Revelations of the New Moon
The sweet scent of body odor fills the air of the cramped coffee cabin that stands at 8,200-feet. An aroma like wet dog undercuts the sweetness. But there’s no dog in sight. Despite frigid winds that persist across the thin film of ice covering the streets outside, patrons enter the establishment in bare feet, shorts, and threadbare Grateful Dead t-shirts. A procession of hardened mountain settlers attuned to the cold.
Bright sunlight shoots from between the rolling grey clouds that rise in dense plumes over evergreens clustered along the mountain peaks that ring the town. Intermittent rays scan the stained glass windows of the coffee shop, entering the space at erratic, beautiful interludes that cut through the rising steam like the long beam of a lighthouse beacon strafing the scenery.
Patrons come and go from this church-cabin bearing cups of coffee and small packs of narcotics that the baristas dispense discretely from behind the service bar like pharmacists of the high country. High in every sense of the word.
A bloodshot barista greets him at the register. “Are you here for the good drugs?”
“What other kind is there?”
“Many. But the good kind cost extra.”
“Drop some in my order. I could do with the laughs.”
“Want a bagel to chase that with, my guy?”
“Sure. Load it up with cream cheese. Spread it on heavy like fresh snowfall.”
He takes a seat among the congregation. Drinks a Shot in the Dark laced with the barista’s choice of hallucinogen at a small wooden table and watches as the gnarled grains form the face of Jesus. He listens to the lament of his lost faith and the poor personal hygiene of his fellow patrons from the Savior’s mouth. Listens to the tale of the man he could have been as the goatee and long hair morph with each sip of coffee coming closer to the bottom of the cup. Watches as the Savior’s face takes on new forms. Becomes his father. His grandfather. His forefathers and heroes going back through the ages. They speak in chorused tongues from the tabletop through the sweet scented atmosphere.
“What legacy do you continue?”
“My own legacy. Something new ‘n uninvented yet.”
“What are you creating to leave behind?”
“I’m creating myself. It’s all there is I can do.”
Sunlight cuts the stained glass again in a low pass. A moment in time reflecting upon the room and its inhabitants as kaleidoscopic shards that glisten through the scent of sweat and coffee and fresh cookies of high altitude.
A shimmering oil atop the last pool of coffee forms a vision of a different future. A reconciliation with all that was before and revelation of what’s to come arriving all at once in the final sip. A prophecy risen from the dregs of a drug-laced cup.