the cafe at the edge of the world

In 2006 I wrote a novel, the last novel I’ve written to date. Life decisions had to be made, and it became obvious to me that I simply did not have the time to revise the novel to truly make it work, and as such I made the decision to concentrate on short fiction. One aborted attempt at a new novel aside, it’s a decision I’ve stuck with since. Yet on occasion I’ll pull out a piece of the novel and play with it some. I’m very attached to the characters and certain things in the work.

Today I want to tell you about one of those things—a location, to be exact. It’s called The Café at the Edge of the World. In the small town of Firetrap in which it exists, it is a refuge for the outsiders, the weirdos, the forgotten. Here is a little bit about it:

                The Café at the Edge of the World is a refuge for anyone with artistic inclinations that lived within fifty miles of Firetrap. Built in 1943, it was initially a bar called Cadillac Joe’s. Joe Hentley built it himself (well, mostly—he had a little help from his brother Sean when he was sober, which was not often) and named it after his 1941 Cadillac Series 62 coupe, which was the only thing he was more proud of than the bar. Out fishing one March afternoon in 1965, Joe dropped dead of heart attack. Sean, who was with him that afternoon and had to drive his dead brother fifty long miles back to town, never did leave the bottle after that. He had enough self-awareness to know he’d be a failure at running Cadillac Joe’s, which he inherited upon Joe’s death as Joe had no other family, being a committed bachelor. He sold it to a young folk-music lover who’d just returned from a year living in Greenwich Village, one Larry Kensey.

                Larry, who had grown up in Firetrap, was an enterprising sort who wanted both capitalize on and provide a forum for the folk music he dearly loved. Thus Cadillac Joe’s was converted from a bar to a café, albeit one that served beer and wine, but nothing harder. There were plenty of places to go get drunk in Firetrap if that’s all you were looking to do, as Larry like to say. Folks around town scoffed at the whole thing, but somehow Larry stayed in business. In time, The Café at the Edge of the World became a hangout for misfits of all types. Affectionately known as Old Man Kensey (even before he was old; his hair having gone grey early and the wrinkles in his face appearing young), Larry became a father figure to many misfits over the years. He was now pushing 73 with no thought of retirement. When a local news program did a “slice-of-life” bit on the café, they asked him why he kept the business.

                “I like to think I’m providing a service,” he replied. “I’ve got no problem with making some money, that is nice. But a lot of these kids—this is a home to them.” And this was true. Several generations of artists owed the survival of their formative years (and occasionally beyond) to this modest brick building and its kind-hearted owner. One such kid was a musician, Jim Strafford, who would go on to have a successful singer-songwriter career in the mid-seventies and earn three gold records. He sent each one to Larry, who hung them on the wood-paneled wall of the café. It was the only wall decoration in the whole café.

                The cinnamon rolls were excellent. The absurdist plays written and performed atop the corner-most table by Taft Daffy (a pseudonym, natch), should you happen to catch one, were tolerable. The coffee was ever-changing. For every relationship that broke up beneath the teacup chandelier (so named because the lights were housed in blue, red and yellow teacups) two more formed. Teenagers could not smoke cloves inside but employees turned a blind eye if they did so in the alleyway behind the café. The spinach and portobello omelet was to die for, the ham and cheese not so much but at least offered a familiar alternative for less-adventurous diners. Teens with guitars were frequent, teens that could actually play less so, but no one heckled inside The Café at the Edge of the World and some of those teens found their voice and talent while tangling over frets and cracked vocal cords, a steaming cup of coffee or chai (free refills on the coffee, ten cents for the chai) nearby. Above all, The Café at the Edge of the World was safe.

                The rest of Firetrap, not so much.

The Café at the Edge of the World is, in one sense, my idea of utopia. A place where misfits and weirdos are welcome, where creative expression is valued, where ideas are exchanged and debated without turning into personal attacks. Where there is no elitism. Where there is no caste system. Where the baker of those great cinnamon rolls and the teenager with purple hair and black fingernails and the cynical, wearied waitress who should quit smoking but won’t are all equal participants in what makes the place special—and safe. It’s a place I longed for as a struggling teen, a refuge from the darkness and brokenness that pushed me down until all I could taste was dirt. Inside the café, the darkness and brokenness did not disappear, but you could transform it. Take it and build something, maybe even something beautiful. And have a fantastic cinnamon roll and a cup of rich, dark coffee while you did it.

Want to sit alone, scribbling into your notebooks? That’s fine, no one will bother you. Want to go talk to that may with the stuffed shark hat (it looks like it is eating his head) reading Jacques Derrida? He’ll welcome you. The purple-haired girl dressed all in black and wearing combat boots you have a searing crush on? Ask if you can buy her a cup of coffee but respect her if she says no. It’s a safe space for everyone, a place where you will not be bullied or put down. There is plenty of danger when you are outside of the café walls, and while you are welcome to stay for hours on end, you can’t actually live there. You will never grow if you don’t leave, and you know that. If you stay too long, Old Man Kensey will gently see you out the door. It doesn’t happen often.

It’s a place that is so vivid in my mind, from the smell of the cinnamon rolls to the worn wood tables that radiate warmth, to the aforementioned teacup chandelier, that I sometimes can’t believe it’s not real. If I could build it, this refuge for all of us broken, I would. I think it will be the last place standing when all the lights go out. At the edge of the world, before the darkness eats you up.