brokedown palace

the life & death of a coffee shop

August 4th, I wrote “finding and sustaining meaningful work is a bitch.” I shared a poem about the insatiable urge to work and being exploited for it. On August 7th, I found out the coffee shop I run is closing. These are some raw and honest thoughts from a baby coffee shop GM.

Monday, August 7th, 2:38pm

22 min until close

52 min before staff meeting

My bosses are a married couple. They pull me into the hallway outside the cafe and struggle to inform me they’ve decided to close shop in 14 days. I worry that I’m not reacting. I have no reaction waiting in me. On some level, I already knew. Also I feel caught unaware; I know I must be in shock; I know I must be crushed. I know I need to be alone now, so I walk around the building. It’s 2:53. I call my mom. I almost feel it, but I don’t yet. At 3:26, I walk back into the room, avoid eye contact with the gathering staff, throw away my half-eaten piece of quiche and don’t eat for over 24 hours. My stomach turns over as I sit down next to my coworkers.

Mom says to have my feelings later. Mom says to put my game face on and go talk to my staff. I wonder what my game face should look like: stoic, sympathetic, sorry? This isn’t my decision. I have no power to stop what’s coming. I know because I tried. I watch their faces and think of all the times I heard unfair news from an employer.

I came to this shop like a refugee. I was a shell of myself, hollowed out by the last cafe. I moved into this one slowly, getting to know the regulars, deep cleaning the space, tweaking the recipes, expanding the menu, etc. etc. The owners let me make it my own; I hired an exceptional staff and poured my love into them (not always well). They’re the most special part.

I have loved this job, every minute of it. It was my dream. And I know it’s time now to dream bigger, but I wanted to live in this one a little longer. I tried to stay in it, like when you fight to stay asleep when you’re not ready yet to be awake. When the picture in your head is too good to leave.

Everyone wants to know how this could have happened. To us, it’s almost offensive at this juncture. Small businesses are closing all around us like a house of cards. Rent is up. Groceries are obscene. The cost of to-go cups quadrupled post-pandemic. The customer expects the consistency and price of a corporation but the character and personal touch of a local spot. It’s a miracle when a small business makes it past 5 years.

But I don’t want to talk about that. I’ve spent years of my life talking about that. That’s something you can Google.

And I wouldn’t say that’s what happened to us.

Apathy happened. Priorities change in the span of 5 years. People marry and have babies. People move. Coffee shops aren’t inherently profitable. Small business means you show up every day with the veracity of something sorta inhuman. Something entirely relentless. It takes a deeper level of self-awareness. You will sacrifice things you can’t possibly predict. I wonder if you can predict how you will diminish people

to their hours, their productivity, their errors. We don’t even mind being diminished a little so you can compartmentalize, if it means we get what we need (a liveable wage, a sustainable schedule, a little support during the rush, a second closer on the schedule). It’s when these needs aren’t met time and time again that we lose hope. Morale drops. A small business isn’t its owner; it has little to do with its inception. A cafe is a living beast; it’s made up of the people who show up for it every day.

Customers become friends and family and coworkers. Managers become therapists and punching bags and burnt out and lazy. Owners become invisible hands, and we’re just grains of sand slipping through your fingers.

Everyone wants to know when I’ll open my own shop. To me, it’s almost salt in the wound. I’ve always wanted my own cafe. First it was going to be a rural tea shop; then it was going to be a woodland coffee house; a third wave craft coffee and cocktail bar; a modest wine and pour over bar; a silly honky tonk cafe, etc. etc. I go to sleep and dream of visiting new cafes in different cities. I wake up excited for my first cuppa. I love this industry, even more than I resent it.

I don’t know what the next step is (so please stop asking.) I know I have options, and I know I have a lot to do, and I know I need a good rest. But when I lay my head down, it just swims with ideas. Lightbulbs bobbing over my eyes. It’s all

in vain. Because capitalism is here, and I don’t know how to fight it. I hardly know how to live under its thumb. And I’m tired, after all these years of fighting to make some coffee. Do I really want to start a brand new fight?

is coffee ready yet?

For a little while, I got to show up for this cafe day after day and give it love. I breathed new life back into a stagnant place, and it healed me and homed me after a traumatic time in my life. I fought for years for this position, and I held it, at least for a while. And I got to work beside my friends.

This I know: my priorities haven’t changed. I don’t always know what I want, but I know I love what I do, and I didn’t want to stop. I know that a coffee shop is a magical portal generating infinite perfect little moments of wholesome connection; I know that life is made up of perfect little moments; and I know I will always carry the moments I found and experienced at this shop.

the altar we built at our goodbye party.

#offbeat4ever