last exit for the lost

When I visit a coffeehouse these days, taking in the aroma of fresh brewed delights such as Costa Rica Tarrazu, Kenya AA, or the sacred and elusive Jamaica Blue Mountain, I cannot help but to be reminded of my brief but rewarding career as proprietor of My Place Café in Kenosha, Wisconsin. This small coffee shop was much more than the physical elements of which it was composed. It had a very special life of its own. Those who were lured by its aura typically had one of two reactions within moments of stepping through the door. People would often get an expression on their face that you might expect to find on one who had just inadvertently stepped through a trans-dimensional portal which leads to some strange smokey world where business professionals, punk rockers, and retirees could be found sitting together over a double cappuccino or an Italian cream soda, and playing Scrabble while listening to the haunting melodies of Portishead or Rasputina. This was, in fact, exactly the world they had just stumbled into. For many, a utopian wonderland; for some, a hellish den of debauchery that should be escaped quickly, and if possible, without interacting with anyone or anything. Those who found beauty here developed strong emotional attachments to this haven. Within this small establishment, a new culture, or rather, sub-culture, emerged in Kenosha that knew not the barriers of age, social class, political affiliation or sexual identity.

When the café opened in 1994, I was not yet an owner, but a patron who enjoyed the privilege of being able to access rare and gourmet coffees. But, I could also see the incredible potential for a truly unique and extraordinary social environment. My experience with coffeehouses that had been popping up in the area for the previous five years, or so, had given me an idea of the types of cultural diversity and richness that could be found in these places. At its inception, My Place Café did not yet have the necessary elements to really stand out as a cutting edge establishment. While it offered excellent products, it lacked the artistic atmosphere and interactive environment that I had come to use as criteria for a “real” coffeehouse.

When I first met Colleen, the founder of My Place Café, I did not see in her the dark storm cloud that would eventually lay the business to ruin, but rather a woman who had brought something fresh and inspiring into a decaying downtown. I had immediately become a regular, and frequently chatted with Colleen about the store. She would often ask me if I had any ideas about what could be done to make the atmosphere more alive and inviting. I would share many of my ideas with her, such as showcasing artwork from local artists, and having poetry and open mic nights. She always seemed to appreciate my concepts, but didn’t really seem to know how to implement them.

Near the end of 1994, knowing that I would soon be coming into a moderate sum of money, I half-jokingly asked Colleen if she’d like a business partner. A little to my surprise, she loved the idea. She commented about how difficult it was to run the business herself and try to maintain her family commitments. She also welcomed my fresh insight into café culture. We tossed the idea around for a couple of weeks and decided it would be best if I took a job there as manager and event coordinator so that I could get a feel for the place from the inside before I make a larger commitment. This also gave me the opportunity to put some of my ideas into practice and observe whether or not Kenosha was ready to embrace them. So, I quit my job at Motorola, took in a deep breath, and jumped.

After I had the basics down I was ready to initiate my long contemplated experiment. I started with what I considered to be the basics. I scheduled Wednesday nights as “Open Mic Night” where people could bring their acoustic instruments (guitars, hand drums, dulcimers, etc.) and show their talents by either group jams or solos. This was instantly successful, especially with younger people who, outside of their bedroom, basement, or garage, had little or no opportunity to express their creative capabilities.

The next logical insertion seemed to be poetry readings, which I scheduled for Monday evenings. This proved to be a little more challenging. The key was in finding someone suited to facilitate such an event. A number of people volunteered to take on this project. None really seemed to have the right personality for the task, though. Or, they would be completely undependable. There’s nothing worse than scheduling an event, and then have the facilitator not show up. My prayers were answered, however, the day Mike Gordon walked through the door. Mike had just moved to Kenosha from Waukegan, where he had already gained some notoriety for his readings at Café Kismet. He was outgoing, witty, and cynical; all in a perfect blend for the job of poetry MC. Mike was elated at the idea, and happily took on the responsibility. From that point on, “Poetry Night” became at least as successful as “Open Mic Night”, if not more so. At first, the readings brought in pretty much the same crowd as the acoustic jam, but then we started seeing people that had come from Racine or Illinois who had heard about us from one friend or another. I was beginning to feel very comfortable with my decision to pursue this life of coffee.

Colleen and I agreed that my presence was welcome in the café. Sometime in 1995 we drew up a partnership contract. I invested what was for me a large amount of money, and in return was given half ownership of the business. Now, I thought, would be a good time to try some really unique things. What I had in mind was a series of lectures on a variety of unusual topics. The first of this series featured Donald R. Schmitt, co-director of the Center for UFO Studies, and author of The Truth About the UFO Crash At Roswell which was made into a film for SHOWTIME cable network. His lecture was so popular (we far exceeded capacity), that we asked him back a few more times over the following couple of years.

We continued to have these types of special events which included speakers on all sorts of unusual or little known topics. Occasionally one of our speakers would create such interest that we’d host a series of classes for the given topic. For example, one speaker who demonstrated the alternative healing technique of Reiki inspired so much interest in the subject, that we allowed him to hold classes on Sundays, when we were normally closed. Of course, people were still buying their coffee, teas, sodas, and desserts.

Sometimes it was very difficult to come up with new events. I recall one day brainstorming for hours, scanning the internet with my 14kbps modem, searching for someone who could come to share their specialized knowledge. I ended up getting in contact with a scientist who lived in Canada, but worked in California for a major cryonics lab. He would spend several months at his job, then go home for a few months. It just so happened that on the date I was trying to fill, he would be coming very close to this area either on his way to, or coming home from work (I don’t remember which). During his presentation, he gave a very detailed outline of the process of cryonic preservation. While everyone seemed very fascinated by this process, I don’t recall anyone signing up to have their head frozen.

Aside from the coffee, the music, the UFO hunters, and the head freezers, what I truly remember most fondly are the people who made My Place their home. I remember seeing teenage children coming in with their parents, talking and laughing when they may otherwise have been sitting at home staring at the television, or isolated in various parts of the house. I remember the recovering alcoholic biker club that came in every Friday night as an alternative to their former bar habits. I remember the soccer moms and how happy they were that I’d make them a double, half-caf, skim latte. I recall the troubled youth who were outcasts in their schools and belonged to no cliques. Here, at My Place, they could express themselves, be themselves, and not have to worry about who was judging them or who was going to want to kick their ass after school because they were gay. I remember the local business people who would come in the morning and leave with an entire air-pot of coffee for the office. I remember Vera, the ancient woman who was always so proud of her grandson’s successful band, KMFDM. I remember them all, the college students, the cops, the mentally ill folks from the Dayton, the Gypsies (that is, Romani, actual hereditary Gypsies), the ravers, the hippies, the firefighters. They all helped to contribute to this spectacularly eclectic phenomenon.

It is said, however, that all good things must come to an end. I found here, no exception to that sentiment. It is unfortunate that it had to meet what I consider to be a premature termination. The final weeks were extremely difficult for me. Colleen and I had been having significant disagreements for a while concerning the direction the café was moving. Despite the fact that My Place was more popular than ever, and that our daily revenue had increased over 300% from the time I had become involved, Colleen feared that the café was going to get a bad reputation for being too eclectic. She thought the green mohawks were going to drive away the business suits. What she didn’t understand is that people enjoyed and appreciated the diversity. She didn’t understand that people from all walks of life were being brought together and were getting to know each other; gaining respect for and from each other, which undoubtedly extended beyond the walls of the coffee shop.

Colleen and I ultimately realized that we had very different visions of the future of My Place Café. Realizing that we could no longer be partners, we began discussing our options. The options were really quite few. One of us had to go. We went back and forth over who would stay and who would go. The problem was, neither of us really had the money to buy out the other. At one point I had found an investor and thought the café was saved. But, he backed out at the last minute, right before the papers would be signed. Finally, Colleen was able to secure a small loan. She offered me the money and an agreement to pay off the rest of it over a period of five years. My friends warned me not to do it. They told me that I had to keep the café, otherwise Colleen would run it into the ground. They were right. But, I wouldn’t have any idea how right they were for some time yet.

Being in a state of frustration and emotional despair over not being able to come up with the funds I needed to secure the café for myself, I conceded to her proposal. I took the money, signed the papers, and walked out feeling totally defeated. I can still remember the wry smirk on her face that said she couldn’t wait until I was out the door so she could begin her process of methodically tearing down the rare and inimitable community that was My Place Café, and replace it with her own shallow nearsightedness.

In the months that followed, her plans went forward like clockwork, systematically alienating the majority of the customer base that had made the café wildly successful. She was sure that she’d start attracting more of the right type of business. She couldn’t understand why the clientele continued to drop off to a mere trickle. She decided that the best way to attract the booming business that her newly purified coffee shop deserved, was to move the café out of the downtown to a location further west where there was a larger business district. Her dream location turned out to be an abandoned Taco Bell building. Since she was counting on all of the local workers stopping in and getting their goods to go, she determined that there was really no use for all the fancy mugs and demitasse cups. Everything could be served in styrofoam. When I would stop by once a month to pick up my check, I was utterly appalled and disgusted. Apparently, others felt the same way as well. Within months of moving to her new location, her business came to an absolute standstill. I stopped by one day to find the store utterly abandoned.

Everything was gone. And Colleen was in hiding. Even though I never recovered the majority of my money, and even though, in retrospect, I should have tried to do anything I could to prevent her from taking control of the business again, I cannot say that I regret any of the My Place experience. My Place Café was many things to many people. Among its former patrons, My Place Café has become near legendary. To this day, I’m still approached by former My Place family members, asking me if I have any plans to re-open a coffee shop. A couple of weeks ago I was talking with the owner of a recently established coffeehouse in Kenosha that said, “Oh, you’re Reggie from My Place? People talk about that place all the time. Do you have any ideas of what we could do here?” The sort of impact the café has had on the lives of its patrons continues to reassure me of the validity of the social experiment and gives me hope that one day its immortal spirit can be resurrected into a new vehicle of expression. Upon reflection of all of the joy and comradeship, trauma and pain, I have to say that it was all worth while.