’s really busy here and I don’t know if I’ll be able to hear you over the espresso machine, but I’m fine, everything is great! I’ll call you later!”
“Okay, honey, I just wanted you to know I’m coming out next week. Just me. I miss you!”
“Okay, I love you.”
“Love you, too, be safe!”
Jenny turned the machine off while I stared blankly at her. She must have sensed my dilemma. “Mia, you’re an adult and Will seems like a nice guy. I mean, I’m sure there were co-ed dorms at Brown, what did your mom think of that?”
“No, Jenny, it’s the tattooed, starving artist, musician types that my mother rejects.”
“Well, she liked Pops enough, ‘cause here you are.” She smiled.
She had a good point. Could my mother really preach to me about this? Will would simply be my roommate—I wasn’t sleeping with him and he wasn’t twelve years my senior like my father was to her when they met. She had been a wild child compared to me.