The dream about the guy who ran the reco(ffee)rd shop

The Dream

It was a mild, rainy day, and I took a drive out to Atlantic Highlands. My Mom lived there for almost 20 years. She’s been relocated to the west coast now for almost 10.

In real life, there is a lively Main Street—First Ave—with elegant restaurants and an independent movie theater.

In the dream, the town seemed pretty desolate and more spread out.

We walked down a bit down the block and, after slowly opening a creaky door, were met with a set of thinly-carpeted stairs… you know the type.

We ascended to the second floor to find a full-fledged record store.

The owner welcomed us, as he was topping off his coffee.

He gave us a tour of the library-style rows of amazing vinyls, all neatly padded and organized to a meticulous degree. I remember saying I was thoroughly impressed at his collection and how neatly everything was kept.

He was a super chill dude.

The second floor store had an attic-like quality, with warm wood, hand-carved tables, and that cozy feeling like you were in someone’s dwelling.

After the quick, impromptu tour, I reached for my phone to find a local coffee shop, one that served pour-overs, of course.

Although we were in Atlantic Highlands, when I opened Google Maps, it was actually an island separated from the mainland by two bridges. Kinda reminded me of a birds-eye view of Charleston, SC.

Before we could make a move to grab a brew, Stefan, being assertive, decided to ask the shop owner if he could whip us up some there. He obliged, and eventually poured steaming-hot, fresh cups from his Moka pot, right off the apparent stove that appeared in the corner.

It was one of the best cups of coffee I had ever had, and it paired decadently with the delicious Jersey bagels stuffed with cream cheese and lox.

Some new patrons filed in, one of them shorter than me with a puffy vest and shaggy hair. Somehow we knew he was a music producer. Let’s call him Jared.

At this moment, I couldn’t believe that my friend Justin, who grew up nearby, had never heard of this record/coffee shop. It was totally his jam.

There was an altercation where the music producer got testy and started demonizing the shop owner for not wanting customers to touch the records or play the music. It moved to a back alley. More heated words were exchanged. A few patrons left.

I defending the owner’s stance:

I reassured the him that he had the best coffee I’d ever put my lips on, and he wasn’t even running a coffee shop.