People At A Coffee Shop

People At A Coffee Shop

Working up a sweat on opposite sides of the street.

Temperatures weren’t a problem when the workers reported to the construction site outside the windows of our coffee shop. But the air took on moisture and reached hazardous heat levels when the cyclists arrived hours later.

Saturday morning meant something different to the two groups.

For the union crew it meant overtime pay, which would climb even higher if they worked through the solstice’s extra daylight hours. For the cyclists, mostly professionals, Saturday morning offered a few hours when they weren’t expected to be logged to the system.


Their reasons for being out in the heat were different as well. The workers were there strictly for a paycheck. The cyclists were in pursuit of fitness, athletic engagement and the company of friends.

The riders came together through a “clubhouse” sponsored by a chain of cycling-accessories stores, where it’s easy to pay $300 for cleated cycling shoes and where things are covered with logos. Their bikes, one cyclist explained, sell from anywhere between $2000 to $10,000.

The construction workers by contrast could get by investing as little as $200 on summer work clothes (steel-toed shoes included).

It’s not unusual for some cycling groups to break out into a sprint at predetermined points during a thirty mile (2-3 hour) ride, pushing themselves to challenge their personal best. The workers, on the other hand, are trained to pace themselves during long work days to avoid accidents caused by fatigue and repetition.


What the groups on the respective sides of the street had in common that sweltering morning was the search for shade, a hit of caffeine and some kind of sugar fix. But as luck would have it, there weren’t a lot of first-choice pastries left on the trays by the time they all got there.

If you’re looking for an argument, grab yourself a cup of coffee and pull up a chair.

You’ll find yourself in a rag-tag debating society where arguments are floated on topics ranging from trivial to existential.

At any given table and at any spot in the windows of the coffee shop, clusters of people are exchanging opinions.

Irrefutable facts and hard data are duly respected here, of course, but a quick wit wins the day as often as not. There’s a contingent of leg-pullers, hoodwinkers and bomb throwers who keep things from getting tedious.

A guy named Paul (seated center, blue shirt) enjoys a slight advantage given that he’s dedicated years of his life to arguing criminal and civil points of law.

When a lawyer says he was ‘argumentative’ as a child, it’s probably safe to assume he was a manifest pain in the the ass – which happens to be exactly what you want from the court-appointed attorney defending your rights.

Paul’s career included investigating how police departments, prosecutors and judges met, or failed to meet, their constitutional obligations in dealing with defendants.

He litigated employee abuse, domestic violence and suits on behalf of terminally-ill disabled clients. He won receiverships against landlords who cut off heat to drive renters out of their apartments.

At a time when legislators and insurance companies were openly antagonistic toward HIV patients, Paul Rathburn was recruited by the Legal Aid Chicago’s HIV/AIDS Law Project. It took on a personal meaning when he lost his sister to AIDS in 1998

It’s a welcome change, Paul says, that the directions of peoples’ lives don’t hang on the freewheeling debates he enjoys sharing with his buddies these days.

For the modest price of a cup of coffee (decaf served until 11 a.m.) there’s a seat at the table for all comers, but don’t expect to get the last word.

At our humble coffee shop, there is no such thing as a last word.

The kids have left home and the dog has gone to heaven.

For everything there is a season.

A time to reap, a time to sow. A time to bear children and adopt a rescue dog to teach them empathy. The season for orthodontists is followed by the season of U-Hauls and driving kids great distances to start their careers.

The sun cleared the Section-8 unit across the street as a guy inside our coffee shop watched a mother on the sidewalk playing a game with her son.

She would offer a banana which he refused with an exaggerated shake of the head, only to grab her hand and take a bite. It was his job to make his mother laugh.

The boy was a study in motion. At one point he’d rotated himself fully upside down in his stroller. He’d been hearing about this thing called an “indoor voice” and it occurred to him that being out there on the sidewalk, as outdoors as anybody can get, there was no limit to noise he could make.

For the man sitting inside, this was a opportunity to watch a child closely without fear of being falsely accused of something creepy.

He had made thousands of drawings of children during his career. The balance of their heads, the preverbal language of their hands, their examination of objects and that just-delivered newness continued to fascinate him.

A morning customer and her dog took the next table over and instantly the boy had planted himself on the pavement.

The scene played out exactly as scripted; dog begging for attention meets child being coaxed to pet him. Sooner or later there will be a four-legged sibling in this kid’s future.

The man watching all this unfold cherishes memories of the absolute, moment-to-moment closeness he shared with his own children decades ago.

And while he has no desire to relive those years, to see the seasons run backward, he never refuses the chance to hold someone’s baby in his arms when the opportunity is offered.

Who better to coach young men on male responsibility than an imperfect man who raised five daughters?One of the rewards of sitting outside at our coffee shop is that Lonnie can roll up in his wheelchair and join the conversations.

His life has been more interesting than most.

In no way is Lonnie making excuses for himself when he explains that narcotics became an economic driver in the neighborhood where he grew up; and how they were systemically marketed and distributed.

And he never tried to hide from the young men he was employed to coach on responsibility that he had been “strung out” during a stretch of his life. “They knew,” Lonnie says. And maybe he was better equipped to reach them about the dangers they faced because of his scars and his time on the street.

“Things are difficult for men these days,” he explains. We’re not teaching our sons the things young men need to succeed in a culture wary of them.

The expectations of fathers and breadwinners has changed, he says. Male adolescents don’t have fathers in their homes when they need encouragement most. In many families a man is considered optional.

“I’m a lucky man,” Lonnie Wilson will tell you.

He was raised by an involved father, a stepfather and two grandfathers. Their embrace of “orderliness” as an encompassing virtue stays with him to this day.

Between Tasha, Tiffany, Jasmine, Jordan and Latoya, someone is always coming by to fuss over their father. They dutifully nag about his smoking – “…really, Dad?” – so he’s laid in a ready supply of air fresheners.

Lonnie’s been wheelchair-bound for some years (heart, stroke, brain surgery, etc.) so the doorway to the coffee shop makes it all but impossible to join the winter discussions inside. But he reports making progress with a walker and he’s promised himself to be walking freely next year.

There’s a chair at the big table inside waiting for him.