Chapter 9
Izaac’s idea is to post up at a local coffee shop, get warm, and strategize our next move.
“When I visited Audra, we went to this place—Liz’s Book Bar—every day.
It’s her favorite spot,” Izaac says, leading us there.
A gust of wind comes through, reminding me that I did not dress appropriately for this day.
In the winter, you have to make a choice: cool or cozy.
So rarely do those fashion objectives overlap.
I tried to imagine how Eve would dress for a day like this, or what would give adventurous but chill and definitely gay .
So I went for Naomi’s old shearling-lined denim jacket for warmth and my rainbow Chucks, which Diya decorated with some sketches of Christmas ornaments and trees for me last year for vibes.
It was the closest I could come to a middle ground.
Luckily, according to Izaac, Liz’s is right around the corner.
When we step inside, we all breathe a sigh of relief.
There’s a long wooden bar where they serve coffee during the day, and beer and wine at night.
It leads into a back area lined with bookshelves and full of tables displaying curated titles.
An old tile fireplace anchors the space across from an overstuffed leather couch and a few other seating areas where people are working or having conversations.
There’s a community corkboard with flyers for local politicians, pottery classes, and a queer book club on the wall, and the heady smell of grinding espresso fills the air.
The customers behind me are checking out the pastry case and holding books they’ve selected, while the baristas dance around one another to the gurgling, sputtering soundtrack of steaming milk, and Mariah the Scientist, trying to help everyone.
“Whoa,” Cash says. “Coze patrol, take notice.”
It’s true, the place is all dressed up with strings of lights, and is as cozy as the set of a Hallmark holiday classic—except not the kind that pretends to be New York even though it’s obviously Canada. Because this is real New York.
But more thrillingly, the place is a winter wonderland of humankind.
There are college-age kids with laptops and headphones and croissants; couples with strollers and cold brews apparently oblivious to the fact that it is about to blizzard; friends catching up over cappuccinos.
There’s a couple sitting at the bar—two women—wearing matching flannel shackets, one with an undercut and platinum blond hair, the other with short dark curls that remind me of Diya’s.
They’re holding hands and have that happy-in-love glow I’ve seen on-screen.
One of them leans in for a kiss, which makes my stomach suddenly feel like a milk frother, all warm and bubbly.
I imagine what it might be like to be a regular in a place like this, where it is totally normal to wear flannel and have an undercut and be just, like, queer and know that there are other queer people in the room, and it doesn’t even matter.
In fact, maybe it only matters because you matter.
The barista is a Black girl with a shaved head and septum piercing who can’t be more than a few years older than us. She’s wearing a button that says she/her and a T-shirt that reads Kind of a lot going on . Something tells me this person would know what to say to her crush if she found them.
“Whaddya having, little friend?” she asks me when I reach the front of the line. I must be grinning like nine-year-old Ralphie when he gets his BB gun.
Still, I like that she calls me “friend.” At Rhapsody, I’m always addressed as “ma’am,” or some other female-specific honorific.
Which is mostly fine. If you want to get specific, I technically identify as a tomboy femme (and I have an Autostraddle T-shirt to prove it—a gift from Cash and Izaac for my coming-out-iversary).
But it’s nice that it isn’t assumed here.
My stomach has settled enough for a coffee, but I haven’t even looked at the drinks board yet. Now that I do, it’s totally overwhelming, and I don’t feel like I have time to give it a good read.
“Um, your house mocha, please,” I say, because I assume that’s a thing.
The barista pops her gum and taps the screen in front of her. “Strong move,” she says, and I feel a burst of pride.
Look at you, Bosley, bein’ all Brooklyn , I think. Finally, some evidence that I might make it here after all.
She taps the screen a few more times and turns it toward me to show my total: $6.50.
Oof. For that price tag, I could get at least two mochas at Pag’s, and I’d still have fifty cents to put toward Jolene’s tip.
I knew living in New York was going to be pricey, but I am really going to have to get cozy with some Swiss Miss if I’m going to stretch my savings.
I furrow my brow at the thought. I’d better get back to filming if I’m going to have a future here at all—and this time, I remember to ask permission.
“Knock yourself out, little friend,” she says, before turning to the next customer.
I grab a small table in back by the YA and Philosophy sections, and hit Record as my friends approach a moment later. Cash gives the camera some jazz hands and Diya rolls her eyes. When she takes her seat, I turn the lens on her.
“So, what will you be having?” I ask.
“Is it going to be like this all the time now?” she asks, ignoring the question and gesturing to the camera. “I’m not sure I’m ready for this constant close-up situation.”
“The camera loves you, babe,” I tell her.
She shakes her head. “You’re lucky I love you ,” she says. “Sip?” She offers me her drink.
“What on earth…,” I start to say as I aim the camera at the glass, which has a giant sprig of rosemary sticking out the top. A candied cranberry, which looks like it’s crusted with crushed diamonds, floats on the surface next to a metal straw.
“Actually, it’s a Mother Earth: a beet kombucha mocktail with ginger, cranberry, and cinnamon.”
“That is… no,” Cash says, watching our exchange. “Hard pass.”
“I mean, points for inspiration,” I say, “but no thank you.”
Izaac rolls his eyes at Cash and me and takes a sip.
“Uh, that is legit Christmas dinner in a glass.” He points, and puckers like he’s just taken a bite of a lemon. “Not bad at all, but I’d prefer to eat the dinner.”
“All for me, then.” She shrugs.
“And you?” Cash asks me.
“The house mocha,” I say.
“Really?” Izaac asks, which is odd since it’s basically my standing order back home. “Well, I look forward to your thoughts…”
“Weird, Z,” I reply, and go for a sip. I was worried it might be too hot—I’m still traumatized from the cider burn on my hand—but the heat level is just right, and I smile as that familiar, caffeinated cocoa hug begins to comfort me. Until…
“B, what is happening to your face?” Cash asks.
I am too horrified to answer at first, which I’m sure is coming across in my twisted expression.
“Oh my god, what… why? ” I ask.
“Oh, it’s miso!” Diya says, looking back at the offerings on the board. “Is it so amazing? Seichi’s mom makes miso chocolate chip cookies that are basically the best thing ever. That sweet-savory combo—” She pauses for an actual chef’s kiss. “Scientifically proven to be delicious.”
“Miso?” I say, and look at the mug like it might actually bite me, even though I have no idea what that is. “I… did not catch that.”
My friends are all laughing now.
“Oh, Bosley,” Izaac says. “And here I was, thinking you were deliberately trying something new.”
I’m not usually one to compromise my coffee in order to earn a little respect, but even though I know they’re just teasing me, the way their expressions switched from impressed to Never mind, it’s the same old Bosley bothers me enough to be motivating.
I reach for the cup and tentatively lift it again.
They’re all watching. Now that I’m not moving as quickly, I can tell from the aroma that something’s different.
Not bad, though. I take a sip and, now that she’s pointed it out, I see what Diya means.
The contrast between sweet and savory is actually kind of…
“Delicious or what?” Cash asks, watching me closely.
All I can do is humbly hang my head, because damn, after another sip I have to give it to them.
When I look up, I realize Izaac has grabbed my camera and I’m the one staring into the lens… which is unsettling.
“Hey!” I say. “That’s my job.”
“Just getting a little BTS of the director herself,” he says. “Someday you’re going to want the footage. The moment you tried something new—and did not die.”
Izaac, always thinking PR strategy—while also referencing Gonzo in The Muppet Christmas Carol . I couldn’t love him more.
“On that note,” Diya says. “Let’s hear more about this new project since we’re living it all day. A documentary?”
I nod.
“Documentary filmmaking, miso hot cocoa,” Cash says. “What’s next, an actual savory meal?”
“Let’s not get crazy,” I say.
“Speaking of which,” Cash says. “This seems like a very good place for footage.”
“Seriously. New York in general feels like a solid setting for this project,” Izaac says. “Not that I’m saying I fully approve.”
“So far, very good,” I agree, ignoring the last part.
I also don’t mention that I’ve run into a few less magical moments too.
“Has this changed your vision at all, Director Bosley?” Cash asks, holding up an imaginary mic while Izaac films me.
“First of all, Director is not an honorific. But yes, I would say it is playing a strong role in shaping the narrative. The city is almost a character in itself.”
“Oh, good answer! Save that one for the pressers,” Izaac says, and I let that compliment soak in.
“I was thinking about this on our ride in,” Diya says. “And my favorite docs are the ones that start out with questions.” She tilts her head to the side, as if scanning her mental catalog of titles. “Would you say you have any you’re setting out to answer?”
“Yeah, good point,” Izaac says. “Like where does faith in Christmas magic come from? And what makes people lose it?”