The Pofi Bar
(by Rodney DeCroo)
at the corner of Charles Street
and Commerical Drive has been
gone for years. A poorly lit
espresso bar shut down for selling
heroin, fencing stolen goods
and serving alcohol after hours.
I went there nightly to drink coffee
and read or play chess with friends
until well after midnight. I didn't sleep
much in those days as my mind
and body slowly detoxed from the drugs.
That's where I met Mohammed
who would eventually become
my friend. He'd just started
working there. He was wiping tables
when he asked me to move my feet
off the chair where I had propped them
while reading On the Road
by Jack Kerouac. I laughed
until I realized he was serious.
"What the fuck?" I said. "Nobody cares."
"I care." he said, flicking the dishrag
lightly against his leg as he
stood there, waiting. I took my feet
off the chair then kicked it
with my right heel to send it clattering
across the concrete floor.
He stepped over it to pick it
up and set it by another table.
"You have no respect." he said.
"You are not a good person."
and went back to the bar
to serve another man
who'd just come in
from the night and the rain.