This piece was adapted for this week’s Unicorn Challenge from a longer story ‘Speaking ill of the dead’ published by Bloom in February this year.
‘One more cup of coffee before I go, to the valley below’ – Bob Dylan
I don’t know why I keep coming to this café. In fact I do, but that’s what I used to say ritualistically when I met friends there occasionally and they complained about the espresso coffee (too much or too little crema), the unsmiling service provided by the grandchildren of the original Italian owners and the mass-produced tasteless cakes.
‘I don’t know why’, I would say and mumble self-deprecating words of mock embarrassment that varied from ‘Force of habit’ to ‘I love the irony of the unchanged tacky 70’s décor’ to ‘Loyalty to the memory of Franco and Nina, who fed me often when I was an impoverished Uni student.’
These days, I only come to the cafe alone. I do not lie to myself about what this café means. I know it is simply a familiar shell into which, like the hermit crab that I have become, I scurry, knowing full well it is a home borrowed from someone else’s past.
That past is mine. One filled with desperation to be as unlike my father as I possibly can, one filled with self-loathing when his genes ambush me unprepared.
In my retirement village, as I slide inexorably into more intrusive levels of care that involve a revolving door of underpaid strangers paid to be patronisingly respectful, I cling to the last of my freedom and capacity to shuffle with my walker to come to this café. I fancy it because it is all of me that is left.
Six Crooked Highways 
Nothing wrong with clinging to the familiar, even if its not what it once was.
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Jings, Doug, this is brutal!
‘filled with self-loathing when his genes ambush me’ – powerful and painful.
Which is true of this entire superbly crafted piece.
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Many thanks, CE. We all have our ghosts that will follow us to the grave, some friendlier than others.
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I forgot to log-in so I don’t know if you got my comment. (Why do we have to keep logging in for every comment? Duh). Anyway, loved the line ‘revolving door of underpaid strangers…’ That just about nails it.
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Thank you, Sandra. My parents’ gradual decline in care (albeit into their 90’s) has had a powerful impact on my worldview.
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Powerful stuff, Doug.
I’ve watched someone cling to the last of what there was of him in a care home.
I’ll borrow Sandra’s word – you’ve nailed the situation.
An outstanding piece of writing.
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Thank you, Jenne. I don’t know if writing about your worst fears helps but it’s better to face the inevitable with your eyes open.
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What a powerful line! — “In my retirement village, as I slide inexorably into more intrusive levels of care that involve a revolving door of underpaid strangers paid to be patronisingly respectful” That is the very reason I moved in with my father so he live his last days in his house. This hits so close to home for me.
Great job.
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Thank you, Sally. Yes, it’s the down side of the baby boomer generation.
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A powerful piece, Doug, and beautifully written.
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Thank you. I’m glad it spoke to you.
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I was intrigued from the start, with his ‘self-deprecating words of mock embarrassment’, wondering just why he kept going there. I wasn’t prepared for where you took his story, but you didn’t disappoint. So much heart in this. I too, am dealing with this situation with my mother in care at 95 and declining. Definitely a reality check. However, one also learns of 90+ year olds doing amazing things, so maybe we shouldn’t accept ‘inevitable’. What a thought-provoking story. I’ve just found and read your longer version, and it’s even more moving, with the ‘father’ more fully present and developed. This will linger in my mind for quite some time, I expect.
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Thank you for your kind words, Margaret. I empathise; my mother passed at 95 in a nursing home but Alzheimers really only got her in the last couple of years. Dad lasted to 99 still mostly lucid and still the self-centred, grumpy bastard he always was. 😉
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Just going to call it as I see it, Doug:
Brilliant! Loved every word of this powerful piece. Superb ink!
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Thank you so much, Nancy. That means a lot to me.
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A terrific tale Doug. It has a familiar ring to it. For over 20 years, I’ve gone to the same pub every Tuesday. I don’t particularly enjoy it, I just – go!
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Yikes, I see my future in your story.
Note to self: Must remember to stay active.
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Yeah, I think about doing that too. 🙂
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I think I remember this story, so poignant. I once had a temp job in a local café called the Fed Up Café. There was an old chap who came in every day and all he ever had was scotch broth.
Coffee shops and cafes have taken on a new meaning since Covid and people isolating long after we were allowed out. Actually getting out of the house and going to a place and sitting inside with other people was a treat. A little group of us meet every Friday morning at a cafe and we are not the only regulars – wonder how long for?
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Thanks, and well spotted. I suggest for as long as you are vertical; we need some constants in our life.
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