Hey Zeus!
A reflection on ritual, coffee, and community
This article is part of the Claritas spring 2024 issue, Home.
By: david johnson
Temple of Zeus Café
Thursday, 9:58 A.M.
Currently sitting alone at a table café-side of the vertical dividers. I’m lucky—this table has access to outlets. It’s also clean, save for three faded brown, two-inch diameter residue rings that serve as a reminder of this table’s previous guests.
Although I can’t see the statues that adorn the open foyer of Klarman Hall, I witness students entering from Goldwin Smith. They jostle for position as they file into line at Zeus. Some are cordial, others not so much.
As I examine them one-by-one, I can’t help but imagine their stories.
Closest to me, a kind, oval face sits atop a long neck protected by a fashionable cashmere scarf that, in turn, sits atop a long trench coat. Chelsea boots, too, I see. There is a definite air of seriousness about the figure. Maybe it’s because her shoulders are pulled squarely back or because she wields not a backpack but a leather satchel. She reads Hegel in the original German—I’m sure of it.
Behind her, a boy has curly, brown hair falling over his acne-coated forehead that is partitioned from his bloodshot eyes by one thick, continuous eyebrow. I trace his “Big Red Hacks” t-shirt down to the pockets of his jeans where his hands rest beside him. His fingers are in bad shape—they’re calloused and peeling. By day, he is a budding computer scientist, and by night, the lead guitarist of a rock band.
My inner musings are interrupted when somebody asks about an empty chair at my table. “All yours,” I say.
Turning again, I look at the line a little differently. I’m no longer focused on the people but on the spaces in between. I wonder now about what connects one customer with the other. What does a sleep-deprived computer scientist have in common with an employment-deprived philosopher?
About two dozen people are now lined up, most of them to receive coffee from a person dressed in a costume commensurate with their job—an apron, the traditional garb of the barista.
At a table to my left, a boy in denim sits across from a girl with a green corduroy cap. He places the cup on the table as she slides her computer into her backpack. She begins to share. Maybe it's a story about making strawberry jam with her grandmother, or maybe it's a concern about an upcoming exam. Or both.
Most people I see are confident, veteran customers, and even so, they are fully engaged with the ritual. They get in line, acquire their coffee, and unburden themselves to a friend or even a stranger. And they do it all together, because it is not good for coffee stains to be alone.
It all seems like a good deal, and I wish I could take part. Alas, the smell of coffee nauseates me. But mostly I wonder about this ancient method of therapy. Is it effective? Does it last?
* * * *
Three Days Later
The door swings open from the inside, but nobody emerges. How strange—I am being welcomed.
Crossing the threshold, I expect the palpable ambiance—shuffling feet, the whirl of an espresso machine, and lots of chatter. There’s always chatter. But I get none of this. Instead, I am received with a warm but silent smile.
There is music, and there are children. I take a seat near the wall and complete some readings. At one point, the children are taken to another room. I can’t believe there’s a café childcare, that’s absurd!
Somebody gets up and starts talking into a microphone. It must be an open mic, and some new comic is hoping to get their break. I struggle to pay attention—nobody’s laughing anyway. A few look like they’re taking the time to journal.
After the comic bombs for thirty minutes, the children return with crayon drawings that leave several fine motor skills to be desired, but hey, Picasso started somewhere, right?
A man in a jacket approaches me and asks for financial assistance. I feel for him—only a single button on his jacket is visibly intact—so I place a few dollars in his bucket. I’m surprised the café hasn’t removed him yet.
There’s a line forming, so I decide to join before it gets too long.
At first, I thought this ritual was all a bit turned inwards, self-centered. But now I’m starting to feel differently. I come shoulder-to-shoulder with an elderly woman—this café serves two parallel lines. I don’t know her story. It may be full of unspoken burden or speechless joy—or both. I won’t fathom a guess. After all, I too am a stranger. Together, we shuffle forwards.
I thought this feeling of freedom was going to be superficial. That my sorrows would not be removed but only masked by a stimulant. But now—now that I have come to this strange café—the load of life is gradually being replaced by the weight of wonder. It is as if, upon laying my burdens down, they are taken up by another.
I come face-to-face with the barista. He wears a particularly curious costume today, a blue piece of cloth that hangs around his neck and shoulders, almost touching his knees. It’s a little silly and probably ineffectual, I think. Coming to a stop a couple of feet away from him, I’m about to place my order when he interrupts me. He makes eye contact, holds something up between our lines of sight, and then places it in the palm of my hand. I wonder what is happening, but then he speaks and the story is complete. “The Body of Christ, broken for you.”