Richmond Journals, Part II

There’s this little coffee shop that opened while I was in Glasgow, I guess. It’s called Sacred Grounds. It is situated between a Blockbuster (our town’s only Blockbuster and therefore Richmond’s only source of decently obscure films; as for the indecently obscure films, try Family Video, part of a chain which apparently has a rather low opinion of the morality and taste of the American family) and a “figure salon” of sorts. Or maybe it’s a learning center. I can’t remember. They shape something there—young children’s minds, old ladies’ asses, something or other. Anyhow, upon getting back from Glasgow, I immediately opened a Netflix account, but as it took a day or two for my first films to arrive, I took a trip to Blockbuster. As I pulled my pickup into a parking spot a decent distance back from the storefront (I try not to park too close in deference to the imaginary elderly who may need these spots), I looked up and discovered the new sign for Sacred Grounds.

I groaned softly, as Richmond is possessed of only one coffee shop and could really use another, but I didn’t want to share it with any Bible studies or prayer groups or intelligent design action leagues or something equally horrendous and Christian. (The other coffee shop, Charlie’s, attracts the only people in the area with enough inherent absurdity to consider themselves bohemian, and so that is hardly a place to spend an afternoon with one of this year’s Booker-shortlisted novels and a tankard of coffee.)

But now, this. See, in New York or Seattle, caffeine seems to be a sure sign of secularism. In the heartland of America, however, (and Richmond truly must be an American ventricle), there is no necessary division of java and Jesus. And I don’t mean the collusion of Christ and coffee and doughnuts on Sunday. If you have actually had the coffee they serve after services, you will understand why this does not count as a breach in the wall of church and chai. No, a coffee shop is perfectly capable of being churchianified and, I dreadfully presumed, this was exhibit A.

My fears were realized more forcefully when I was called for a date by an astringently Christian girl whom I had sort of gone out with in high school. “Hey, you’re going to be in town for awhile? Do you want to hang out sometime?” “Sure,” I said, “What should we do?” (The lack of options this question always reveals probably accounts for the fact that Wayne County, my county, used to and perhaps still does have one of the highest teenage pregnancy rates in the state.) She suggested coffee. I had made some joking remark about my dependency on coffee earlier in the conversation, so I could hardly back out now. “How about that new place—Sacred Grounds? You been yet?” “Noooo. No. No, I haven’t.” “They have really great wraps.” “Ah.” We settled upon a time and finished the conversation awkwardly.

Side bar: Do telephone conversations invariably end awkwardly? A few trial goodbyes and take cares, followed by a pause, then another goodbye or take care or an occasional see you soon? Every so often, I get a “cheerio!” which confuses me, and so we typically have to start the whole routine over. That’s annoying.

Anyway, I showed up with what felt like a big sign saying “unconvinced Catholic” plastered right above my eyebrows. Not a pleasant sensation. I was not sure if they had some system rigged up over the door that baptized you as you entered or large, coffee brown crosses on the napkins or what, but I dreaded rather unreasonably the flood of vulgarly demonstrative Christianity that I felt sure I was about to be countenanced with.

The barrista had a tongue ring.

I breathed a sigh of relief and smiled widely at the girl I was meeting. We had a nice chat, catching each other up on news about various classmates from high school, talking about movies that I hadn’t seen and never will, and being pleasant. We were not interrupted by any roving band of evangelicals or buttonholed by anyone predicting the end of the world or anything. Everything seemed to be absolutely secular, not even the faintest bit Christianized. How narrow I had been in assuming that “Sacred Grounds” was more than just a pun.

So I started going there more often. When going out with other girls, I frequently suggested it as the place to meet. I liked the coffee, and there weren’t ever that many people in the place. I even started going there on my own. Once, in fact, I ditched Mass and went there instead to read some book by Richard Feynman. A good trade, I think.

In time, I became one of the most boring things on earth—-a regular. I always got a simple coffee, and soon, the barrista would begin to reach for a mug as I approached the counter. I thought a few times of being adventurous just to cross her up, but I decided I’d better not. And as all regular patrons of a place are able to do in time, I was soon able to identify other regulars, assigning them type-names, like Greasy Laptop Boy and Jittery Hermit Number Four. I may have had a type-name in their minds as well; it would be interesting to know what it might be. Anyway, one man I simply called Jesus, partly in honor of the place’s name, and partly in honor of his (admirably patchy) beard. Jesus always sat at the front of the shop, staring out over the parking lot, and was most often to be found present on a rainy day. He always had a large latte cup, which he would stir blindly with a small wooden swizzle stick, his other hand flat on the counter beside the cup and saucer. He radiated peace. And a little bit of dullness.