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Coffee Time contains a world
within a world

This night was to be a night on the town. No books, papers, or thoughts of school were allowed. In fact, beyond the square confines of the chess board, thinking itself was taboo. Our goal was to have fun; our mission, to relax.

I had heard of Coffee Time. Low prices, great coffee, and an atmosphere rumored second-to-none. Perfect.

Armed with these visions of heaven on earth, a friend and I embarked upon our journey. Instead of paradise, however, what awaited us was reality -- in the form of 20 Goths, immovable before the coffee shop doorway. Oblivious to me or anyone else bereft of their attire, they conversed with each other. Without black, I was invisible at best -- an adversary at worst.

I passed through the coffee shop entrance into another world.

People sat in the main café room from nearly every walk of life: "granola crunchers" wearing REI apparel; alternative groupies with body piercings and jewelry; preps, finely groomed and adorned in GAP; skateboarders with old T-shirts and unwashed hair.

Although the shop was filled, each group existed as an independent entity, oblivious to the presence of any but their own. Some Preps and Alternatives lounged in successive tables, responding to others' existence only when someone had to move.

I walked through the main café. On the far side, a 6-foot wide corridor extended for about 30 feet before opening into a small room. The corridor revealed hidden side booths. Clusters of people in like groups, listening to music, drawing and drinking coffee, sat in the booths.

Farther down the corridor, 15 people huddled in a tiny room that served as the end of our travels; however, just before turning around I noticed a small door to the right. "Must be 18 or older," the sign read.

As I opened the door, my senses were instantly bathed in the scent of Marlbaro, Kools and Camel. Seven tables and 15 people sat in the dimly lit room. Four men sat at one table, playing four way chess. Three women sat at another table with eyes shut, one holding another's hand. A man sat near them, cigarette in one hand, pencil in the other. His sketch, a picture of the forest night, was beautiful and cryptic.

"What does it mean?" I asked.

"Nothing," he replied in a pleasant voice. "I just draw." He continued scribbling. A few moments later, he looked up.

"So where are you from?" he asked, grinning.

"Multnomah Bible College," I replied.

The man looked amused. "Why?"

"To study the Bible."

"Really?" he said, with more than a trace of mirth. My answer had only whetted his appetite for humor.

"Do you have a religion?" I asked.

"Nope. I was raised Catholic, but gave it up for Lent," he said.

He continued drawing his landscape.

Eleven seconds later, I got it. The artist looked up, eyes twinkling with good humored appreciation for his joke -- and my ignorance.

"I'm Dan," he said, extending his hand.

"Darin," I said. I shook his hand, noticing his red painted fingernails.

"Any reason for the nails?" I asked.

"Nah," Dan said. "Just felt like painting 'em."

We waded into the waters of philosophy, each seeing an entirely different reflection concerning the same knowledge. The topic of religion came up. Dan felt like debating.

"Jesus was an Essene," Dan said. His smile and bantering tone were a mix of condescension and amusement. "The Dead Sea Scrolls are not the Old Testament Scrolls. They're instructions for a Jewish sect which Jesus was involved in. Jesus was a mystic."

The discussion of Old Testament prophesy and its fulfillment in cities like Tyre, Sidon, and Babylon seemed irrelevant to Dan, who dismissed the history of those cities as fables.

"In fact," Dan continued, "who knows what history is actually real. Who knows if even Jesus existed?"

This brought a cry of indignation from a dark-skinned teen-age boy sitting to my left.

"Do you agree with him?" I asked.

"No!" he exclaimed with a distinct Arab accent.

"Do you have a religion?" I asked.

"Yes. I'm Muslim," he said, his eyes betraying a distrust for Dan and me.

Because I had never talked to a follower of Islam, I tried to learn as much as possible about the Muslim viewpoint of life.

"Does your religion believe that bombings in the Middle East, done in the name of Islam, are OK?" I asked.

"No, Islam does not say it's good to do this," he said. "But there is no other way to get their homeland back, so they have to."

"But what about the innocent people of Israel--"

"No!" he nearly shouted. "No! To me there is no Israel! There is only Palestine!" The raging fire in his eyes underlined his zeal.

"OK," I said, trying to calm down the conversation. "What's your name?"

"Amman."

"OK, Amman, I was kinda thinking--I mean, in today's world we don't have to hate each other because of religion or race. I'm sure you'd agree that there are bad Jews and good Jews, just like there are bad and good Arabs."

"No!" Amman exclaimed. "No, no, no! There is no good Jew!"

"Wait." To Amman's left sat another Arab man, around 50 years old. "What if you had been born a Jew?"

Taken back by the older man's remarks, Amman sputtered for few seconds before falling silent. Thinking of another tactic, Amman turned again to the older man.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Hafiz."

"Hafiz, you're a Muslim, right?"

"No," Hafiz calmly replied. "I was raised Muslim but am not now."

"What!" Amman's expression went from disdain to horrified betrayal.

Amman's friend, sitting near him, urged Amman to calm down. Stamping out his cigarette, Amman refused.

"What are you now?" I asked Hafiz.

"I am an atheist," he replied.

"Really," I said. "So you have no problems with Jews being Jews?"

"No," Hafiz said, smiling.

Amman, now beside himself with rage, proceeded to interrogate Hafiz concerning certain articles of faith. Halfiz deflected each charge with calm, simple answers.

"It is OK to believe what you want," he said.

The conversation shifted back toward the differences between Christianity and Islam. Dan rejoined the debate, which now included Amman, his friend, Hafiz and me.

A half-hour later, Amman and his friend stormed out in anger, infuriated that we did not agree with their beliefs. Hafiz, Dan, and I continued to agree to disagree, allowing for a stimulating, yet friendly debate. The debate ended abruptly when a couple sitting behind me caught wind of our conversation and began decrying the idiocy of organized religion and absolute truth.

Despite the disagreement, we parted on friendly terms.

Slowly walking back to the main café, I scanned the booths. Different people, same characters.

"It's like the world," a friend said of Coffee Time. "Every kind of person, no matter their thought, race or religion, goes here."

We walked past some high school girls who were wearing GAP and Old Navy name-brand clothes. A few of them glanced at us. Why?

I looked at our clothing; same stores, same style. That explained it.

"Some people act as if they're the only ones here," my friend continued. "Others feel superior to everyone else."

We walked past a group of skateboarders. The Goths were next.

"Many just stay in their groups of common interest and don't care to look over their shoulder at the other cliques," my friend said. "Some come to understand the different people."

We walked down the street. The Goths continued smoking in the midnight chill. Joking, smiling, and laughing, they appeared comfortable.

Walking past them, I realized that for the majority of the people in Coffee Time, the convergence of various sub-cultures inspired little integration. A culture within a culture. But the members of the Coffee Time culture seemed loath to sample but the smallest morsel of other cultures and that morsel being but a single flavor out of dozens from which to choose.

Yet, for those who dared to delight in the cuisine a la diverse, a new understanding came, a love even, for all mankind.