It’s pouring.
I race from my car, fumbling as I slide my arms into the grey Method Savvy sweatshirt from the back of my SUV. I open the door to Folks on 4th, immediately greeted with a chill from the air conditioning and soft, ambient lighting.
It’s quiet.
The owner, Juan, a salt and peppered man with an impeccable Spanish accent, greets me.
“I’d like a black coffee, please.” I say politely, fiddling with my damp hair.
I wonder if I have my old punch card on me, and for a moment, I’m transported back to their location on 13th Street.
When I lived in Wilmington three years ago, the other location was one of my favorite places. I was newly divorced, and yearning for simplicity, I had rented a yellow little guesthouse a few blocks away.
The place was new, and mine, the first of many things that were just mine over the next few years. I loved the cramped stone driveway, how the birds landed right outside my window, and when the electricity occasionally went out, I loved lighting tons of little candles in each of the tiny four rooms. I shared the flourishing yard with the owner, and there was a creaky sliding back door that opened to my bedroom.
It was a perfect space that looked, and felt, exactly like me.
My inherited, faded, tan sectional barely fit in the living room. I spent lazy days lounging on it, drinking some cheap red and reading Nat Geo. Occasionally, when I needed space, maybe from the rest of the world or maybe from my feelings, I hid in an awkward space between the wall and the sofa. Like a little kid, I read or scribbled down notes.
But when the fort wouldn’t do, there was Folks.
The other location is different than this one; grittier, more genuine. I imagine that more pristine customers wipe the rim of their mug before sipping the smooth, perfectly heated coffee. There’d be snippets of Spanish being spoken, the occasional local reading an old, worn novel, and kids lining up to buy breakfast snacks before school started.
This Folks, nestled in the Brooklyn Arts District of Wilmington, is less familiar, a little sterile, and a bit alien to me.
“Would you like lighter coffee, with light caffeine,” Juan says, motioning to his selection, “or medium, with medium caffeine, or perhaps the darkest. Lots of caffeine.”
“It’s a tough choice,” he sympathizes.
“I’ll have the medium, I think,” I muse. “12 ounce.”
I let my eyes wander as he goes to pour the coffee. There’s some framed art, photographs and watercolors, in parallel with messier pieces, which I prefer. I spot a signed Wilma cover, by local musician, (and my good friend), Vanessa Lynch.
“Is it your first time here?” I hear Juan ask.
I have a little smile on my face as I reply that it’s not. A bit disappointed, he slides a coffee sleeve on the paper cup and hands it to me.
“Now I can’t ring my bell,” he playfully complains, gesturing towards a large, brass bell hanging from a doorway behind the counter.
It takes him a few moments to ring me up, and I think about the Old Folks. Though I prefer it to this one, when I come to town, I always come here instead.
The blank slate.
In my mind, it’s as if the other one vanished into thin air, taking it’s authenticity, stories and my half-punched coffee card along with it.
“Hey, Juan. “I say, grinning as I sign my receipt. “It’s my first time here with this haircut.”
I pause, and laugh.
“Does that count?”
His eyes light up, and he nods. He dashes over to the bell, exclaiming, “YES! Yes!”
He rings it, over and over, as the other customers and I laugh. “It does!!”
“It does.”