Cincinnati’s troubadour weighs in throughout the week on the heavy subjects of nicknames, black coffee and the meaning of collared shirts. Don’t miss this installment from one of Cincinnati’s most creative minds.
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Post 3 - Black coffee and collared shirts
Posted By: Jake Speed
4/17/2008
Maybe I’m just old-timey in a new-timey world. I like my coffee black, I like my shirts collared, and I like my neighborhood nosey.
Everybody these days wants to flip and flop out to the suburbs for their plot of land and their two-car garage, and their next-to-no-one-ness. What happened to the good old days when neighbors used to know one another, borrow each other’s ketchup, and talk suspiciously about the new couple on the corner? Where went the afternoon walk to the corner store to pick up some milk and pork rinds? Nowadays, everybody squeezes into the family minivan and drives 20 miles to the mind-numbing superstores where nobody knows a damn thing about a cup of coffee or a collared shirt.
But, if you live in Northside, you’ll find that those days of old still carry on. Let me explain.
If I take one step out my door, I can count on next-door Steve to holler a “hello” and offer to help me move in my new desk. If I’m in the yard, I can count on old Bob to be there with cigarette-attached finger, ready to lend a hand in trimming my catalpa tree. He’s like 104 but he loves to help. As I take off down the street, I know I’ll run into Skylar, Gabe, and Alex who’ll challenge me to tricks on their skateboards.
Once I turn left onto Chase, I’ll hopefully see Kevin at Portofino, and if I do, he’ll surely shout out a “How’s it going Two Veggie Hoagies?!” (That’s my new nickname and my favorite order.) I’ll walk a right onto Hamilton and head into Sidewinder Coffeehouse where Jen Shepherd will welcome me with a “Hey Jake, how’s the baby?” We’ll chat about newborns and music, she’ll get me my regular, and I’ll say “So long” and head right to Ace Hardware.
Once inside Ace, I’ll ask old man Bill for sixteen bronze screws, a pack of razor blades, and a wire brush, and he’ll fish through the mess and somehow come up with them. He’ll charge me $7.49 but I’ll only have a five-dollar bill, so he’ll just take it and say “Get me next time.”
I’ll step outside again, and sure enough Chuck Cleaver of the band, Wussy, will limp by, pull on his goatee, and chat a minute about taking the music on the road. As we part, Chris and Shelley will zip by on their new Vespa, honk a little dance, and park in front of Shake It Records. On my way to meeting them there, Ed at the Northside Tavern will be carrying in cases of beer and stop me for a second to book The Freddies and me for six more months of first Fridays at the Tavern. He won’t write it down – we’ll just know.
I’ll cross the street, smell the Park Chili “Veggie Mess,” but remember that I’m broke, so I’ll pop into Shake It where Darren will greet me with a “Hey Jake, I have a great old folk record that I’ve been meaning to give you,” and I’ll take it and love it.
I’ll spend the rest of the afternoon chatting with friends, browsing for new music, and sipping hot black coffee in my collared shirt, happier than hogs in honey in my old-timey neighborhood where everybody knows my name.