from "The Station"
DECEMBER
“I’m having a baby.” Karen announces.
“Congratulations!” I blurt out, “Brian and I are getting married!” Brian looks over at me bewildered; it’s subtle and suspicious. I send him a flirty wink, then turn to Karen, “I’m so happy for you. When’s the date?”
“September, around Labor Day” she says.
“How appropriate!” I say to this complete stranger of a friend, “we’re getting hitched in September too.” I continue to baffle Brian. “My favorite month,” I remind them.
There’s a moment of cold silence as the hot entrees are served.
“Well,” she continues while poking at her pesto pasta, “I’m not actually pregnant yet. I’m just announcing that we’re trying to get it done.”
“Trying to get it done?” I say somewhat bemused, biting off a piece of a french roll, “Yeah, well, we’re not actually getting married. I’m just floating the announcement to see how it sounds.”
Karen and I are having problems. The pressure of opening The Station and maybe not spending quality time together is causing some strange riffs like the above conversation. She knows pregnancy is still a sensitive issue with me, and not something I want to discuss in public over dinner, especially with Brian present. I know if I were ever getting married she’d want me to discuss it with her first before making the announcement. I’ve no intention of marrying Brian, nor he, me.
These insensitive warning shots are aimed at our faltering friendship. Brian’s caught in the crossfire.
“You want to get married?” he asks as he and I walk back toward my apartment. He’s not asking me to marry him, but trying to clarify what’s going on inside of Halley.
“No. I don’t want to talk about it right now.” If I were Brian I’d toss me in front of the approaching bus.
“You were a little rude to Karen, taking away her announcement. Seemed a bit strange.”
“I’m strange, I am what I seem. What can I say?” She wanted to have dinner alone with me to discuss something. I guess she was upset that Brian showed up. She doesn’t think too highly of the Brian arrangement. Of course she’s right. Except this is the one night for our rendezvous ritual. I wish she could time her crisis for another evening.
By the time we get to my apartment I’m not in the mood for anything. “Brian, would you mind if we skipped tonight?”
“I was just thinking the same thing. I need to think about things.”
“Yeah, me too.”
Brian takes a few steps away then turns and says, “Maybe we need to move on. It might be healthier.”
“Look, call me when you get home.” I wave to him and disappear behind the glass door.
“Halley, you’re not there for me.” Karen starts off, voice too close to the receiver, “I asked you to come alone. I had something I wanted to discuss with you.”
“The pregnancy?”
“I know it’s a sensitive thing with you. That’s why I wanted to talk face to face, alone.”
“I can’t help it. Brian and I spend every other Thursday night together.”
“Does he know about Peter?”
“Karen, I don’t know about Peter.”
“I wanted you to know that Jared and I are trying to have a child. You’re my closest friend. I wanted you to know.”
“All right. I know…” I can be a real jerk. Karen and I have been through so much this year. Her happiness is important. The Station is threatening to reduce service on the Karen-Halley line. “Karen it’s not that I’m unhappy for you, it’s just triggering all the crap I went through…” My eyes are leaking.
“Maybe you need to talk about it, Halley.”
“I haven’t had an orgasm since last January.” This admission causes a pause, which seems like about an hour of dead air time, “Karen?”
“Why didn’t you talk about this stuff,” she says finally, sincerely, “I’m your friend. You’re my best friend.”
“I shouldn’t have had... I’d be a mother right now.” I haven’t vacuumed since February.
“Oh Halley…”
“I made such a horrible, ghastly mistake. I’m so fucked up...”
“Hey, you’re no different than you were at ten.”
Of course she’s right, and this little bit of insight triggers a laugh and lightens the mood. “Thanks for reminding me,” I sniffle.
“We’ve got The Station. That’s worthwhile and meaningful, so far. I spent the day searching for the right bentwood chairs. Neville dropped off all of the posters. They look great. You get the plants?”
“The nursery will drop them off next Thursday. That’s if the paneling is finished… You’ll need a nursery.”
“Yeah.” She says.
“Karen, forgive me. I want you and Jared to be happy. You’ll be a great mom and I’ll be there for you. I promise.”
We go on and discuss contractor issues, wholesale vendors, licenses, employment and taxes. These issues have interfered with our intimacy. It’s pleasant working with someone you care about deeply. The Station was to be our resurrection and retreat. But now it’s becoming obvious it’s not going to be enough, there’s got to be more to life. Karen wanting a child is a clear signal The Station is not fulfilling deeper needs.
“Brian,” I say pausing to calculate how I’m going to toss a backstabbing knife without injuring its target, “Do you remember Peter? He and I have, had an affair for almost two years. I’m extremely sorry and ashamed and embarrassed that I never told you.”
Brian doesn’t reply. I shouldn’t have said anything.
“Brian?”
“I guess I knew.”
“It wasn’t right not to tell you. I’m sorry.”
“Halley, I’ve been with other women since we split. I know you’ve been looking around.”
“Then why…”
“Why? ... Because you and I know our limitations and are not expecting anything more than what’s before us…Plain and simple.”
Plain and simple. Brian. This is good to hear. “Yes it is.”
“Look what happened with Jess. God, it was nuts. Dating sucks. People go in with such unreal expectations. It takes a long time to establish what we already have. I know it’s not enough, but what it is is good and appreciated, most of the time.”
And that is the gist of it. Brian nailed it down. We don’t expect anymore than what we already have established and that is how we have survived. I feel a heavy burden of guilt gone suddenly. Talking about the abortion with Karen also released some imploding pressure. I’m feeling light and airy and Peter Pan-ish and can’t wait to fly around The Station…
The next morning Karen and I are working in the covered window storefront that will soon be The Station. We’ve changed the table layout five times, unboxed and shelved supplies, spread out the thirty bentwood chairs, replaced warped tabletops, hung posters, created a mini-jungle with potted trees, potted palms, hanging vines. The refrigeration guy had to replace the non-existent freon. The spiral staircase had to be dislodged and reset six inches.
Jared got hold of four old wooden benches from a closed down Amtrak station in Jersey. Last week we reconfigured these urine-scented seats into three good benches, and then stripped the varnish and refinished the oak strips into fantastic looking newness.
Except for leaking toilet valves and off-kilter tile work in the women’s restroom, the place is becoming an exact replica of the original dream. It’s unbelievable. It’s my baby. (the irony and symbolism does not escape me – this took nine months from dream to reality).
Karen breaks it down thusly: We’ll need to bring in at least $1000 per day to break even. That’s 200 customers spending an average of $5 per visit. Karen, Jared, Neville, and I agree on $100 per day pay (plus tips) for the first three months. After that we’ll refine our strategy, expand staff and menu, or close and sell. The reassessed rejuvenated space alone will help us recoup most of our investment.
I receive a cryptic Christmas card from Peter. It’s a watercolor of jolly-wolly Santa laughing on the cover; on the inside there’s a close-up detail of same picture – but Santa’s actually crying. It’s signed, “missing you -- Peter.” I will not get my hopes up. We had a loving relationship. Had. Long ago I tried to freeze him out of my life. Now he’s at the North Pole. Karma. Brian’s voice keeps reminding me that reduced expectations are the key. The search for happiness can cause unhappiness.
Christmas Eve is spent at The Station going over supplies, menu layout, lighting and internet hookup for customers. At midnight I unwrap the windows; it’s the best present I’ve ever had. I work all day at The Station and go out of my way to wave to every passerby and point to the Grand Opening signs on the windows. Peter does not appear suddenly but neither does Santa, and I seem to be okay.
Karen and Jared have been working on the last minute construction and installation of a small elevated platform that will allow a model train to move slowly around the bar carrying finger pastries. His idea. (He’s a keeper. But I guess she already knew that. I can see that I was wrong once again. So I must be getting better…)
The anxiety of opening is beyond my scope of experience. How do performers do it? Self doubt is filling in for the vacant customers. Publicity is my responsibility. I dream of an unaffordable ad in the New York Times, but end up blanketing the immediate area with Grand Opening leaflets containing coupons for freebies. We’re going to lose money for sure.
New Years Eve. Grand Opening. Asian tsunami obliterates 150,000. An incredibly stupid war in Iraq. I’m not up for this. All I can think of is that I am not good at anything. Anything I can do you can do better…I can’t do anything better than you.
The Station opens at 7:00 p.m., New Year’s Eve. I’ve forgotten why we’re opening at seven and on New Year’s Eve. I think it has something to do with trying to be special, different. It may give us some sort of tax break before the end of the year. Ask Karen.
She and I take turns greeting customers while Neville and one of us works the coffee/tea, pastry/dessert bar. Jared, resident conductor, keeps the train rolling and takes pictures to post on the computer periodically so everyone can see themselves as a part of this historical moment.
The self-service seems to be working okay. People are busing their own tables. Intelligent, reliable crowds frequent cafes. Let’s hope…the screen saver photos are a real hit. People love themselves…everyone climbs the staircase to the stars. There’s only room for eight people on the loft landing, so most of the ascenders come down as fast as they went up.
The train, after a collision with a misplaced cup, pulls everyone’s imagination with it. A journey to innocence and beyond. We can’t quite figure how to keep track of the pre-packaged goodies riding the railcars. Luckily the customers are being honest tonight.
By eight o’clock the place is filled, thanks in part to the one free drink opening cut-out coupon. I’m finding that I love serving people. This is an unexpected bonus. At 8:05 Karen calls my attention to the doorway. Through palm fronds and metal slats of the spiral staircase I spot my mother. Behind her I see Tom, the stepfather whom I haven’t spoken to in years. Karen’s re-introducing herself to them and then lets out a very animated shout of surprise, “Halley, we’ve got some special guests!”
I wipe my sticky stained hands and proceed from behind the counter to officially greet what is my family. Halfway there, worrying about what I’m going to say to Tom, I see there are two other members in their trailing party. The tanned young man in particular. My eyes immediately scan the gloved hand and his black boots. Nothing seems out of the ordinary except he’s moving forward awkwardly and slightly out of synch.
“Knute?” I say. He nods and smiles at me. I scream, “Knute!” I’m so overjoyed I want to give everyone in the house free drinks, but then I remember most of the customers are already nursing freebies. “How did you …”
“They came to visit, and invited us up for New Years!” he says this while hugging me and pointing to mom and Tom. The Iraq tan is healthy and is a decent cover for his maimed hand and leg.
“Pauline!” I reach out and pull her into this magnetic circle, “Thanks so much!” Thanks for being here, thanks for bringing Knute, thanks for contacting me, thanks for the memories…
“Tom and Eva,” she says, “they treated us to the visit!”
“We all flew up together,” Knute says, releasing us so that Tom and mom, those fabulous Sarasota philanthropists, can also get deserved recognition from their distant-but-closing-fast daughter.
“Hey, you two,” I wrap my arms around mom and Tom, “I will never forget this! I love you both!” An emotional moment can make you admit some to some strange, buried truths. My family. I actually have one.
“The place looks great!” says Tom. And he means it.
"Well,…” says mom, AKA Eva, searching the room for the right words, “…Finally!” Meaning: I did good.
This is certainly the highlight of my life. Mom came through. Tom came through. Our ten year feud over him moving mom to Florida was now thing of the past. He had been right. I am humbled by my ignorance.
The rest of the evening passes quickly. Brian, Sy, Doreen, Mom, Tom, Knute, Pauline, all crowd the bar exchanging stories and jokes and family lore. I float around them in some profound trance. I’ve done something right. This is the wedding night of my friends and family. I refuse to have them pay for anything. If The Station were to fold tomorrow, I would still chalk it up as a huge, personal success. Then kill myself. Kidding.
Karen was correct thinking that many people do not have to consume alcohol on New Year’s Eve. People want to be with people and feel a part of something new.
But perhaps I exaggerated about The Station being filled-up. Not counting friends and family, there were about twenty people at Ten O’clock, then almost everyone went over to experience the countdown celebration at Times Square. At midnight there are only the four owners and a disheveled guy sipping a free coffee on our warm refurbished bench.
We made less than $300 from 7 til midnite. Which means we actually lost $300 after accounting for the free drinks.
“All right,” says Karen, “We, I, overestimated the party moods of New Year’s Eve. …maybe we should sell alcohol.”
Karen, Neville, Jared, and I are gathered at the door ready to head over to my apartment for a post-opening party. Friends and family are already there, at least that was the plan.
“People enjoyed themselves,” Neville says, “and they’ll be back.”
“Hopefully not looking for free stuff all the time,” says Jared, “What an experience.”
There’s a silent syncopated nodding and smirks agreement with Jared's experience comment as the lights dim to dark and the door opens to angel flakes and crisp fresh air.
“I loved it,” I say with a surge of joy.
January Redemptions
And so ladies and gentleman, unable to sleep and wired on coffee, I’m sitting here back at The Station moments before the first dawn of the new year. I’ve got to tell you it’s pretty cool sitting in your own café on New Year’s morning. I’m overwhelmed with optimism, things are remarkably better than a year ago. I’ve given up and accepted the fact that life won’t get any better, but will fluctuate between happiness and despair, hopefully giving some semblance of balance in the larger picture. See decades, not days. See lifetime, not daytime. See life, see death. Give good service. Start a checklist for 2005.
GOALS For 2005
1. Better sleep
There’s a tap on the window. A guy in a blue denim jacket is waving hello. This is immediately followed by tapping on the eastside window. Three young revelers are giving me a thumbs-up. I return the thumbs up and smile. There’s more tapping on the south side window. Now there’s at least eight people all waving. A man in a red down parka is pointing to his wrist, his watch.
The clock through the ferns says it’s 7:15. We’re not supposed to open till eight on weekend mornings and holidays. New Year's is a holiday, isn’t it? I gaze back at the windows and they are completely filled with faces. It’s eerie; reminds me of The Birds. Everyone flaps hello. But I’m getting scared. Someone is waving a flier from last night. It’s bizarre. I want to let them in but I’m alone.
I call Karen. She’s not due in till noon. That’s when I’m supposed to meet up with my family. I still can’t believe it.
“Pick up, pick up…Karen, Halley. I’m at The Station and there’s a big crowd outside. I don’t know what to do…” just as I’m saying this I glance at the publicity flier I covered the neighborhood with. Uh oh –
The flier lights up as big as a Broadway Billboard --
Welcome The STATION! ---- Well, come to The Station!
New Years Celebration and Grand Opening at 7.
Free drink for new customers.
The flier left off Eve, as in New Year’s Eve Celebration. And p.m., as in Grand Opening at 7 P.M. !
Oh my god...
It’s totally my fault. I shouldn’t be doing fliers when I’m filled with self-doubt and full of anxiety for not being good enough. See everyone, I can prove it! Incompetent imbecile.
“Karen, I need you to come down now! Hurry. Bring Jared.” I don’t explain the reason. She’ll find out soon enough. Luckily they’re staying at my place two blocks away.
Neville is supposed to be in at 7:30 anyway, ten more minutes. I can do this. I flip on the lights, throw My Goals for 2005 in the trash and open the door. There are a million people crowded around the entrance. I’m so tired and exhausted, I want to cry. Instead I start an uncontrollable laugh, real insanity-sounding side-splitting laughter.
“Halley!” shouts a voice somewhere in the sea of bargain hunting revelers. I’m cracking up, going off the deep end. I’m going to die, no doubt about it. These people are going to trample me and trash The Station. A hand wriggles out and grabs my shoulder. This is it, this is the end my friend. I look up into my father’s glare and his calming smile, actually he’s laughing at me, “need some help?”
“Daddy!” I shout hysterically. This must be entertaining to the crowd. Free drinks and free entertainment, Crazy Lady and Nowhere Man. My life has become a movie. A blockbuster! Success! Sanity! Loved by all! War victims! Reconciliations! Family bliss! Ghosts! I want Cate Blanchette and Johnny Depp!
But it’s Neville who leads me back inside. It’s all a blur from then on. Neville and I, soon joined by Karen, are dishing out freebies. Jared tries to get everyone’s picture but some people think it’s a government set up and leave before getting captured on camera. This exodus probably saves us a few hundred dollars.
We honor the first two hundred coupons and offer rain checks for those who couldn’t deal with the hour wait for the free drink. The Station is supposed to be my salvation, not the Salvation Army.
We close at nine A.M. due to being out of supplies and out of our minds. Someone hijacked a rail car for a souvenir.
We’re gathered around the bar/model train derailment sector.
“How many did you print up?” Karen wants to know, leaning on the counter.
“Five hundred?” I say sheepishly. It’s probably closer to a thousand.
“Oh, my god!”
Last night everyone’s friends got free drinks. I had the most visitors. That’s got to be resented. Now this. There’s an awkward chill in the air, as if everyone has left the room. The dream is always better than the reality. Jared’s wishing he was at Microsoft; Neville’s imagining EBay winnings; Karen’s cuddling her newborn. But I’m here, stuck where I want to be at The Station.
“I will pay for it. It’s totally my fault.” I admit, “I insist. That’s that.”
“Look, it’s not five hundred,” Karen says, “Maybe half that. We would have spent much more on a small ad in the Times. We need publicity to make this a go. But from now on, let’s agree that everyone pays, including friends and family.”
We nod heads on this very basic bankruptcy-avoidance agreement.
Jared yawns, “You know, you might have bought five hundred customers. It might turn out to be a very good idea, Halley.”
“Ben And Jerry’s does a free day every year,” Neville reminds us, “And their business is great year round.”
“Everyone loved The Station,” Dad points out, “I heard nothing but praises and compliments.” I’m the only one who can see and hear daddy-o.
“Not a good way to start off, huh?” I say, “I’m really, truly sorry.”
Neville says, “None of us would be here if not for you. Let’s chalk it up to experience.”
“Inexperience,” I say. “We’re about $1500 in the hole. I will take care of that. When and if we start getting ahead, then we can look at reimbursing this unique publicity. Okay?”
There’s resentment toward what I did for sure, but no one resents me more than me, and they know that, plus they’ve cut me some slack because I’m the mother of The Station and in charge of publicity. In secret though, the hordes of people didn’t really bother me. I felt useful for a change. “I’m sorry,” I say, curled on the swirling staircase, “Maybe we should apply for non-profit status.”
They laugh. My joke. I’ve told my first joke. No quizzical what is she talking about look; they go straight into laughing. Maybe it’s from total exhaustion, but it counts. But I wasn’t kidding. I’ll broach the idea later.
“Group hug?” I say descending the stairs. Mama Station opens her arms and Karen, Neville and Jared shield me momentarily from the slings and arrows of outrageous self-inflicted misfortune. In the middle of this orgy of spent Station Agents, Dad whispers, “That was a zinger, baby-doll!”
“Way to go Halley!” Peter shouts from the purple heaven above and suddenly slides down the circular stair railing. He slams into dad and they roll over on the floor like two large puppies, instantly establishing best buddy status and marking the interesting and unexpected return of my Bubble Land. Too bad that Karen, Jared, and Neville can't enjoy this.
Well, it’s kind of nice to have a back-up thing, an island of sanity. Some people have religion. I have Bubble World. A haunted Station Karen might appreciate too. I’ll tell her later.
Oh, yes, one last intriguing bit of serendipitous joy thing ---
Today, January 2, 2005 the New York Times splashed a feature photo in the Local section with the caption: Happy New Year’s! mob scene at The Station, new café opening yesterday to boisterous business.
The photo was surrounded by very expensive ads.
Marketing genius.
“Will you stop it!” I have to yell at Peter and dad to stop playing catch with an orange… “windows are breakable, guys…” Geeze.
This year is going to be great!
"December / January Redemptioms," excerpt from "The Station" © 2005 by John Kirkmire, ©2013 Kirkworkshop. All rights reserved.
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DECEMBER
“I’m having a baby.” Karen announces.
“Congratulations!” I blurt out, “Brian and I are getting married!” Brian looks over at me bewildered; it’s subtle and suspicious. I send him a flirty wink, then turn to Karen, “I’m so happy for you. When’s the date?”
“September, around Labor Day” she says.
“How appropriate!” I say to this complete stranger of a friend, “we’re getting hitched in September too.” I continue to baffle Brian. “My favorite month,” I remind them.
There’s a moment of cold silence as the hot entrees are served.
“Well,” she continues while poking at her pesto pasta, “I’m not actually pregnant yet. I’m just announcing that we’re trying to get it done.”
“Trying to get it done?” I say somewhat bemused, biting off a piece of a french roll, “Yeah, well, we’re not actually getting married. I’m just floating the announcement to see how it sounds.”
Karen and I are having problems. The pressure of opening The Station and maybe not spending quality time together is causing some strange riffs like the above conversation. She knows pregnancy is still a sensitive issue with me, and not something I want to discuss in public over dinner, especially with Brian present. I know if I were ever getting married she’d want me to discuss it with her first before making the announcement. I’ve no intention of marrying Brian, nor he, me.
These insensitive warning shots are aimed at our faltering friendship. Brian’s caught in the crossfire.
“You want to get married?” he asks as he and I walk back toward my apartment. He’s not asking me to marry him, but trying to clarify what’s going on inside of Halley.
“No. I don’t want to talk about it right now.” If I were Brian I’d toss me in front of the approaching bus.
“You were a little rude to Karen, taking away her announcement. Seemed a bit strange.”
“I’m strange, I am what I seem. What can I say?” She wanted to have dinner alone with me to discuss something. I guess she was upset that Brian showed up. She doesn’t think too highly of the Brian arrangement. Of course she’s right. Except this is the one night for our rendezvous ritual. I wish she could time her crisis for another evening.
By the time we get to my apartment I’m not in the mood for anything. “Brian, would you mind if we skipped tonight?”
“I was just thinking the same thing. I need to think about things.”
“Yeah, me too.”
Brian takes a few steps away then turns and says, “Maybe we need to move on. It might be healthier.”
“Look, call me when you get home.” I wave to him and disappear behind the glass door.
“Halley, you’re not there for me.” Karen starts off, voice too close to the receiver, “I asked you to come alone. I had something I wanted to discuss with you.”
“The pregnancy?”
“I know it’s a sensitive thing with you. That’s why I wanted to talk face to face, alone.”
“I can’t help it. Brian and I spend every other Thursday night together.”
“Does he know about Peter?”
“Karen, I don’t know about Peter.”
“I wanted you to know that Jared and I are trying to have a child. You’re my closest friend. I wanted you to know.”
“All right. I know…” I can be a real jerk. Karen and I have been through so much this year. Her happiness is important. The Station is threatening to reduce service on the Karen-Halley line. “Karen it’s not that I’m unhappy for you, it’s just triggering all the crap I went through…” My eyes are leaking.
“Maybe you need to talk about it, Halley.”
“I haven’t had an orgasm since last January.” This admission causes a pause, which seems like about an hour of dead air time, “Karen?”
“Why didn’t you talk about this stuff,” she says finally, sincerely, “I’m your friend. You’re my best friend.”
“I shouldn’t have had... I’d be a mother right now.” I haven’t vacuumed since February.
“Oh Halley…”
“I made such a horrible, ghastly mistake. I’m so fucked up...”
“Hey, you’re no different than you were at ten.”
Of course she’s right, and this little bit of insight triggers a laugh and lightens the mood. “Thanks for reminding me,” I sniffle.
“We’ve got The Station. That’s worthwhile and meaningful, so far. I spent the day searching for the right bentwood chairs. Neville dropped off all of the posters. They look great. You get the plants?”
“The nursery will drop them off next Thursday. That’s if the paneling is finished… You’ll need a nursery.”
“Yeah.” She says.
“Karen, forgive me. I want you and Jared to be happy. You’ll be a great mom and I’ll be there for you. I promise.”
We go on and discuss contractor issues, wholesale vendors, licenses, employment and taxes. These issues have interfered with our intimacy. It’s pleasant working with someone you care about deeply. The Station was to be our resurrection and retreat. But now it’s becoming obvious it’s not going to be enough, there’s got to be more to life. Karen wanting a child is a clear signal The Station is not fulfilling deeper needs.
“Brian,” I say pausing to calculate how I’m going to toss a backstabbing knife without injuring its target, “Do you remember Peter? He and I have, had an affair for almost two years. I’m extremely sorry and ashamed and embarrassed that I never told you.”
Brian doesn’t reply. I shouldn’t have said anything.
“Brian?”
“I guess I knew.”
“It wasn’t right not to tell you. I’m sorry.”
“Halley, I’ve been with other women since we split. I know you’ve been looking around.”
“Then why…”
“Why? ... Because you and I know our limitations and are not expecting anything more than what’s before us…Plain and simple.”
Plain and simple. Brian. This is good to hear. “Yes it is.”
“Look what happened with Jess. God, it was nuts. Dating sucks. People go in with such unreal expectations. It takes a long time to establish what we already have. I know it’s not enough, but what it is is good and appreciated, most of the time.”
And that is the gist of it. Brian nailed it down. We don’t expect anymore than what we already have established and that is how we have survived. I feel a heavy burden of guilt gone suddenly. Talking about the abortion with Karen also released some imploding pressure. I’m feeling light and airy and Peter Pan-ish and can’t wait to fly around The Station…
The next morning Karen and I are working in the covered window storefront that will soon be The Station. We’ve changed the table layout five times, unboxed and shelved supplies, spread out the thirty bentwood chairs, replaced warped tabletops, hung posters, created a mini-jungle with potted trees, potted palms, hanging vines. The refrigeration guy had to replace the non-existent freon. The spiral staircase had to be dislodged and reset six inches.
Jared got hold of four old wooden benches from a closed down Amtrak station in Jersey. Last week we reconfigured these urine-scented seats into three good benches, and then stripped the varnish and refinished the oak strips into fantastic looking newness.
Except for leaking toilet valves and off-kilter tile work in the women’s restroom, the place is becoming an exact replica of the original dream. It’s unbelievable. It’s my baby. (the irony and symbolism does not escape me – this took nine months from dream to reality).
Karen breaks it down thusly: We’ll need to bring in at least $1000 per day to break even. That’s 200 customers spending an average of $5 per visit. Karen, Jared, Neville, and I agree on $100 per day pay (plus tips) for the first three months. After that we’ll refine our strategy, expand staff and menu, or close and sell. The reassessed rejuvenated space alone will help us recoup most of our investment.
I receive a cryptic Christmas card from Peter. It’s a watercolor of jolly-wolly Santa laughing on the cover; on the inside there’s a close-up detail of same picture – but Santa’s actually crying. It’s signed, “missing you -- Peter.” I will not get my hopes up. We had a loving relationship. Had. Long ago I tried to freeze him out of my life. Now he’s at the North Pole. Karma. Brian’s voice keeps reminding me that reduced expectations are the key. The search for happiness can cause unhappiness.
Christmas Eve is spent at The Station going over supplies, menu layout, lighting and internet hookup for customers. At midnight I unwrap the windows; it’s the best present I’ve ever had. I work all day at The Station and go out of my way to wave to every passerby and point to the Grand Opening signs on the windows. Peter does not appear suddenly but neither does Santa, and I seem to be okay.
Karen and Jared have been working on the last minute construction and installation of a small elevated platform that will allow a model train to move slowly around the bar carrying finger pastries. His idea. (He’s a keeper. But I guess she already knew that. I can see that I was wrong once again. So I must be getting better…)
The anxiety of opening is beyond my scope of experience. How do performers do it? Self doubt is filling in for the vacant customers. Publicity is my responsibility. I dream of an unaffordable ad in the New York Times, but end up blanketing the immediate area with Grand Opening leaflets containing coupons for freebies. We’re going to lose money for sure.
New Years Eve. Grand Opening. Asian tsunami obliterates 150,000. An incredibly stupid war in Iraq. I’m not up for this. All I can think of is that I am not good at anything. Anything I can do you can do better…I can’t do anything better than you.
The Station opens at 7:00 p.m., New Year’s Eve. I’ve forgotten why we’re opening at seven and on New Year’s Eve. I think it has something to do with trying to be special, different. It may give us some sort of tax break before the end of the year. Ask Karen.
She and I take turns greeting customers while Neville and one of us works the coffee/tea, pastry/dessert bar. Jared, resident conductor, keeps the train rolling and takes pictures to post on the computer periodically so everyone can see themselves as a part of this historical moment.
The self-service seems to be working okay. People are busing their own tables. Intelligent, reliable crowds frequent cafes. Let’s hope…the screen saver photos are a real hit. People love themselves…everyone climbs the staircase to the stars. There’s only room for eight people on the loft landing, so most of the ascenders come down as fast as they went up.
The train, after a collision with a misplaced cup, pulls everyone’s imagination with it. A journey to innocence and beyond. We can’t quite figure how to keep track of the pre-packaged goodies riding the railcars. Luckily the customers are being honest tonight.
By eight o’clock the place is filled, thanks in part to the one free drink opening cut-out coupon. I’m finding that I love serving people. This is an unexpected bonus. At 8:05 Karen calls my attention to the doorway. Through palm fronds and metal slats of the spiral staircase I spot my mother. Behind her I see Tom, the stepfather whom I haven’t spoken to in years. Karen’s re-introducing herself to them and then lets out a very animated shout of surprise, “Halley, we’ve got some special guests!”
I wipe my sticky stained hands and proceed from behind the counter to officially greet what is my family. Halfway there, worrying about what I’m going to say to Tom, I see there are two other members in their trailing party. The tanned young man in particular. My eyes immediately scan the gloved hand and his black boots. Nothing seems out of the ordinary except he’s moving forward awkwardly and slightly out of synch.
“Knute?” I say. He nods and smiles at me. I scream, “Knute!” I’m so overjoyed I want to give everyone in the house free drinks, but then I remember most of the customers are already nursing freebies. “How did you …”
“They came to visit, and invited us up for New Years!” he says this while hugging me and pointing to mom and Tom. The Iraq tan is healthy and is a decent cover for his maimed hand and leg.
“Pauline!” I reach out and pull her into this magnetic circle, “Thanks so much!” Thanks for being here, thanks for bringing Knute, thanks for contacting me, thanks for the memories…
“Tom and Eva,” she says, “they treated us to the visit!”
“We all flew up together,” Knute says, releasing us so that Tom and mom, those fabulous Sarasota philanthropists, can also get deserved recognition from their distant-but-closing-fast daughter.
“Hey, you two,” I wrap my arms around mom and Tom, “I will never forget this! I love you both!” An emotional moment can make you admit some to some strange, buried truths. My family. I actually have one.
“The place looks great!” says Tom. And he means it.
"Well,…” says mom, AKA Eva, searching the room for the right words, “…Finally!” Meaning: I did good.
This is certainly the highlight of my life. Mom came through. Tom came through. Our ten year feud over him moving mom to Florida was now thing of the past. He had been right. I am humbled by my ignorance.
The rest of the evening passes quickly. Brian, Sy, Doreen, Mom, Tom, Knute, Pauline, all crowd the bar exchanging stories and jokes and family lore. I float around them in some profound trance. I’ve done something right. This is the wedding night of my friends and family. I refuse to have them pay for anything. If The Station were to fold tomorrow, I would still chalk it up as a huge, personal success. Then kill myself. Kidding.
Karen was correct thinking that many people do not have to consume alcohol on New Year’s Eve. People want to be with people and feel a part of something new.
But perhaps I exaggerated about The Station being filled-up. Not counting friends and family, there were about twenty people at Ten O’clock, then almost everyone went over to experience the countdown celebration at Times Square. At midnight there are only the four owners and a disheveled guy sipping a free coffee on our warm refurbished bench.
We made less than $300 from 7 til midnite. Which means we actually lost $300 after accounting for the free drinks.
“All right,” says Karen, “We, I, overestimated the party moods of New Year’s Eve. …maybe we should sell alcohol.”
Karen, Neville, Jared, and I are gathered at the door ready to head over to my apartment for a post-opening party. Friends and family are already there, at least that was the plan.
“People enjoyed themselves,” Neville says, “and they’ll be back.”
“Hopefully not looking for free stuff all the time,” says Jared, “What an experience.”
There’s a silent syncopated nodding and smirks agreement with Jared's experience comment as the lights dim to dark and the door opens to angel flakes and crisp fresh air.
“I loved it,” I say with a surge of joy.
January Redemptions
And so ladies and gentleman, unable to sleep and wired on coffee, I’m sitting here back at The Station moments before the first dawn of the new year. I’ve got to tell you it’s pretty cool sitting in your own café on New Year’s morning. I’m overwhelmed with optimism, things are remarkably better than a year ago. I’ve given up and accepted the fact that life won’t get any better, but will fluctuate between happiness and despair, hopefully giving some semblance of balance in the larger picture. See decades, not days. See lifetime, not daytime. See life, see death. Give good service. Start a checklist for 2005.
GOALS For 2005
1. Better sleep
There’s a tap on the window. A guy in a blue denim jacket is waving hello. This is immediately followed by tapping on the eastside window. Three young revelers are giving me a thumbs-up. I return the thumbs up and smile. There’s more tapping on the south side window. Now there’s at least eight people all waving. A man in a red down parka is pointing to his wrist, his watch.
The clock through the ferns says it’s 7:15. We’re not supposed to open till eight on weekend mornings and holidays. New Year's is a holiday, isn’t it? I gaze back at the windows and they are completely filled with faces. It’s eerie; reminds me of The Birds. Everyone flaps hello. But I’m getting scared. Someone is waving a flier from last night. It’s bizarre. I want to let them in but I’m alone.
I call Karen. She’s not due in till noon. That’s when I’m supposed to meet up with my family. I still can’t believe it.
“Pick up, pick up…Karen, Halley. I’m at The Station and there’s a big crowd outside. I don’t know what to do…” just as I’m saying this I glance at the publicity flier I covered the neighborhood with. Uh oh –
The flier lights up as big as a Broadway Billboard --
Welcome The STATION! ---- Well, come to The Station!
New Years Celebration and Grand Opening at 7.
Free drink for new customers.
The flier left off Eve, as in New Year’s Eve Celebration. And p.m., as in Grand Opening at 7 P.M. !
Oh my god...
It’s totally my fault. I shouldn’t be doing fliers when I’m filled with self-doubt and full of anxiety for not being good enough. See everyone, I can prove it! Incompetent imbecile.
“Karen, I need you to come down now! Hurry. Bring Jared.” I don’t explain the reason. She’ll find out soon enough. Luckily they’re staying at my place two blocks away.
Neville is supposed to be in at 7:30 anyway, ten more minutes. I can do this. I flip on the lights, throw My Goals for 2005 in the trash and open the door. There are a million people crowded around the entrance. I’m so tired and exhausted, I want to cry. Instead I start an uncontrollable laugh, real insanity-sounding side-splitting laughter.
“Halley!” shouts a voice somewhere in the sea of bargain hunting revelers. I’m cracking up, going off the deep end. I’m going to die, no doubt about it. These people are going to trample me and trash The Station. A hand wriggles out and grabs my shoulder. This is it, this is the end my friend. I look up into my father’s glare and his calming smile, actually he’s laughing at me, “need some help?”
“Daddy!” I shout hysterically. This must be entertaining to the crowd. Free drinks and free entertainment, Crazy Lady and Nowhere Man. My life has become a movie. A blockbuster! Success! Sanity! Loved by all! War victims! Reconciliations! Family bliss! Ghosts! I want Cate Blanchette and Johnny Depp!
But it’s Neville who leads me back inside. It’s all a blur from then on. Neville and I, soon joined by Karen, are dishing out freebies. Jared tries to get everyone’s picture but some people think it’s a government set up and leave before getting captured on camera. This exodus probably saves us a few hundred dollars.
We honor the first two hundred coupons and offer rain checks for those who couldn’t deal with the hour wait for the free drink. The Station is supposed to be my salvation, not the Salvation Army.
We close at nine A.M. due to being out of supplies and out of our minds. Someone hijacked a rail car for a souvenir.
We’re gathered around the bar/model train derailment sector.
“How many did you print up?” Karen wants to know, leaning on the counter.
“Five hundred?” I say sheepishly. It’s probably closer to a thousand.
“Oh, my god!”
Last night everyone’s friends got free drinks. I had the most visitors. That’s got to be resented. Now this. There’s an awkward chill in the air, as if everyone has left the room. The dream is always better than the reality. Jared’s wishing he was at Microsoft; Neville’s imagining EBay winnings; Karen’s cuddling her newborn. But I’m here, stuck where I want to be at The Station.
“I will pay for it. It’s totally my fault.” I admit, “I insist. That’s that.”
“Look, it’s not five hundred,” Karen says, “Maybe half that. We would have spent much more on a small ad in the Times. We need publicity to make this a go. But from now on, let’s agree that everyone pays, including friends and family.”
We nod heads on this very basic bankruptcy-avoidance agreement.
Jared yawns, “You know, you might have bought five hundred customers. It might turn out to be a very good idea, Halley.”
“Ben And Jerry’s does a free day every year,” Neville reminds us, “And their business is great year round.”
“Everyone loved The Station,” Dad points out, “I heard nothing but praises and compliments.” I’m the only one who can see and hear daddy-o.
“Not a good way to start off, huh?” I say, “I’m really, truly sorry.”
Neville says, “None of us would be here if not for you. Let’s chalk it up to experience.”
“Inexperience,” I say. “We’re about $1500 in the hole. I will take care of that. When and if we start getting ahead, then we can look at reimbursing this unique publicity. Okay?”
There’s resentment toward what I did for sure, but no one resents me more than me, and they know that, plus they’ve cut me some slack because I’m the mother of The Station and in charge of publicity. In secret though, the hordes of people didn’t really bother me. I felt useful for a change. “I’m sorry,” I say, curled on the swirling staircase, “Maybe we should apply for non-profit status.”
They laugh. My joke. I’ve told my first joke. No quizzical what is she talking about look; they go straight into laughing. Maybe it’s from total exhaustion, but it counts. But I wasn’t kidding. I’ll broach the idea later.
“Group hug?” I say descending the stairs. Mama Station opens her arms and Karen, Neville and Jared shield me momentarily from the slings and arrows of outrageous self-inflicted misfortune. In the middle of this orgy of spent Station Agents, Dad whispers, “That was a zinger, baby-doll!”
“Way to go Halley!” Peter shouts from the purple heaven above and suddenly slides down the circular stair railing. He slams into dad and they roll over on the floor like two large puppies, instantly establishing best buddy status and marking the interesting and unexpected return of my Bubble Land. Too bad that Karen, Jared, and Neville can't enjoy this.
Well, it’s kind of nice to have a back-up thing, an island of sanity. Some people have religion. I have Bubble World. A haunted Station Karen might appreciate too. I’ll tell her later.
Oh, yes, one last intriguing bit of serendipitous joy thing ---
Today, January 2, 2005 the New York Times splashed a feature photo in the Local section with the caption: Happy New Year’s! mob scene at The Station, new café opening yesterday to boisterous business.
The photo was surrounded by very expensive ads.
Marketing genius.
“Will you stop it!” I have to yell at Peter and dad to stop playing catch with an orange… “windows are breakable, guys…” Geeze.
This year is going to be great!
"December / January Redemptioms," excerpt from "The Station" © 2005 by John Kirkmire, ©2013 Kirkworkshop. All rights reserved.
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