Brad lives alone in a Chicago studio apartment some fourteen blocks from his favorite haunt, Tony’s 105th Street Coffee House. Many folks call it a Starbucks look alike. Brad used to call them on it, reminding them that Tony Sabatto opened here fifty years before Starbucks came along. But no one listens. Its hopeless.
He and Tony discussed a Chicago coffee house many times while in foxholes during the big war. Of course, Brad considered it a pipe dream. It was something fot Tony to cling to. That was okay. Talking about The Loop and The El seemed to make life a little more bearable. Sometimes he even forgot about his wet socks and K-rations in that cold, muddy foxhole.
Eventually, the war ended and Tony made good on his coffee dream, opening at a 105th Street address on New Year’s Day, 1946. Folks who had stayed on the homefront and dwelt with coffee rationing poured in the door.
Though coffee was free until eleven o’clock, few took, advantage of Tony’s generous offer. Some even paid double.
More than sixty years had passed since that day. Brad’s leg, the one that was wounded in Europe in 1942 is bothering him more these days and his trips to the 105th Street Coffee House are less frequent, reduced to weekly occasions or when he could manage the fare on the El.
This morning, however, Brad awoke with a start. He’d heard Tony call his name. He stared at the dark ceiling trying to separate fact from fiction, but he couldn’t. It seemed too real. The clock indicated it was almost straight up four. Tony would open at five. He must go check on his friend.
Dressing for the frigid Lake Michigan wind, he hurried down the three flights of stairs and flagged a cab. He was rapping on the front door in ten minutes.
“I was trying to send someone to fetch you. He’s on a cot in the back room, Brad,” said Tony’s daughter, pointing and then locking the door behind him.
Tony’s complexion was ashen. His breathing was shallow and rapid. But he managed a faint smile and then moved his lips. Brad leaned in close to listen and grabbed hold of his hand.
“We could have used a cup of this java back there in those foxholes, huh?” whispered Tony.
Before Brad could respond Tony was gone.