Spilt Coffee in St. Louis
The asphalt may as well have been an ice rink with how smoothly & effortlessly he traversed it. Black coffee in hand under a muggy midwestern sun, I watched as a shirtless man glided around on traditional four-wheel roller skates. He spun in circles and crossed his legs over one another to gain speed before transitioning into his next series of impressive maneuvers. All the while giving no care to the cars passing between the interstate exit and the nearby gas pumps. Was he a trucker getting some exercise in on a break? Did he just live nearby and find that the Travel America at the crossroads of I-55 and I-70 had the smoothest surface? These were the kinds of questions I wanted to ask, but I didn’t have time. There were places to be, obligations I convinced myself I had. St. Louis represented some sort of search for clarity, even though I had scribbled a reminder in my notebook: “you may not find it.”
Whether it was wanting a distraction from my immediate reality or just an honest curiosity, I regretted not talking to the solitary skater—not striking up a conversation or garnering an interview with a stranger on the road. Maybe he had a story to tell? That was the kind of work I had been doing for years, a type of calling that I had come to believe I could now do anywhere. I watched the guy fade away, twirling in the rear-view mirror as I spilled coffee on my shorts—a common act that my fiancé never hesitated to lovingly point out.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” The question I had been asked by several people before departing kept ringing in my head. Whether it was or not didn’t matter now. I had already booked the hotel and was too cheap to let that money go. At least that’s the reason I kept preaching to myself.
The Gateway Arch rose on the horizon—just beyond a hill as I followed the highway’s curve. No matter how I felt about seeing the iconic symbol, I had already come to accept St. Louis without any doubt—willing to relocate even sight unseen. The frustrations of the only place I had ever lived weren’t the primary impetus—but over the years, they had helped push along the idea of going elsewhere. There had been multiple conversations and plenty of reflection—all of it geared around where I was coming from and places I had visited. While it took time listening and conversing to truly crystallize, I knew that the things I wanted to do in life, creatively and professionally, weren’t dependent on the city I currently called home. There’s nothing worse than feeling like you aren’t heard, aren’t connected to something, someone, or someplace you had believed so strongly in. For all I had espoused, advocated, and supported regarding Cincinnati—I now felt as if my belief had been hijacked, that my understanding and faith in the Queen City had been misplaced. How could I have been so wrong all this time?
Imagine reuniting with your phone after you’ve thrown it in the car’s glovebox, left it behind on a long run, or placed it face down and out of sight for a few hours during the day. You’ve physically managed the distraction, but you’re really hoping that your temporary discipline has paid off. That when you flip the phone back over you’ll see the messages you truly want to see. You scroll through the notifications, brushing aside the chaff as you look for that one contact, but then: nothing. The disappointment quietly runs from the phone, through your arm, to your chest, and into your head. That physical and emotional drain was how I had begun to view the place I was coming from, a place I had once seen as my city.
But one day I realized that what I dreamed of wasn’t at all contingent on a geographic location. All I wanted was to be with her, my partner of over five years. We had become engaged just over a year before. Wherever she wound up finding a program for her next round of education—I was more than ready for us to go together. That was the plan and St. Louis represented not just a new city or experience, but a new chapter in our life together. Our own future on our own path and on our own terms. Whether on the road or slowly peeling away the layers of a new home, I could be who I wanted to be, rambling toward the future with this person I loved beyond measure. She had always been in my notifications tab when it mattered most, always causing a smile to be illuminated by an iPhone screen. I tried to remember all of that as I crossed the Mississippi and exited into this new-to-me urban environment.
Unlike most trips I’ve taken and documented over the years, this one was geared around a different type of discovery. I figured I’d go see The Arch briefly (because, as a first time visitor, how could I not?). But the other big attractions, such as museums and galleries, I’d wait till we could do that together as a soon-to-be-married couple getting acquainted with our new home. On this weekend, I was in search of “everyday life:” parks, bars, public transit, cycling infrastructure, coffee shops, neighborhoods—the kinds of things I’d eventually exist with in our new normal. Maybe I’d get a general feel for the place—or at least as good as one could glean over the course of 24 hours or so.
Somewhere in Illinois on the way to Missouri.
My stomach turned and my hands shook. From the outside looking in, I had nothing to worry about. If I was truly living in the moment, why was my anxiety reaching a fever pitch? It wasn’t just the coffee I had consumed (and partially spilled) during the five hour drive. At a red light, I closed my eyes and leaned forward on the steering wheel, telling myself: “relax, you made it, you’re here.”
I stopped at a restaurant caddy corner to a large public park and began a humid walk with a to-go order. I waved back at folks lounging in the grass, nodded at a family picnicking in the shade, and watched as a man fed ducks near the water features. In the heart of Lafayette Park—the Puerto Rican/Dominican inspired meal grounded me, drowning my anxiety in cilantro cream. The virgin piña colada also lifted my mood, even if it lacked the ingredient that would normally make it most effective. In search of that missing component, I wandered into another part of the city.
I’d hastily trusted some click-bait article of the best “dive bars” in St. Louis. All I was looking for was a cold beer and a quiet space to relax for a minute, to drink away the hours on the road and get a boost before I could check in to my hotel. If I could snag a conversation with someone and hear their thoughts on the city, that’d be icing on a beer soaked cake. Maybe they’d want to listen to me as well. My original destination in the city’s Central West End was closed, though, and the locked door seemed to foreshadow the fact that I’d not find any barstool insights anytime soon. Instead, I settled for the first watering-hole-in-appearance that I could find.
There may have been some sort of local beer on tap, but if there was, it wasn’t advertised. The place was filled with the kinds of people one might look at and assume are more successful, or, that they at least have their shit together in a way you don’t. The bartender seemed to gravitate towards their tables and tabs—discussing their work in nearby hospitals, how their parents were visiting to see the newly furnished apartment and meet the new dog or new partner. In this appetizer peddling purgatory, the only thing the bartender spoke to me about were his frat-boy fueled physical altercations of the previous night. Had he not passed out on a coworker’s couch, he would’ve played golf before he found himself on this shift, serving me corporate IPAs for $6 a piece. I had found a place I’d never need to visit again when we eventually moved here. Silver lining obtained, I paid my tab and ventured out in search of my hotel.
I had booked a place Downtown, a Hilton built into a renovated train station and connected to one of those Ferris wheels every American city seems to have built in the last decade. Maybe an Airbnb room tucked into a quiet neighborhood managed by a friendly host would’ve been more effective for my pursuit of “everyday life,” but the woman I met at the check-in line quickly filled the role of ambassador. She was staying there as part of a stay-cation, a birthday event for her daughter and some friends. For ten minutes, we discussed her best recommendations, racial injustice, things to see, how the city was perceived by the outside world, and her insistence that I’d never resist being a Cardinals fan once I was settled within a St. Louis zip code. I maintained an unwavering allegiance to the Cincinnati Reds, but was incredibly grateful for everything else she had shared with me. It wasn’t just the details, or her perspective as a lifelong resident, but the way she had reached out—to make a stranger feel welcome without any hesitation.
Cheap, complimentary coffee brewing in the hotel room, I took a respite from the humidity outside and felt some positivity rush back in, debating how to spend the rest of the day looking at what might be the rest of my life. The arch? Another bar? The school? I couldn’t just sit here debating what might be. By driving here, I hadn’t just physically put myself in a new geographic area, I had put myself in an odd position. There was nothing I could learn on this trip that would deter me from the commitments I had made. I knew what I wanted and the news of our relocation had even been broken to a few close friends and family. Yet, now that future was in doubt and out of my hands. The answers I truly needed weren’t going to be found in a St. Louis hotel room or even within the city itself. I had hoped, though, that I’d at least have an easier time coping with the uncertainty in a fresh place rather than just counting down the days at home.
I wiped up the overflow of coffee on my room’s desk and ventured outside to brave the tourist trap and continue my self-described search for clarity. A mall cop scowled at some passing teenagers before giving me directions to the nearest station. Down a set of steps, I was well outside of the summer vacationers, one of two people waiting for an Eastbound train in the heat—still firmly believing after all these years that the best way to see a city is via its public transit system.
The cars shook from side to side as orange and blue lights flew by underground. The sun cut in with a harsh glare when exiting tunnels, illuminating the faces of nearby passengers in late afternoon light. One man slept, two discussed politics, and a couple hauling a cooler complained of their poor bottled water sales that day.
Although they may lack the grandeur of the Paris Metro, some of the above ground entrances to St. Louis’ MetroLink resonate perfectly with their Midwestern surroundings.
Exiting the train, I looked into the reflections of skyscraper windows to navigate, watching the Gateway Arch grow larger in the glass of each building I passed. Horse drawn carriages clopped by in a way that exuded both naive, Midwestern fantasy and a sense of animal cruelty while delivering tourists to the city’s centerpiece.
The significance of the landmark was lost on me. Even as I made some photographs and took a seat on the riverfront to stare off at the opposite Industrial coast. Looking back to the city’s skyline—it felt natural to compare things to Cincinnati. Those comparisons continued as I walked mostly empty streets back towards my hotel, dodging the occasional flip-flop clad imbecile attempting to pilot a rentable, electric scooter.
A storm started to roll in above the nearby revolving restaurant. Wondering what the story was there, I started to feel some excitement at the prospect of exploring this city’s seemingly mundane (but personally fascinating) environs in the vein of what I had been doing for over a decade back in Cincinnati. Rain fell as I ran across a multi-lane boulevard, the large streets contrasting with the vast amount of green space in the wide downtown blocks. Finding protection at a bus stop, one emblazoned with the stereotypical advertisements of an ambulance chasing lawyer, this place could’ve been Detroit, Pittsburgh, Cleveland, or Cincinnati. St. Louis felt familiar and comforting, yet also as a city riddled with potential. The prospect of that next chapter in life came into clear view—this was a new place to explore, a new place to call home and exist. I leaned back on the bus bench and tried to remember that Joel Meyerowitz quote, the one I had put in the introduction to my first book.
“What the hell had he said?”
Shukurani had emigrated from Tanzania at 12 years old, arriving in St. Louis and residing here for over a decade. Boarding his LYFT, I told him how I was hoping to make my way to Missouri and asked him about the city. Despite all he had to share about his American home, he too was in the midst of change. He wanted out, to go elsewhere, namely Houston. His desire to leave was in pursuit of “higher goals,” he told me. Something that “gives one purpose.” I could’ve hugged him. It was like Shukurani had been listening to everything that had been pulsing in my head during the day’s earlier 5-hour drive.
The evening’s drinking establishment had come at the recommendation of a friend after I sent him a text to complain of my earlier disappointing bar experience. Bob delivered and Riley’s Pub looked like the kind of place we’d frequent back home. Nestled into an older building, tucked into a neighborhood, quiet enough to let conversation be the focus instead of a jukebox or calls for shots. I doubted the legitimacy of the “Irish pub” brand, a typical American marketing tactic, but the bartender’s accent seemed to back up the claim.
The light faded outside as the Irishman suggested a specific local beer and pizza to order. We watched a replay of an earlier Cardinals game beneath a tin ceiling as warm light poured out of the stock room. The illuminated bartender prepared a drink. Two parts hydrogen and one part oxygen on the rocks was his recommended concoction for the regular who balanced precariously on the stool next to me. Once she hydrated and left, the others filled me in on her story, her long day, and her usual drunken antics. I tried to join the conversation when I could, but found myself either ignored or more focused on the pizza and the beer that kept appearing before me. The St. Louis-style pie was wonderful, something totally unique, and the beer was tolerable, good enough to keep me ordering the same one. A tribute to Cardinals legend Scott Rolen played on the television. He had almost been a Reds legend, or would’ve been had the 2009, 2010, and 2011 seasons gone differently. Still, he had been a favorite of mine. In this moment, though, he was a reminder of a different time in life, a different place, and long abandoned plans.
Rain pelted the windows, scattering across the glow of the neon lights shining out into the dark streets. I took in one more beer at last call, indulging in the effects, but not letting myself get too far gone.
I felt good.
I felt content.
I felt hopeful.
What I wanted to do in life I could do anywhere. I could exist anywhere. I could truly envision my future in this moment. This “pub” had been what I needed and if it soon became a familiar sight—a regularly warm and inviting place where I’d get the inside jokes and recognize the regulars—I’d be more than ok with that. I had accepted this city without reservation, without having ever visited before, and the warmth of Riley’s pub affirmed those feelings.
“Damnit. What’s that Meyerowitz quote? The one from his book about photographing St. Louis? It’s from the St. Louis book, right‽”
Back at the Hilton, I debated one more drink at the hotel bar, but hesitated when I saw a wedding party taking up most of the seats—a sort of poetic irony I didn’t need to walk into. Looking at the bride and groom surrounded by friends, I didn’t want my own thoughts to drift, to indulge in what-ifs or to think that this trip could be all for naught. I checked my phone. Nothing new. But when I looked back at old text conversations, the most recent one from nearly two months ago had ended with: “I love you.”
My room’s previous occupant had been an early riser. The alarm clock woke me at 6 AM, even though I hadn’t set it. Reclaiming sleep became a hopeless task as my head pounded and demanded water. “Maybe if I start early, I’ll feel better in a few hours,” I reasoned as I threw a pod into the coffee maker. My emotional state was mirroring my physical. None of this felt right—waking up alone, wandering this city by myself. I checked the phone, maybe there’d be something.
Nothing.
I spilled some coffee and headed for the car.
This day was much cooler, but I found little relief as I turned the key and drove straight into the rising sun. I flipped down the visor, the photo still clinging to it. That smile, those eyes—I knew exactly how beautiful they looked, even if they sat behind dark sunglasses, captured in a photographic moment on vacation some years ago. During the long pauses at traffic lights, I sat as the only car—wondering if there had been any point to the previous night besides getting drunk. The local pizza counted, right? I had done something, seen something that I couldn’t experience at home. I wasn’t just wasting time was I? Or was I rationalizing my consumption of thin pizza as some immersion into the local culture, just killing the hours and days until inevitable disappointment?
Across the river in East St. Louis, the nation’s declining industrial and economic prosperity was on proud display, the GPS taking me on a tour that seemed to make the place live up to every stereotype. Navigating a pothole ridden, weed choked street—I went around a semi-trailer parked squarely in the middle of the road. On the other side, the driver came running out of some nearby woods, quickly fastening his belt to his pants before offering a shaky wave. I wondered what he was doing, I wondered what I was doing.
At the Mississippi River Overlook, I made the standard tourist photograph and looked down at the fingerprints still imprinted on the metal handrails. All the others who had come here, what had they thought about when they looked out? How many had felt as down as I did? Why had I come all this way? I wasn’t sure what I was hoping to find or realize in the moment, but I did distract myself by reasoning that if a city could be judged solely on its skyline: St. Louis checked all the boxes thanks to the iconic arch across the way. Without it, the mass of generic office towers would resemble any other place.
The arch didn’t just make the view significant—it also served as a statement and a metaphor of what was happening in the present. I tried to ignore emotion and think rationally: why was I alone, staring out across the river? At worst, I was fooling myself. At best, this was my first glimpse of the next chapter. Could the latter even be a possibility with how much time had now passed? With all the things I had been told? With all the things I wasn’t being told? Had the person in that visor photograph already stared out at this arch, walked beneath it and onward without me?
I managed to get some more sleep back at the hotel and awoke feeling so drastically different that I wondered if the earlier morning had all been a bad dream. The recent photographs on my camera reminded me that it wasn’t. The few hours of extra sleep (or the meds) had shifted me and this restart to the day now seemed to offer some hope. On my phone, there was now something: a message from my maybe-future-brother-in-law. My eyes pored over the screen. I ignored the looming check-out time and searched for clues in the phrasing that might give an indication as to what was going on, what might be. My hand quivered as I read the text in the hotel lobby. Then in the car. And again when arriving at my destination.
DeMun was picturesque: old trees, landscaped boulevards, throngs of people taking in drinks and conversation beneath the awnings of local shops. A yoga class stretched in unison at the nearby park. I opted for inside, though, sitting with a message that I hoped wasn’t a goodbye—debating how, or if, to respond. At a coffee shop that felt like all the others, I still wanted to believe. Even if I was alone.
The school was nearby, so I added it to the day’s itinerary even as every muscle in my body tightened as if to say: “don’t.” But what had listening to my gut ever gotten me? The tuition dollar-funded parking structure looked like a cross between some Bond villain’s lair and a modern art museum: stairwells of glass with natural light pouring in and illuminating the concrete walls with warm sun. If I could judge a city on its skyline, I could judge a school on its Welcome Center garage.
I took in the campus: a decadent environment of modern structures paired with historic buildings amongst lush greenery with the city’s skyline in the distance. An uneasiness took hold. Should I even be here? Was it creepy for me to walk this empty campus in the middle of the summer? Sad? Pathetic? Even if I made it here, this institution wasn’t going to be for me. I couldn’t tell who’s life I was trying to envision in the moment. One person’s or ours? I worried that the next chapter had been re-written without me. That maybe I was already mourning not just the loss of a partner, but the loss of a future.
I felt like an outsider. The same feeling I had when this educational institution had been decided upon a few months back. The news arrived via text message. Although I knew it seemed to be where things were headed, I had felt boxed out and ignored by the finality of that decision. As I walked beneath an arch emblazoned with the school’s haughty motto, that memory and its attached emotions were now returning.
“Per Tatem Veri Vis,” or, “Strength through truth.”
Cooper—a large, black Labrador—was led around by a woman who introduced herself in the traditional, friendly Midwestern way. Lisa and I discussed the important things: dogs, world events, bike lanes, this city, and the campus-adjacent neighborhood I had now found myself strolling through. I kept things brief, but found a kinship in yet another stranger espousing the virtues of this place. Maybe this was a good sign. I took it as one, even though I knew I didn’t believe in such serendipitous bullshit. Still, as I thought the night before: I could be here. We could be here. I wanted nothing more.
“His quote was something about photographing mid-sized cities, right?”
If the stroll through the campus had given me doubt, the neighborhood walk was delivering optimism. The place was filled with the typical college area trappings, but I pushed myself to be present and open to the moment around me. I window shopped, took in the surroundings, and found myself in a local book store. Here, I resisted repeating what I had been doing this whole weekend: regretting that the circumstances of life had led to only me being on this trip. I bought a coffee mug emblazoned with the bookstore’s name, more ceramic for our collection in storage. In a few weeks when we’d see each other again—we could talk of mugs, book shops, and the future. We would talk of us and hopefully one day unpack that mug collection within a St. Louis apartment.
The day grew long and I still couldn’t t recall that Meyerowitz quote. Soon, the lonesome journey of these past two days and these last few months would end. There were times when I thought I was ok with it all being over, but now—stepping into a brewery for a late lunch and one last drink before hitting the road—I questioned if that’s what I had truly felt. I knew what I wanted, but I debated what I should do. Perhaps I should drive straight out of here and to her. Perhaps I should keep respecting the manufactured space I had agreed to, believing that all I had been told was heartfelt and genuine.
I sat in traffic and braced for the hours ahead and a time change. Quickly, it would be dark and a different type of limbo would set in: the monotony of the highway, the endless hum of tires on the asphalt, the dim lights of my aging car cutting into the darkness. I just wanted to get going, to get this drive over with quick, to get to the day we had agreed to reunite and discuss things. To get an answer. To share that coffee mug.
Before I could do any of that, though, I saw another arch.
Vandalia, Illinois.
This one was a fraction of the size, falling apart, and overlooking an abandoned motel as opposed to skyscrapers and stadiums. Yet, I took more comfort in it, watching it shine in the setting sun—another random roadside attraction that I had detoured to have a look at, to photograph, and maybe one day write about. This landmark hit differently. While I’d had a murky reaction to the real one earlier in the trip, this one filled me with hope. It reminded me of the confidence that I could allow myself to have. I popped into a nearby gas station for one last coffee—pleading with it to energize me, to quicken the drive, to clarify the off-brand landmark fueled optimism I was now feeling.
Sometime later, that book store coffee mug came to rest alongside a Cincinnati interstate. The cracks it presumably now has are clear forensic evidence of its fate: hurled from a car window after a despondent and final conversation. I’ll never drink or spill anything out of it, nor will the person who used to point out the usual appearance of those first few drops falling over the edges.
After sharing this story with a colleague, he looked over at me from across a table lined with empty beer bottles and asked: “how do best friends become strangers?” I didn’t have an answer then and I don’t have an answer now. The decision had been made for me—I wouldn’t be seeing seeing the Gateway Arch daily, or again, anytime soon. Gone is that photograph from my car’s sun visor and the person within the image. What remains are scraps of a recent past: this story, these photographs, and things like the messages written in birthday cards that no longer seem to make sense. All I know for certain is that on a journey of recovery, I’ll never again take my own voice for granted or let it be snuffed out. I get to determine when and where I go next. And should chance or fate present another off-brand arch or gas station roller skater, I’ll be sure to stop, while finally committing that Joel Meyerowitz quote to memory:
“You go someplace to be there. You take a vacation. You want to go investigate a middle-sized city. Sometimes you’re asked, sometimes you go because there’s a change in your life, and you just commit yourself to that change. And then you take that first step when you’re there, and that produces a response. If you like the way the response feels, you keep on opening to it.”
- Joel Meyerowitz in “Creating a Sense of Place.”
