Pontilly Coffee

I used to dislike hipsters. Now that they are entering their thirties, they aren’t all bad. They are starting to develop interpersonal skills. The birds are leaving the nest. We were all insufferable once. So says someone called, “The Last of the Beats.”

I am at Pontilly Coffee this morning. It is next to the God is Good Carwash on Chef Menteur Highway. It is run by the same people. It is across the street from the New Orleans Baptist Seminary. I am looking at the live oaks on the seminary grounds as I write this.

When I was ready to leave the house, my Wall Street Journal hadn’t yet been delivered. Pontilly Coffee, off all places, has the Wall Street Journal for its customers. It is the only place in town that does Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s. I like Pontilly Coffee. They open at 6:00AM.

A constant stream of people lines up for coffee and breakfast. Few people linger even though it is a Saturday morning. Maybe the fish are jumping in the Rigolets this morning. I don’t know. The music is full of praise for God. No one pays much mind. It is in the air.

You can get a tuna sandwich at Pontilly Coffee when they are open. They open at 6:00AM every day. They close at 9:00PM. These are very friendly hours. The people on either side of the counter are very friendly, too.

Walk in the front door and the first thing you will hear is, “Welcome to Pontilly Coffee!” Everyone responds the same way to service with a smile. The smells from the kitchen in back are enticing. The lady at the counter is nice. Nobody is in a rush. A hunched-over old man counts coins from his coin purse. Nobody minds. This is Seymour. Everybody knows him.

There are no strangers in New Orleans, only friends you haven’t yet met. Happiness loves company.

I, as usual, sit and observe; always one of the crowd and always apart from it. Next to me is a portrait of an old, deceased aquaitance, The Reverend, or Rev, as everyone called him. Some people called him Keith, which was his first name. To this day, I don’t know his last name.

The Reverend was a street preacher, the best kind. He died last year.

The Reverend and I used to see each other at Tastee Donut just about every other morning. This went on for over a decade. He used to sit on a corner on Canal Street and harangue the crowds in the name of Jesus. I am told he did some good.

He left town every year to travel the country in a beat-up old pickup truck. It broke down all the time. People helped him fix it. God always provides.

He finally decided to give up his truck. “I’ve been riding my bicycle,” he told me, “but the open road is calling me. Do you think I can get me a bike like yours?”

We were at Tastee Donuts at the time. He was still alive. He was talking about the Vespa that is parked in front of Pontilly Coffee right now, the brawn to match my brains. A bicycle is fine, but to really cover ground you need an engine. A motor is not enough. It has to be an engine.

It just so happened that I had a Vespa, an old one. It didn't really work, when that bike was in its prime, it was like riding a magic carpet ride. A magic carpet with lots of mirrors. That bike was all modded out.

Like I say, it didn’t really run. I couldn’t sell it to Reverend for any price. Contrary to popular opinion, I do have a conscience. I examine it every day. When I look in the mirror, I like what I see. I wouldn’t like it if I sold the Reverend this crummy bike. I would see a monster instead of what I see now: an angel with a dirty face.

I sent the Reverend to a shop on St. Claude Avenue. He sold his truck for scrap and bought an inexpensive, slow Chinese motor scooter. It got him around the city for about a year. Then, he died. R.I.P. He never got to hit the open road. His top speed was 35mph.

People still ask about him at the donut shop. I don’t know where he is now. I have my suspicions. He is somewhere in the starry dynamo of night.