Editor’s note: This meditation on a visit to Boxcar Coffee Roasters kicks off BLDRfly’s first post in a series on locally-owned coffee shops. The posts aim to reflect each shop’s specific vibe.
Although I have many desires for good scenery, I’m fine in my car, blasting warm air with winter dust on the windshield. I’ve already made it and everything else is extra. I have the dog, the apartment, food and doses of sunlight.
Everything else is extra, and that’s a stroll down the block, slush crunching under my feet, frost falling from my mouth, coming upon Boxcar Coffee Roasters, and huddling into the cafe for good coffee.
It’s not to say I’m not working for more life. I am chasing pleasant discovery, a grand cheese wheel in the middle of a cafe. My amusement spreads to a transparent wine room nuzzling a corner. Spinning around, I found the coffee bar. I’d never seen coffee, wine and cheese, sniffing distance from each other (thanks to Boulder’s specialty grocery and deli Cured onsite). What a wonderful combination.
I ordered a cappuccino and a Boxcar Bar and took my haul to a private shadow brick corner behind chatter and cooling company. I had to write copy for my job, posts about gynecomastia, better known as man boobs, caused by a lack of testosterone and a sedentary lifestyle.
The solution is invasive, the results proven – you bite the head off a few chickens. Patrons were oblivious, rendering me incognito and witness to different human percussions. A girl looked into her ghost, blessed sneezes, studied a spine, and drank a drink for her future in solace of October snow company.
The Boxcar Bar was a medley of dried fruit, nuts, and granola held together with honey. It was a testament to the complimentary mix of sweet and salty. As I wrote a paragraph on Botox, all the stimuli surrounding me melted and blurred like the foam leaf in my mug.
I stared at my computer, but pop culture and patrons throbbed in my periphery. Voices, thoughts, and the automation of copywriting became a universe I understood, collecting on my crown like morning bird calls.
“I’m a Goddess feminine … You’re so full … Some cultures still are! Netflix special was so good … Her legs crossed … Yoga!”
Baristas passed by in the hall. “You want us to hang? She could’ve used a Tylenol.” God laughed. “Who registered to vote?”
My attention bounced, diverting to the best candidate for a Brazilian wax. Politics and the weather were more relevant to me than ever. This was the first truthfully scummy climate we faced as a generation. We were picking up Nixon’s litter, gossiping about liquids. Hurricane Michael was thundering down in the panhandle. My family was in the eye. They were fine. Someone somewhere was blaming algae blooms.
Cured’s deli and wine shop contributes to Boxcar’s an upscale, vibrant vibe. Credit: Edward Simpson.
“Have you heard of fracking? They want it here, in Boulder, contaminating schools … water.”
And the goat’s belly. Bear shits will be bigger. Fish will grow a third eye.
“It’s super important.” Super yeah.
Momentarily, the static receded like the tide in the whisper of amigas drinking cappuccinos. Instagram showed Alligator Point wind-snapped and Mexico Beach wasted.
The snow was melting on Pearl Street. Subtle music jingled in tea cups. Laser skin resurfacing could make everyone look younger by melting their skin off. A banner advertised success with local contributions. A metrosexual poured the sugar.
“And the cool Korean was there, too.”
Employees stood by the wine box. Everyone frothed in this patriotic experience, lunching out. I figured shaving your head could make a man honest, even the president.
“So weird … Right after the wedding … On Thanksgiving … Last night, there … We had a connection and went to bed alone … You see, she was at this party, going with them and a sonnet, telling what’s happening to millions and my plan was to go, but I told her to go and all she wanted was a person … Miriam?” Is that name still used?
A lady gave an apple her everything. The waitstaff left us all to the trauma of oral pleasure.
Although the architecture was sleek, something wild raised hairs – a millennial pulse, subtle talk of assimilation to make your own — a suggestion to put art on the walls. Some girls giggled.
“I read a really good book. We’re all God, made in the image of man.”
But I never wanted that responsibility. Coffee clung to the mug like memories. I typed my last post on spider veins, which catch those who don’t move enough, and hauled my belongings with me onto a street slowly winding beneath the mumble of black birds, automobiles and tourists. The people wore layers, and they were all naked.
Feature image: Boxcar in action. Paul Hagey, BLDRfly