Coffee Run

Nestled at the very end of a long ominous hallway was the door to a New York Tribeca Park apartment 405.5. Ominous, of course, until Smokey Joe, the apartment’s “super,” finished repairing a damaged lighting fixture. Once the necessary 120 volts of electricity had powered through, thus revealing an art deco décor, the once-scary corridor was no longer. Tacky art choice, it was not. However, Jonathan, the gentleman residing at apartment 405.5, began to grow fond of the art style after repeated debates with his neighbor, Jonah Fishmen. Jonathan sided with a more Art Nouveau style, which he says “feels like a dream.” Today, however, Tuesday, for all intents and purposes, began less like a carefree dream and more like a groggy five-minute nap.

Apartment 405.5, where Jonathan lives, didn’t start as an apartment at all; it began as a small closet, then one disastrous turned fortunate event concerning Jonathan going headfirst through the closet into a never-before-discovered space, gave the new New Yorker an opportunity of a lifetime.

“Hey, Mr. Burger!” Jonathan motioned for the building owner to firstly admit and apologize for damaging property, but secondly, to propose an agreement. Jonathan needed a place to stay, and Mr. Burger enjoyed the exploitation of capitalism. The deal was too sweet for Mr. Burger to pass up as Jonathan even offered to renovate the new living space himself.

“Shall we name this new apartment by the square feet, sir?” Jonathan asked while delicately placing a brush into a small pint of paint. Mr. Burger, a businessman at heart, thumbed through the impressive stack of one-hundred-dollar bills Jonathan had unhesitantly placed in Mr. Burger’s hands. “Sure, kid, go ahead.”

Settled in his new apartment for the past six months, Jonathan woke up this particular Tuesday morning more down than up. Jonathan, a man of reason and logic, pondered to himself, why on this day, a Tuesday, would be any different than any other weekday? The sun was rising, the birds were being chased by a wampus cat.

“A wampus cat?” Jonathan asked himself cautiously. “At this time of day?” Peculiar as it was to see the large feline with the cat’s claw on the tip of its tail whip in the attempt to snatch a bird in mid-flight, Jonathan felt like things were slightly askew this morning.

“I know. I’ll go get my favorite coffee from the shop across the street.” Jonathan thought to himself.

The morning shower didn’t have its normal pep as it normally did, the towel lacked the ability to dry off the dull shower fully, and even Jonathan’s clothes felt slightly uncomfortable. “I will not let this ruin my day.” Jonathan confidently told himself in the mirror while desperately trying to lay a stubborn rogue hair. With a deep breath, Jonathan placed his keys in his right front pocket, placed his Fallout Vault-Tec wallet in his left back pocket, and headed out the door.

Jonathan’s neighbor, residing in apartment 510, Jonah Fishman, was returning from his morning stroll through Rockefeller Park. Usually, Jonathan would be interested in a pleasant conversation, but Jonathan had a goal in mind. Jonah Fishman stood a man of six foot nine. His oilskin overalls and baggy green smock smelt surprisingly like lavender as he paused. “Aye, there ya are, Jonathan! Care to chamber for a minute on the beautiful sea morning I gazed while out stretching my sea legs?” Jonah Fishman removed his leathery oilskin hat and smiled.

“No, not today, Mr. Fishman. I am going to try and cheer myself up with my favorite coffee across the street, sir.” Jonathan did enjoy their conversations, but once Jonathan had an idea, it had to be followed through.

Jonah Fishman opened his apartment door. The smell of the harbor rushed into the hallway. From the door, led a wooden pier with various shops, taverns, pubs, and eateries spanning across it. Voices, chatter, and the occasional swear word roared from the closest pub. At the far end of the pier, a single dock held the grandest fishing schooner to have ever been built. To say that it was a masterpiece vessel for oceanic hunting would only scratch the surface of its brilliance. “Until next time then. You should sail over for dinner!”

“That would be fantastic, Mr. Fishman. What is on the menu?”

“My favorite dish—lasagna!”

Jonah Fishman smiled, gave a hearty laugh, then entered his room. The door gently closed, and as it neared its full closure, a concentrated gust of wind drove clean and fresh sea-scented air into the hallway.

Jonathan continued toward the staircase. He began to visualize his morning treat. In the hallway sat a little girl. Sweet as she was, her speech was even more adorable.

“Meester Burgler is wooking for you Meester Jawn.” Adorable indeed.

Before Jonathan could politely correct Mister Burger’s name, Mister Burger sneaked around a corner.

“Oops—oh, hello, Jonathan. Fancy meeting you here. I wanted to talk to you, but perhaps we could do that at a later time.” Mr. Burger froze in position, dropped two large white canvas bags with dollar signs printed on both, arose erect and proceeded to twirl his walrus mustache. His all black domino mask wrapped perfectly across his face. It matched his black slacks and white and black striped long-sleeve shirt.

“Do you need help with those bags, Mr. Burger? They look heavy.”

“No, no, no, you go on ahead, and I’ll see you before your shift starts.” Mr. Burger slowly picked up his bags and continued to tiptoe down the hallway, pausing after every creak.

Jonathan’s journey to his favorite coffee shop, down the five flights of stairs, across the busy Hudson River Greenway and West Street; nestled between Murray and Warren, he ordered his treat, stood outside, and told himself today will be a good day.