Lancelot Schaubert's Blog, page 77

Alchemist’s Coffee

Caroline Harris over at The Showbear Family Circus - Lancelot Schaubert's and Tara Schaubert's liberal arts circus. said ::

“That’s $10.50. Would you like to sign up for an Alchemist’s reward card today?” Miles asked as he stared vacantly at the woman across the counter. She shook her head no. They always said no. He swiped her platinum card and moved to the espresso machine and listened to the grind of the coffee beans and the whir of machine as he steamed the milk. He grabbed one of their bright red holiday cups and poured the woman’s coffee inside, feeling the steam mist across his face. A sprinkle of chocolate, drizzle of caramel, and he popped the lid on.

“Triple chocolate and caramel macchiato for Karen?” He said, setting the cup in front of the woman who’d just ordered. She didn’t look at him or even mutter a thank you as she picked it up and rushed out the door.

“You’re welcome,” he muttered as he threw the filters in the sink to wash later.

Alchemist’s Coffee sat nestled at the end of a narrow brick alleyway off of Monroe. It was a small shop, only one room with barely enough space for Miles to walk around behind the counter. Tables sat outside against the alley walls for customers to sit, but it was November and the Chicago winds were too tormenting for their patrons to want to sit and meander.

Miles wiped the counter, not to clean it per say but to look as though he actually had a purpose when customers were absent. It wasn’t that the shop was doing poorly, or the fact that Miles was rather bored most days, considering the sugared up drinks his customers tended to purchase. But he found himself daydreaming more often than not of a change. He wasn’t sure what kind of change, but the humdrum repetition of his days seemed to blur together like the effects of a nice dose of morphine.

The bell dinged as the door swung open. A man stepped up to the counter his greying beard falling to his chest, stringy and split at the ends. Sunken circles sloped underneath his eyes in half-moons. Miles gave the man a once over and noticed the man’s clothes had the slight resemblance to something his grandfather would have worn in his thirties. A three-piece suit in a tweedish tan brandishing his body and a bowler hat crowning his neatly combed grey hair.

“What can I get you today, sir?” Miles asked, but he already knew exactly what this customer was interested in and it wasn’t their special holiday mocha or peppermint tea.

The man smiled, revealing his yellowing teeth. “I’ll have the golden brew.”

Miles nodded, reaching underneath the counter to grab the siphon and alembic neatly tucked out of sight. He set them on the counter. The man on the opposite side located one of the two chairs in the small space and sat down. Good, Miles thought. He didn’t need the man peering over his shoulder as he worked at his true talent—the one thing that made his day worthwhile.

Miles dug through the drawer just under the register and pulled out an elaborately spun golden key, a red ribbon tied to the loop at the end. He crossed the small space and fit the key snuggly into a lock belonging to a small cupboard, turning the key with a click. The sound always managed to make Miles’ heart skip a beat. The doors of the cupboard swung open with majesty to reveal vial after vial of golden elixir lined up neatly in rows, resting in their stands waiting for that moment when Miles chose which vial would be used. They stood at attention, waiting in anticipation as he chose one vial on the bottom shelf, plucking it from its stand and bluntly closing the cupboard doors. He locked the cupboard and returned the key to the drawer.

This was the part of the job Miles really enjoyed, for Alchemist’s Coffee wasn’t just named randomly. Miles was a skilled alchemist. He dedicated his late nights to intricate work of creating the essence for eternal life and encapsulating it into these little vials. While the alleyway was a charming locale for his coffee shop, a mere front for his real business, he’d chosen this very spot for the treasure it was built over—the fountain of youth. Miles had spent his late twenties and well through his thirties searching until he finally located it in the heart of the Second City.

He poured the golden elixir into one end of the alembic, sparks jumping from the vial as the copper contraption consumed it. Water filled the other side, and Miles lit the fire beneath. The elixir needed to be distilled before he could combine it with the coffee brew. When he first discovered the fountain, he’d been able to extract its components and isolate the magic used to retain youth. But he’d neglected to taste his elixir before serving it to patrons. One threw up the contents of his all over the street. Another left a terrible Yelp review on the aftertaste of Miles’ “Golden Brew”, which gave Miles the idea for both the name of his new product and the idea to mix the contents of his elixir with a fresh cup of coffee to dilute the fragrant taste it tended to produce.

For his next set if customers, Miles found they were thrilled with the taste, praising both his alchemy and his barista skills. For the following few days, he held a skip in every step until the Sunday paper fell open to the obituary section and every single patron he’d sold to graced their smiling faces up at him in black and white. Apparently, the caffeine mixed with the elixir in its purest form only increased the rate at which one ages, to the point that within a few days they result in the exact opposite service they intended to buy in the first place.

But Miles quickly recovered. He was able to deduce the need for his elixir to distill before mixing with the caffeinated drinks his patrons enjoyed. It lessoned the effects of his Golden Brew to lasting about ten years per every sixteen ounces. In the end, Miles found it much more profitable and he enjoyed seeing the returning faces of his patrons in desperate need to add more years on to their lifespan. All they had to do was pay the alchemist and sip on some handcrafted coffee. Simple.

Steam permeated from the alembic as Miles prepped the siphon—a glass blub topped with beaker and connected by a filtering string. He placed the siphon over a burner built into the counter, flicking it on, and both he and the man sitting on the other side of the counter watched as an ember glow caused the water in the glass bulb bubble and rise up into the beaker through the string.

“That will never get old,” said the man and Miles wasn’t sure if he was speaking to him or thinking out loud. Either way he didn’t respond. He waited until the water was an inch below the brim before switching the burner to medium. The water stopped rising but the bubbles remained.

Miles scooped about forty-five grams of coffee grounds into a cup before sprinkling it into the boiling water. The glow from the bulb burned bright, white spots manifesting in Miles’ eyes. He grabbed a whisk from a drawer, and as to not disturb the coffee grounds too much and he gently folded it in amongst the water.

The persistent whistle of the alembic brought his attention back to the elixir. Removing the kettle portion, he slowly poured the now heated golden liquid in with the coffee grounds. The black coffee swirled around the golden mixture. Miles prodded the mixture with the whisk once more before switching off the burner and both he and the seated man watched as the liquid slowly fell back into the glass bulb, swirling into the color of milk chocolate.

Miles grabbed a to-go cup and poured the mixture inside, popping a lid on top.

“That will be $10,000,” he said, no hesitation apparent in his words. The man hurried to his feet, his eyes wide and his mouth open and ready to catch any loose flies buzzing about the shop.

“$10,000?” His voice filled every crevice of the small space. “You can’t be serious? That’s twice as much as it was ten years ago.”

“$1,000 for every year more you get to live. I find that to be a bargain price, for it’s not every corner you can find a shop like this one,” Miles said, keeping his hand on the cup. In the past he had a few grab-and-run scenarios, but they were lessons quickly learned.

“I’d have to take out a second mortgage on my house to pay that kind of money,” the man said, his fingers twitching at his side, most likely itching to get his hands on the cup Miles now guarded.

“But ten years more to pay it off,” Miles responded, not intending to sound condescending.

He was used to customers woes when it came to what he charged per cup, but he knew he could mark up much higher prices on his elixir and people would still buy those ten extra years. Everyone believed time to be priceless—Not Miles.

“What if I paid in installments? Or worked in the shop to pay off what I’d owe.”

“We only except cash or check.” Miles didn’t feel moved by the man’s pleading. It was something he’d grown accustomed to in this line of work.

“Please. I want to see my great grandchild grow up. I want to see my grandchildren get married. I’m not ready to leave them behind.”

“That seems like a personal problem,” Miles said, keeping his hand over the coffee cup.

“Heartless! Who do you think you are to control people?” The man threw his hands out in protest. Miles took a step back from the counter.

“Who do you think you are that you can barter for my in-demand product?”

“I don’t see any other customers lining up at your door. You need my service.”

“I don’t need anything from you.” Miles shrugged, ready to throw this man out the door.

“This is terrible customer service,” the man shouted.

Miles raised his eyebrows. “Well, you’re a terrible customer.”

“Keep your damn Golden Brew,” the man muttered, his face scrunched in discontent. “I’ll bet there are other alchemists out there who don’t charge such outrageous prices.” The man whipped open the door, the bell jolted into motion, its chime ringing out in protest. He stormed from the shop and down the alleyway, kicking at the stacked chairs Miles has forgotten to set up that morning.

“Good luck finding one,” Miles said to the empty room.

He cleaned out his siphon and set the alembic soak in the sink, and when he was finished cleaning his eyes strayed to the abandoned elixir still sitting expectantly on the counter waiting.

Miles had never been brave enough to sample his own product. He was more than fine producing the elixir in order to make a steal serving those desperate enough. But, as of recently, he had been wondering what he would be able to experience given a few extra years. As far as he knew, there were no consequences when it came to drinking the invented brew, but the contents, he observed from his returnees, showed signs of addictive qualities. His last ‘customer’ was only one example. The money always ran out, their dwindling years following suit.

He recalled the twitching of the man’s fingers as he eyed the cup he’d come to get, the red web of bloodshot veins consuming the whites of the man’s eyes. Miles let his eyes be drawn to the red cup that held the golden liquid. He let his fingers wrap around the warmth of the cup. The thick aroma of the coffee grounds filled his nose and he lifted the cup to his lips.

They rested on the brim of the lid. With ten extra years, he could find someone to spend his weekends with, or maybe he could get a dog to rescue. He could start going to those language lessons he’d always saw advertised on the train but was too anxious to attend. He could lose those few extra pounds he pinched in the morning before he showered and got dressed. The possibilities fogged his mind and blurred his senses.

He closed his eyes and sighed, lowering the cup from his lips. What was he thinking? He couldn’t get ‘high off his own supply’ as the kids were saying at the liberal arts college down the street. He shook his head as his eyes crawled over the vibrant red decorating the cup. He walked over to the sink, and popping the lid from the cup, he poured the chocolaty colored liquid down the drain. He’d have to settle for the regular black coffee sitting patiently in the pot.

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Immigration Documentation Mobile Application Design

Linh Dao over at The Showbear Family Circus - Lancelot Schaubert's and Tara Schaubert's liberal arts circus. said ::

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Trapped In Line

Shyla Shehan over at The Showbear Family Circus - Lancelot Schaubert's and Tara Schaubert's liberal arts circus. said ::

She had no voice of her own to lick the wounds
of her offspring—sprung off and over the cliff.
One by one, like lemmings, they follow in line

behind a leader who found their place behind
someone else who learned as much as anyone
how to play a game from those who came before.

And someone else before that, and before long
no one remembers the reasons why, or what,
and regret is there to greet us. To greet her

with a tipped hat and deep maniacal laugh
like the end of some fairy story gone
horribly wrong. How do you explain goblins

gobbling up the dream princess to a child? 
She wants to tell children not to get in line.
The only safety net she has ever known

is one that catches you as long as you fall
in the right direction—forward and toward
the resounding bang of being trapped.

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Poet’s Prayer

Carl "Papa" Palmer over at The Showbear Family Circus - Lancelot Schaubert's and Tara Schaubert's liberal arts circus. said ::

Father, Son, Holy Spirit

Not kneeling in a church pew
reciting catechism rote, a last
minute plea, genie lamp wish
upon a star desire nor begging
for winning lottery numbers,
just here this day to say thank
you for continuing to bless me
in spite of my transgressions.

I confess I attended service but
twice this past year, probably
like most Catholics, Easter and
Christmas, no vow for the next,
yet still feel You and I have a
pretty good relationship of inner
dialogue without the chanting
choreographed congregational
responses in church making me
more the fraud than what I am.

I mislead, spin yarns, take false
liberties justified by some self
served poetic license. I stretch
made up memories more each
time told to hold attention of
those who have heard me tell
my stories a time or two before.  

But then, You’ve heard all this
many times, me avoiding blame
by calling my lies artistic effects,
but still, in spite of my untruths,
You take care of me, so I guess
we remain on good terms. If not
I’m sure You’ll be showing me a
sign. So until next time, I remain
the same in Your name, a fake,
a phony, liar and writer of poetry.

Father, Son, Holy Spirit, Amen

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Interview – Conference Call

Sandeep Shete over at The Showbear Family Circus - Lancelot Schaubert's and Tara Schaubert's liberal arts circus. said ::

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graphite

Kelly Hegi over at The Showbear Family Circus - Lancelot Schaubert's and Tara Schaubert's liberal arts circus. said ::

Don’t drop it. It’ll shatter.
But she’s not listening.
She doesn’t care.

And there’s nothing I can do but wait.
One breath
Two
And then the sharp clatter.

It’s three pieces now.
She shrugs. Sorry.
Concrete is unforgiving, unyielding.
I don’t have that luxury.

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smoke

Kelly Hegi over at The Showbear Family Circus - Lancelot Schaubert's and Tara Schaubert's liberal arts circus. said ::

Words echo.

They seep.

                        They soak.

They weave in and through – under and around.



Usurper.
I’ve been warned about you.


Wolf.
You know it all.


Jezebel.
Shame, shame, shame.

Blind.
Leading people straight to hell.

Move.
There’s nothing for you here.



Soak.

            Seep.

                        Echo.



Smoke

You smell like smoke
It was cruel and true
A club in her hand
I was wrecked, disjointed

It was cruel and true
There was aftermath
I was wrecked, disjointed
I’m sure I do

There was aftermath
I decided to stay
I’m sure I do
To stand in the burning

I decided to stay
A club in her hand
To stand in the burning
I smell like smoke

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dust

Kelly Hegi over at The Showbear Family Circus - Lancelot Schaubert's and Tara Schaubert's liberal arts circus. said ::

It was going too fast
I didn’t want it to be done
I didn’t want to leave her there alone
Just a little more

I didn’t want it to be done
In the silence, in the dark
Just a little more
The dust in the jar wasn’t really her

In the silence, in the dark
This was as close as I was going to get
The dust in the jar wasn’t really her
No more fires, no more sweet tea

This was as close as I was going to get
I didn’t want to leave her there alone
No more fires, no more sweet tea
It was gone too fast

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the grey in my hair

Chad W. Lutz over at The Showbear Family Circus - Lancelot Schaubert's and Tara Schaubert's liberal arts circus. said ::

when
I was eighteen
I lit a fire
in a flower pot
being used as an
ashtray

the flames consumed
the debris we fed it
until the police
stopped the feast

stopped me dead in my tracks
told me hold it right there

I didn’t care
but the gray in my hair
now does

the gray in my hair
watches me not find a job
pleads with the inner voice
that got me into this mess

to hold it together
to never give up
to be kinder to myself
to be thankful for second chances

but the knives
still find my skin

how many years must pass
for these images to finally fade?

what would I trade?
life abating

nothing I shout
nothing till I’m hoarse
 in the mouth

I’m waiting
for these moments to make sense
but all I sense is time jading

the wind
the sun
the sky
the moon

there’s me looking older
same head of hair
that got me into
this mess

there’s me
& me
avoiding
the truth

& the necessary
forms

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in my mother’s drawer

Gad Kaynar over at The Showbear Family Circus - Lancelot Schaubert's and Tara Schaubert's liberal arts circus. said ::

In My Mother’s Drawer
I found aerial photos
That mapped me
Out      
From afar.
From above.
Un-Touching.

Translated from Hebrew by Natalie Feinstein

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