PicoBlog

When I set my debut novel in Geneva, Illinois, there was no question of where my main character would work. She’s a 21-year-old lesbian and former band kid doing her gen eds at the local community college; of course she works at Graham’s 318.

For the purposes of the book, the coffee shop-turned-core-memory got a new, more generic name: Sip. It’s a decent name, although kind of plain; something ordinary I meant to replace with something more clever later in the drafting process but ultimately just stuck with. Apart from the title change, the shop itself is a one-for-one rip off of Graham’s 318—or just 318, as we called it. Much like my beloved hometown coffee shop, the Sip in the book has recently undergone a dramatic renovation, and our main character Murphy is on the team revving up for the reopening. She is also the creator of a drink called the chaicoffski, my real favorite drink on the 318 menu and the only offshoot of coffee I could handle when I was a kid begging my parents to take me for chocolate fondue.

Fondue was really where it all began, wasn’t it? The translation of the original Graham’s Chocolates into its sister store Graham’s 318 needed the same chocolate-covered through line. In fifth grade, Mom and I celebrated over fondue when I was brave enough to start my anti-anxiety meds. We dunked ginger snaps and banana slices into the tiny pot of melted milk chocolate, sitting knee to knee on the leather couch in the brand-new and otherwise empty 318. The single barista swept the shop just for something to do and told us he thought this place would “really take off.”

My friends and I joked that 318 was our living room. Our initials were carved into the banged up wooden table with worn-down checkerboard pattern, and our pictures were on the open mic flyers on the wall.

And boy, did it. Come middle school, gelato at 318 was a family staple on summer Saturdays. By high school, it was the place to go as soon as you knew someone with a driver’s license—at least in the music and theater departments where I hung my proverbial hat. I spent hours inside those lime green walls drinking blended chaicoffskis with my feet propped up on the old library card-catalog-turned-coffee-table and scribbling notes to stuff in the drawers. My friends and I joked that 318 was our living room. Our initials were carved into the banged up wooden table with worn-down checkerboard pattern, and our pictures were on the open mic flyers on the wall. When I came home from college, I never had to say where I was taking the car before my dad called out, “Have fun at 318.” Nine out of ten times, he was right.

It probably goes without saying, but the main appeal of Graham’s 318 wasn’t just the fondue or the coffee; it was the guarantee of a familiar face. I was destined to run into at least one friend, but if I didn’t, I had plenty behind the counter. When I was home from college for the summer, I hung around enough to befriend all the baristas: Anika gave me her discount, Quinn gave me the drinks customers sent back, and Kristen remembered my birthday because it was the same as hers. I felt at home there, and my punch card looked like a piece of lace.

As the years went on, it became harder and harder to snag a table, and the list of people I might run into at 318 expanded to include those I’d rather avoid. My once near-empty coffee shop became crowded with teachers, former classmates, and exes. ALWAYS exes. I had to start putting on a bra before going to 318. I was glad to see my favorite shop succeed, but less thrilled that there was often nowhere to sit, and I’d end up taking my order to go.

It made sense, then, when 318 announced they’d be closing for renovations to expand their seating. I was excited! Sure, the shop would have to operate more like a pop-up in an empty storefront for a while, but the temporary downsize was a minor setback in the pursuit of more space. I frequented the pop-up often and will now confess that I did once steal a piece of their décor: a small glass jar full of coffee beans in the shape of a skull. I had moved to Chicago after college, and I wanted a little piece of 318 for my apartment. It’s still on my coffee table today.

And then the reopening. The big reveal. I didn’t even live in Geneva anymore, but I was over the moon with excitement. This would surely be a bright new era for my favorite coffee shop. Except for…it wasn’t. Yes, there was more seating! Yes, there was a bigger kitchen! An event space upstairs! They had given us what we wanted, but in the process, the whole thing got covered in shiplap. The décor was bland, like a HomeGoods clearance. The tables were clean and new, not scratched up with our initials. Everything was sleek and glossy and clean, but it was as though someone had sucked the soul out of the place through a straw. It’s not that it was bad—it was good, sort of! But the few preserved pieces of the original store felt like they had too much personality for a coffee shop that felt a bit more like a model home. It was plain. Ordinary. The kind of place that could exist anywhere.

It probably didn’t help that I was older. The baristas looked like children, and none of them knew me. Why would they? I only came by every few months. I’d sometimes see a former classmate or a neighbor or something, but it was mostly just locals, and I wasn’t one anymore. I still stopped by nearly every time I passed through town—the chaicoffski is a perfect beverage, after all—but I rarely hung around. Why would I? Even with the extra room, the place was always cramped and loud, not very good for conversation or trying to write. It just wasn’t the same, and I closed that chapter while starting another one: my novel. As my main main character prepared for the reopening of Sip, I unabashedly used the opportunity to write my own 318 fan fiction: a story where the shop renovated while still keeping its soul and personality. A story where my 318 could always be preserved, just the way that I loved it.

I’ve eavesdropped on friend drama, family drama, sorority drama, MLM pitches, group projects, book clubs, and private heart-to-hearts held in a shockingly public place. This little coffee shop turned big coffee shop is a part of so many stories. Mine is only one. You probably have one, too.

Last week, I was in town for a baby shower, and I swung by for a chaicoffski and to get some video for book promotion. With Sip being such a major setting in my novel, I planned to create a video showcasing the real shop that inspired it all. As I panned across the crowded coffee shop, envisioning book signings held in this very space this fall, I didn’t realize I was documenting my final chaicoffski. Two days later, Graham’s 318 announced that they’d be closing their doors for good, and my phone vibrated incessantly with text after text checking in on me. It was as though there had been a tornado on my block and both close friends and old acquaintances were checking for proof of life. I knew 318 was important to me, but I didn’t fully realize how much other people knew it too, how synonymous I was with that place, until it was time to say goodbye.

I sometimes joke that my relationship with my anti-anxiety medication is the longest committed relationship I’ve ever been in; I guess, then, that it was tied with my long-standing relationship with my favorite coffee shop. 318 has been the site of so many dates, break ups, and break throughs. I’ve written chapters there and performed poems. I’ve met up with friends and made brand new ones from the comfort of the big table at the far end of the front porch. I’ve eavesdropped on friend drama, family drama, sorority drama, MLM pitches, group projects, book clubs, and private heart-to-hearts held in a shockingly public place. This little coffee shop turned big coffee shop is a part of so many stories. Mine is only one. You probably have one, too.

I can preserve a little coffee shop on Third Street in my writing and go back to visit it whenever I like.

In the world of my novel, my main character stands behind the counter during the grand reopening of their renovated hometown coffee shop. She looks at the new décor and the fresh logo, then at the faces of the same regulars they’ve always had. Same menu, new floorboards. Same staff plus new hires. She decides that they’re still the same old Sip and that “things only change as much as they’re meant to.”

By that wisdom, maybe this is where we’re meant to be, toasting to 19 years of 318 and wishing for 299 more. Or maybe it speaks to the fact that the original 318 was never meant to change this much and now we’re all paying the price. Or maybe, and most likely, time has just passed. Things are evolving, I’ve grown up, and nothing is meant to stay the same. At 28, I’m not supposed to know the college-aged baristas in my hometown coffee shop anymore. I should move on. And I will, but not entirely.

I can’t cast the place I once knew in amber, but I can write about it. I can preserve a little coffee shop on Third Street in my writing and go back to visit whenever I like. And maybe if I’m very lucky, someone can pass along the recipe for a chaicoffski, and my little glass jar of coffee beans in the shape of a skull will watch with pride as I finally make my favorite drink for myself.

If you enjoyed this piece, my debut novel I’LL GET BACK TO YOU is set in Geneva and comes out September 17th. It is available for pre-order now wherever books are sold.

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