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People always ask me about the hat.
It’s nothing more than a beat-up brown fedora, but I’ve
traveled to every corner of this world, immersed myself in a hundred
different cultures, and this old hat is the one thing that seems
to pique everyone’s curiosity. I don’t mind repeating
the story of how I got it, though. It’s a fine way to sum
up what Scooter’s Coffeehouse is all about.
I grew up in a simple little town. You might call it Anytown, U.S.A.,
if you were the sort of person who says things like that. For most
of my childhood, the major points of interest were Marv’s
corner store, two greasy-spoon diners, and one full-service station
situated behind Mayor Clancy’s house on Grand Avenue. It wasn’t
until I was ten years old that Wanjohi came to town and changed
everything.
Wanjohi was a scruffy, good-natured entrepeneur from Kenya. He was
a short fellow with a gleaming bald head, a salt-and-pepper beard,
and the whitest smile I’d ever seen. He came to town late
one autumn, and by the following spring, he’d opened a one-room
coffeehouse smack in the center of town.
My father had always been a coffee lover, and one Saturday morning,
after I finished mowing the lawn, he asked me if I’d like
to take a walk and try out the new cafe. I was curious about the
exotic stranger, so I agreed, and thirty minutes later we stepped
through the door of that unadorned brick building and into a whole
new world.
There were a few mismatched tables and chairs scattered around the
room, and in the far corner stood a small coffee bar, behind which
was stacked a fascinating array of equipment, the likes of which
I’d never seen. But it was the pictures that drew my attention.
The walls were lined with elaborate sketches of fantastic, far-off
places, and they instantly captured my imagination. A Nigerian coffee
farmer laboring in the field. A rugged riverboat gliding through
deep, mysterious jungles. A Parisian cafe filled with sleepy-eyed
lovers at sunset. The images seemed alive, and I was mesmerized.
“What do you see?” asked a booming voice behind me.
I turned and laid eyes on Wanjohi for the first time. It was startling
to hear such an authoritative voice coming from such a diminutive
man.
“The whole world,” I answered, not knowing what else
to say.
Wanjohi laughed out loud, then enthusiastically introduced himself
and invited us to have a seat. I could tell that my father liked
him immediately. In the coming years they’d discover that
they were kindred spirits, but for the moment they simply traded
small talk while Wanjohi worked behind the bar, grinding beans and
brewing a fresh pot of his house blend. When it was time to take
the first sip, my father closed his eyes and savored the rich flavor.
I was too young to drink coffee, but I inhaled the rich aroma and
savored it just the same. When I opened my eyes, I saw my father
smiling, and he winked at me. We’d found our new haven.
In the years following Wanjohi’s arrival, my family became
a fixture in his busy coffeehouse. Even my mother warmed to the
place, despite the fact that Wanjohi didn’t serve blueberry
muffins. You might say I grew up in that coffeehouse, and as I came
into my teens, I got interested in what was going on behind the
bar. Wanjohi was some kind of coffee magician, and he taught me
every trick he knew; how to roast the beans, how to grind them,
and how to identify the complex flavors in every cup.
Late one afternoon, I found myself once again lost in the pictures
on the wall. Wanjohi had drawn the pictures himself, and I could
imagine him there in every scene, worlds away, living a life that
I could only dream about.
“Wanjohi,” I asked suddenly, “what are you doing
here?”
He gave me one of those looks.
“You’ve lived in so many places,” I said. “You’ve
met fascinating people and seen wonders of the world. Knowing all
that, I can’t figure out why you’ve settled down in
a place like this.”
He finished drying a mug and tossed the dishtowel over his shoulder.
“Come over here,” he said.
I walked to the bar and watched as he reached into a burlap sack
and pulled out a handful of beans. He placed them on the counter
in a small pile, then he reached into another sack and did the same.
Twice more he did this, until there were four small piles sitting
on the bar between us.
“This is my blend,” he said. “These are the beans
that make my coffee what it is.”
I tried to hide my surprise as he casually revealed this secret
he’d kept for so many years. As far as I knew, he’d
never told a soul .
“In the same way,” he continued, “the values of
this town make me what I am.” He took one bean from each pile
and handed them to me, one at a time. “Integrity. Hard work.
Compassion. Trust. These are the things I have found in this little
town. You see? It is here that I have found my blend.”
I wasn’t quite convinced, but Wanjohi just smiled.
“One day you will go out into the world and find your own
blend,” he said, then added, “I can’t wait to
taste it.”
On the eve of my twenty-first birthday, I found myself wandering
the snow-swept streets of that little town. I ambled aimlessly,
visiting old haunts and collecting memories. The next morning I
would be boarding a bus, heading out for my first expedition to
Africa. I was nervous and excited all at once. At last I would finally
see some of those enchanted places that had been lingering in my
imagination since I was a boy.
Inevitably, I found myself back at the coffeehouse. Friday nights
at the coffeehouse had become something of a town ritual over the
years, and that night the joint, as they say, was hopping. Warm,
friendly light spilled out from the windows and the cracks around
the doors, reflecting orange against the frozen street. I stepped
up to the steamy windows and peered inside.
The music of laughter and friendly banter filled the air, and I
saw a hundred smiling faces moving throughout the crowded room.
These were the people I’d known all my life. The people who
had cheered me on at little league when I hit a triple in the bottom
of the eighth. The people who had lent a helping hand when the roof
blew off our house during an early-spring windstorm. The people
who put up holiday decorations every year like clockwork.
I spotted my mother and father standing with Wanjohi behind the
bar, the three of them laughing uproariously at some tall tale that
Mayor Clancy was reciting. For the first time, I noticed that my
parents were growing older, their faces lined with laughter and
the wisdom of years.
As the scene played out before me, I felt a sudden swell of pride
in my chest. These were the people who had made me into the man
I was. I opened the door and stepped inside.
There were shouts of luck and congratulations as I made my way to
the bar.
“There he is!” cried my father, clapping me on the back.
“My son, the world traveler!” I grinned sheepishly.
“Have you told Wanjohi what you plan to do when you get back?”
“I think I might open a coffeehouse,” I mumbled. Wanjohi
smiled widely, flashing those famous teeth of his.
“Of course you will!” he practically shouted. “And
I will be first in line when you hang your shingle!”
“You gonna send letters while you’re away?” asked
Mayor Clancy.
“Of course he will!” chided mother, a faint warning
behind her smile.
“Nevermind about letters,” said Wanjohi, waving the
topic aside. “You will be far too busy for that sort of thing.
But now, I have a gift for you.”
He reached under the counter and produced a brand new brown fedora.
He didn’t bother to ask if I liked it; he just reached up
and pulled it down over my ears. I tilted the brim back and adjusted
the hat properly.
“Is this going to help me find my blend?” I asked quietly.
“No,” he replied sternly. “It’s going to
keep the sun out of your eyes, and the mites out of your hair.”
Then he looked around at the room full of people behind me. “You
won’t have any trouble finding your blend,” he smiled.
Wanjohi’s old coffeehouse is long gone now. Times change,
and places change with them, but values … well, they remain
the same. In my travels, I never get tired of meeting new people
or exploring new vistas, but my personal blend isn’t much
different today than it was all those years ago. I like to think
the values that bring people together are brewed right into every
cup of Scooter’s coffee. It’s more than a philosophy,
it’s the way I live my life. And, to this day, I never go
anywhere without my hat.
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