We were in a little cafe covered in brick walls and cheap local paintings. The place was filled with conversation and coffee. Smoke billowed from the lips of most of the customers who called this little place their home away from home for years. Woolen sweaters, Feivel hats, and Doc Martins were required at the door.
I miss Java Joe's.
Will, Joe, and I used to go there and hang out. Then we would go to the Total gas station a mile from their home and talk to Jeff, the gas station attendant. I am not sure a truthful word rolled off of our tongues. We lied about everything. It was nice to be someone else without others knowing. We claimed to be in this band that was on the verge of getting signed and had toured with The Spin Doctors. He was star struck I think, or just fascinated at how dumb we were. We would come walking in there every night with these huge winter hats with the flaps that I still wear to this day. We would sit in there and drink that miserable coffee that comes out of the machine and lie all night long. Then we would hop in Joe's big van and drive off kind of wishing we really were the kids were were lying about. The story is always better than the reality, like our memories are always better than the way they really happened.
I am glad I could never grow a mustache. I would look like a pervert in one. I don't quite get how some people would look weird without one and others would look sick with one.
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