Caped coffee crusaders

IN the town of Bethel, Connecticut, there are many Victorian houses, flaunting their charm unto the passers-by, but inside one such house, once owned by the Dolans, there is a coffee shop named Molton Java, and inside that coffee shop is me. Writing this.
I sit in the far back of one of the back rooms, on a dark wooden bench that appears to be made of cherry wood. Two 2x2 tables are placed butted up against each other in front of me, and next to them on the left of me, is an unplugged flatscreen TV, a music stand at half height, a light mildly-tinted wooden bench, a small red amplifier, and a microphone stand sans microphone. I assume that these are symbols of a place that puts on small scale open mic nights - this assumption can further be accentuated by the multitude of painted guitars that festoon the purple upper shelving of the walls, and every so-often, make a guest appearance on the windows.
This is a vibrant place; it is not one solid color from wall to wall, though the color scheme remains solid throughout. In front of me is an olive green wall, complete with a double-wide doorframe and two small windows - each bordered with purple molding. Beyond that is another polyhedral room that deters from the bland rectangular shapes of most shops (a caveat of older Victorian buildings, that often favored hexagonal shapes in their outer corners). The walls alternate between the olive hue and a pumpkin-esque orange color that enjoys the usage of white frames and borders, over its’ counterparts purple frames, Detached doll parts adorn the pictures on the wall, here, and near each picture, I can make out small tags of the artist from whom these works were created.
An amazing scent of coffee wafts through the air here - it’s likely the best smell of all of the coffee places I have been, and one that reaches your nostrils the moment you approach the front steps. I believe, in part, it must be due to the fact that - unlike many other coffee houses - they roast their own coffee beans in microbatches in this very place, to ensure the quality of their coffee.
Most of the tables are taken up by people on their laptops, typing their way through work and sipping on one of the dozens of coffee concoctions Molton Java makes. I can hear the laughter and animated voices of the owner and the employees in the background; it feels good to be in a spot that you know - by the timbre of their voices alone - that they not only enjoy what they do, but take pride in it. Just moments ago, the owner described how it was that she made a certain dish to a customer at the counter and exclaimed “I love making delicious food! It gives me extreme joy to deliver it and see people enjoying it.” It is a sentiment that I, too, share.

I have two coffees in front of me. One is no more than a chamber of ice, barren of its’ liquid beauty, the other is more than half-full and growing cooler by the minute as I tap these words into existence. I usually don’t double fist at coffee joints, but the entourage of special brews they had left me without much of a choice (to this day, this remains the only coffee place where when they called “Batman”, they were not referring to the name I had given them, but the banana espresso drink I ordered). Their drinks are pun-tastic, and nerd-centric. They have drinks that make reference to many different comic characters, and pay homage to the Star Wars franchise and well-known icons, including such coffee beverages as Princess Slaya, and “Betty White Mocha” that decribes itself as a delicate White Mocha that has “ a hint of Rose” (and yes, the “R’ in “Rose” is capitalized in reference to the Golden Girls character). Each special has its’ own artwork plastered on the wall in front of the counter.
By far, this coffee house has become my favorite waypoint so far.

It has definitely become cold here in Connecticut, as is expected, as the beginning of December starts to rear its’ head, ushering in the Holiday madness. I’ve officially begun the process of layering like an onion to keep myself warm. As it stands, I am currently wearing the eccentric maroon jacket my adopted brother gave me after his dog tore up my aviator jacket, a hoodie my niece gave me temporarily in exchange for my Nintendo hoodie (which is almost a bargaining chip to guarantee my return to her - though, one that will never be needed), an old Advil Relief in Action Campaign t-shirt from 2013, and a Neon colored Batman long-sleeve I found in the Kids section of Walmart many a year ago (that actually fits me). Two out of four of those layers are fresh and clean, while the jacket is something I’ve worn now for three days, and hoodie is slowly but surely loosing the faint smell of Malboro Reds it gained in Maine, when visiting my friend Joe that no one had seen in 9 years five days ago.
But, such is the life of a nomad, You don’t always have access to a washer and a dryer, and currently, a majority of my clothes are in a desperate need of a wash. Luckily, I can’t say the same of me. I am fresh and squeaky clean.

I fit a lot into these last six days. even though part of me had felt that I hadn’t done quite enough. Wednesday of last week, I traveled out from Point Pleasant, in the south central part of New Jersey - where I had spent some time with my niece - to Clinton, in the North West part of New Jersey, where I visited my very close friend John for a few hours. Clinton served as the resting point of the night, about 30 minutes out from Bloomsbury, where my uncle Rich resides.
I had made up my mind a few days prior that I would be making the trip to Maine - it had been two years since I had first spoken to Joe again. Then, I was residing in the Florida Keys during the pandemic, face to face with a lump of cPTSD left after continuous tragedy; I was partially abandoned, and building a miniature golf mostly solo. At that time, no one had seen or talked to Joe in many years, but at the behest of my friend Kitlasz who urged me to use the “Miller powers”, and a strong desire to finally break that silence, I went through his mother on Facebook, obtained his number - and reached out to the bastard. Not long after, we had a group of us that hadn’t been together in more than a decade continuing a twenty-two year old DnD campaign we had started as teenagers online, and at least a few of them realizing that we all cared about and loved each other.

I guess that sentiment was the driving force (literally) behind the decision to go see Joe. Back in Highschool, things were easier. We were all in the same town, and during those times it was Max who used to bring all of us together. Since Max passed in 2009, many of us have moved out of our hometown - some of us to different states - and in a twist of irony, the one who seems to suck at communication the most (me) has become the common tether of communication between the distances, tasked with the quest of delivering the care in person (by none other than myself).
I can’t say Joe had left on the best terms. When he left Johns house in Glen Gardner, he left a broken promise to his little sister to return, which he never did. John never saw him after that, though he had simply moved back to our home town in South Plainfield. When he left Mike’s house almost a decade back, he left for Maine to be with his mom, after his step-father had passed, and in turn, left with debts unpaid and junk left behind. But, time has done its’ diligence in silencing those begrudgments, and as of me leaving Johns on Tuesday - I was carrying both the blessings and love of Mike and John to be delivered to Joe. Mike, in fact, had tasked me with something even greater than Kitlasz had; he had tasked me to gather the crew together in a year for a boffer fight in Cotton Street park - like we had when we were younger.
My pit stop after a nights’ rest in Clinton, was to my Uncle Rich, where I spent a few hours with him, helping him sort things, talking about family, and cheering him on during physical therapy. I hit the road around 2pm.
A lot of the drive was straight-forward, with a few stops in-between the 500+ mile trip to Dexter. It served as a testament to the odd things that happen to people in their 30s. My shoulder started to cramp, my hand started to seize, and my ass, on more than a few occassions, went numb. I drove most of the distance in a day, taking non-toll roads through the backstreets of increasingly dark rural areas that forced me to slow down due to sharp turns, and the unpredictable deer before I decided to abandon the choice in favor of a better-lit, less deer-ridden, and straighter highway that I knew I could go at least 5 miles per hour faster than the speed limit.
I ate that night in Newburgh, NY, at a place called North Plank Road Tavern, which served the best chicken I have ever had via the hands of the kind waitress, Julie.
The Tavern was pitched as fine dining experience, but I found the prices reasonable. I ate in the dimly lit setting of the old speak-easy that was built as a house in 1801. The walls were painted in a style that gave an illusion of wood, and the doors still had skeleton keyholes. here, they called me “Sir”, and walked with their hands behind their backs. They carried silverware on plates, and lit cadles. I remember as I ate, wishing to mention that they could call me “Ryan.” I’ve never been much for the high class treatment of being called “Sir”; we all stand on the same level. It reminded me of riding first class back from new Mexico, and the flight attendants called me by the same, and kissed my ass a little too much, not knowing or caring that this ass is a dirty ass that has seen the bathrooms of a public restroom in a park, and much prefers sleeping in the back the car during travel, as opposed to the giant beds of lavish hotel rooms that often have wasted amenities.
I rested that night at 1:30am, about 3 hours from Joe’s place, partially sickened by the 220 dollar price point of the hotel room, and wishing that my car was clean enough to park at a Walmart for the night. I woke at 8am, and chugged along straight to Joe’s.

On a road up a hill, Joe stood in his driveway.
He had grown a Abraham Lincoln on his chin and had lost a bit of weight since I had saw him last.
I rolled down the window “How’d you know that it was me who drove passed you? The license plate?”
”Yep” he stated.
I opened the door and greeted him with a giant hug.
The years of not seeing one another melted away in an instant, and the process of catching up began.

I met his fiancé, Kaitlyn first. She stood about the same height as Joe - near 6ft, but she had long black hair and a kind smile. it immediately became evident that Kate was a force of creativity - she imbued intelligence, and her words danced playfully in the playground of all of my nonsequitors and absurdist bits. I couldn’t help but to have an appreciation for her and Joe finding one another, as it was evident that Joe was not only happy, but stimulated through her existence.
Kate made a living working for herself, crocheting and creating with a speed and efficiency unlike any I had seen before; during casual conversation she crocheted about four 3D alien creatures in an hour. Joe worked for Dunkin as a baker, taking the night shift, but sacrificed sleep to be a present and caring father in the life of his children.
Joes kids were giants for their age, standing nearly 3 foot tall at the age of 5, and nearing that size at the age of 3. Both of them were autistic and mostly non verbal, yet they had an abundance of energy and heart, that they undoubtably received from their parents.

The day i arrived, Joe and I went out for lunch, where I tried a red hot dog for the first time, and got to see places and things that over the years that Joe had spent up there, had become staples for him - solidifying into static moments that though passed, exist forever in the ether of the area. I saw his old apartment, heard stories of the hauntings he experienced, saw the lakes he stood by, learned of the trails he traveled along, and even got to see the house of Stephen King, where he and his fiance had seen many a Halloween.
That night, we spoke of spirituality, energies, art, and existence while staring at the clear night sky full of stars in the cool Maine night air; the crab Nebula visible in close proximity to the North Star. I was invited to crash for the night, and Joe and I took a small adventure to the local Walmart for a blow-up mattress, and made a sidequest to the giant lake nearby his home, where the history of an old railroad track stood just barely visible along the neighboring trail.
I told him that this journey served dual purpose, and in this regard, I am much like Nick Fury, assembling the Avengers.

During the drive up, Mikes request of getting everyone together for a boffer fight evolved into my desire for a Thanksgiving meal with all of the old friends - and Joe became the first that I asked.
Joe said yes. And so it had begun; a new quest was born.
The first relay of that message was planted about an hour ago, in a Facebook message to Mike.

That night, many nights ago, however, it was still gestating. Before I bedded down in Joes house, many miles from “home”, I found that we could Airbnb a mansion that could fit us all, and now it is in progress to an actuality.

Unfortuantely, actuality can sometimes be a bitch.
I am still sitting in Molten Java - it has been three hours since I first sat down and began to write, Most of the people who were here when I arrived have been replaced by other people in this waypoint. One couple seems to be talking about travel, and as my laptop reminds me that it not a product of infinite battery, my ass has begun to numb, piss has accumated in my bladder, and the coffee-less iced coffee of my Batman drink has melted mostly into water, like sand falling into the bottom of an hourglass - I am reminded that it is just about time to go.
There are three hours that lay between me and my destination of Johns’ house, and a battle with Google maps that I still must take to avoid crossing through NYC, the George Washington Bridge, or the once toll-less Tappan-Zee bridge (now named after Governor Cuomo).
So alas, I bid thee, my undoubtedly low count reader base, adieu for now.
Stay tuned for the continuation.
And fuck perfect endings.