True Stories And Tall Tales From The L Cafe

I went to The Lit on Friday, and Andy showed his 1990's Decade in Review highlight video that night in honor of the 20th anniversary of artwalk. And yes, I'm in it. Ah, memories. I hung out at the Literary Cafe a lot when I lived in Tremont in the late '90s. I adore that place. This is a slightly reworked version of something I wrote back then. I wrote a sceenplay version of this too, but we never did get around to filming it. Part 2 will follow here sometime soon.

TRUE STORIES AND TALL TALES FROM THE L CAFE

From Book One: 1999

Mob Hits spilled from the speakers like blood from an open wound, sweet and syrupy as a cold Italian ice, yet bullet ridden with existential angst. The petite blond behind the bar asked for my order. "I'll have a Bud," I said, innocently enough. "We don't serve Budweiser,” she stated flatly. The dame smiled sweetly, yet I detected a twitch of bemused sarcasm. A second bartender furrowed his brow and watched from the far end of the bar, also smiling demurely, yet with a sinister, crooked-toothed air that seemed to whisper, I've got a whoopee cushion with your name on it, Bub, and I'm not afraid to use it. "Make it a Rolling Rock," I said quickly, not wanting any trouble.

A ubiquitous man, tall and beige, was hunched over a ubiquitous sketch pad, pencil in hand. He must be one of those bohemian arteest types I hear this part of Cleveland is famous for, I noted, proud of my finely honed perceptual abilities. A boy-faced man strapped to an accordion ambled up to the bar, ordered a brewski and asked to have it put on his tab. A Tab? Did I hear that right? I wondered if I had slipped through a portal to the past. "Hey,” I asked him, in my best jovial, backslapping voice, “How's the polka business?" He turned to me slowly, expression deadpan. "The accordion . . . " he intoned ominously, "is not just for polka anymore." He wandered off, stabbing at the instrument’s buttons while squeezing out the opening notes of Mac The Knife. I was beginning to suspect that this was no ordinary roadside tavern. This was not going to be an easy job.

The door swung open and an abbreviated, golden-flounced woman wafted in like a moonbeam looking for a starring role in a haiku. She must have been a regular, judging by the warm reception she received at the bar. As she took her seat, I noticed she carried a most unusual handbag. "Excuse me," I inquired politely, "But is that purse made out of a coconut?" The room went silent. She glared at me and gnashed her teeth. "If one more person asks me that . . . " Her voice trailed off as several patrons surrounded her, speaking in soothing tones. I backed slowly away. It appeared I had managed to offend every person I had spoken to thus far. Yet I was determined to stay on the case. I was just going to have to try a little harder. Somewhere within this enigma called the L Cafe, lay a dark secret, mysterious and slippery as an uncooked egg . . . and I was determined to crack it.

FIN

A screen cap of Google street view of the Lit, with a couple filters applied