"I left home and joined a band when I was fifteen," he said. "Toured the world."

"You toured the world. What band?" I said.

"Joan Jett and the Blackhearts."

"As in 'I love rock and roll?'" I sang a few bars. "That Joan Jett and the Blackhearts? I loved that song. It was huge when I was kid." 

"That's right. I was the bass player."

"Come on. You're kidding me, right?"

"I'm serious. I know how it sounds."

"If you say so," I said and chuckled. Another crazy customer, I thought to myself.

I refilled Gary's cup of City Blend and rang him up on the register. He took money out of his wallet and paid. I considered what he said for a moment. Gary in a band? No way. The conversation started out with Gary asking if there was a hardware store in town. He couldn't find what he needed at Lowe's. I told him about Leonard's on Adam's Avenue, across the street from Home Film Festival and Prufrock's Cafe, one of my competitors. Somehow we got talking about all the places he had been to and lived. Then he tells me he played for Joan Jett and the Blackhearts.

Up until that moment Gary Ryan, who had been coming to the cafe for over a year, was one of my favorite customers. After this revelation, I wasn't sure what to make of him. I mean, come on. Give me a break. Bullshit; Gary did not play with Joan Jett and the Blackhearts.

Like any business, all types of people walked into my coffee shop on Mulberry Street. The customers of Cafe del Sol covered the entire spectrum of society--happy, sad, miserable, angry, beautiful, ugly, young, old, students, lawyers, secretaries, carpenters, cops, addicts, prostitutes, you name it. I saw them all . And like all businesses, of course, it encountered its share of wackos. I sympathized with people who had serious psychological problems but not the ones who made up outlandish stories about themselves. They exhausted me. But unlike most businesses, where these types would walk in and buy what they needed and leave, these wackos hung out at the cafe and bent my ear, talking about their various conspiracies, fantasies or bullshit stories. I was their captive audience, trapped like a bartender, forced to listen to them. There were a lot of people who did that to me.

There was Adam the Art professor from the University of Scranton. He was in his late thirties or early forties. He drank his coffee while reading his Playboy magazines at the cafe. He insisted on showing me photos from them and loved explaining their subtle meaning and context. He saw something more in them than the average guy, who, I suspected, probably only saw masturbatory material.

The first time he was there, the professor held the Playboy up vertically to view the centerfold. I had to ask him to read discreetly so that others could not see the magazine cover or photos of the nude women in the pages. Otherwise, he wasn't welcome at the cafe. I ran a family-friendly place, after all, with women and children in and out all day long. He agreed, though not without protest. This was his research area: America's puritanical view of sex and nudity, unlike the Europeans who were much more sophisticated. I suggested he forget the magazine and work on getting a girlfriend. He took my advice and brought a woman to the cafe one evening. He brought her up to the counter and bought her a cup of coffee. Mark said she was on the faculty at Marywood University. She wasn't bad looking. I was impressed, given his level of creepiness.

They ordered lattes, sat, and talked. Things seemed to be going well until he pulled out a Playboy. The woman got up and stormed out the door.

Then there was Mark, a skinny, nervous man in his late forties, who stopped in the cafe on his way to city council meetings to petition a change of the name of the City of Scranton. Mark claimed that the Scranton Brothers, who the city is named after, stole his ancestors' land and business back in the 1840s. He said the Scrantons falsified the deed to his ancestors' property . It was Mark's family that started the company that manufactured the T-rails for the railroad companies which led to the coal mining industry and ultimately put the town on the map. If the Scranton brothers didn't steal the land and the factory from his great, great grandfather, Mark would have been rich instead of on social security disability. Mark's father would have become governor of Pennsylvania and the city would have been named after his family, not the Scrantons.

He showed me old newspaper clippings and legal papers that may or may not have supported his claim. It was hard to tell. He never let me look at any of the papers for more than the few seconds before snatching them back to rant more about the Scranton family.

Even if the Scrantons did steal his ancestors' land and business, Scranton felt like a more appropriate name for our fair city than did his last name.

"Let's face it, Mark. People aren't going to want to change the name of Scranton to Lipshitz."

"I know it's an odd name," said Mark, wringing his hands. "That's the only reason people don't take me seriously."

That wasn't the only reason, but I didn't argue with him.

"What about your great grandfather's . . ."

"Great, great grandfather," he said.

"Yeah, that's what I meant. What about his first name name?"

"His first name was Seymour."

"Yeah, see, that's not gonna work much better," I said. "What about his middle name?"

"Horace," he said.

"I think you're out of luck, Mark."

I'll have you know that Seymour and Horace were very popular names back in the 1800s."

"Maybe but people around here aren't going to agree to change the name of our city to Horace, Pennsylvania even if everything you say is true. They're just not."

"I will not give up. I've been researching the crimes of the Scranton family for twenty years. My family will get justice. You'll see."

I suggested he find another hobby to occupy his time. As far as I know, he never did. He's probably talking to someone right now about changing the name of Scranton.

The wackiest of them all, though, was Dave Farkas. I called him Farkas the Protester. As his nickname suggests, he protested at the county courthouse each day against one government or societal evil or another. Farkas stopped in the cafe every day on his way home from his two hours of daily protest.

"I was born twenty years too late," Farkas said. "I missed all the fun and excitement of the sixties, not to mention the free love. People still cared about things back then. I would have marched on Washington D.C. for civil rights. I would have marched against the war. No one cares about anything anymore. I protest by myself here in Scranton. People spit on me and pick fights with me. They don't realize I'm on their side."

But Gary was different from those guys, at least I thought he was. Gary was seemingly as normal and rational as they come. He stopped in once or twice a week, usually alone, but sometimes with his lovely wife Camille. Gary was in his mid to late thirties. He would have lunch or coffee, hang out, and read for a while. He told stories of his time spent living in New York City where he owned a club for several years. He didn't bring me down with personal tales of woe like some customers.

Gary and Camille moved from New York City to Carbondale of all places. Carbondale is a small town fifteen miles from Scranton. People denigrate Scranton by calling it the armpit of the universe. These people have obviously never been to Carbondale. Scranton looks like a thriving metropolis by comparison.

Gary said they wanted to get away from the traffic, crime and homeless people of New York. He and his wife opened a glass-blowing shop, where they made decorative glassware. Their customers were mostly New Yorkers who visited Carbondale while on their way to the numerous summer camps in the area where they dropped off their kids. That summer business got them through the year.

"So you were in Joan Jett's band and now you're a glass blower?" I said. "Somehow I don't see you jamming up on stage."

"Hey, I know from looking at me it's hard to believe. But I wasn't always the pudgy, bearded, Dockers-wearing middle class guy you see before you today. I was a good looking rock 'n roller back in my time," Gary said. "I could play the bass as good as anyone."

"How did it happen?" I said.

"You're probably not going to believe me but I'll tell you anyway. I grew up in Los Angeles. I played bass in my older brother's friend's band back in high school. We played at bars, school dances, you know, those sorts of venues . Joan Jett was living in LA at the time. She was looking for a bass player. She saw me play at a bar and asked me to join her band. My parents didn't want to let me go. I was only fifteen, but they actually consented when Joan promised that she'd hire a tutor for me so I could get my GED. I toured with Joan for a couple years and then got tired of life on the road. I opened a club in New York. Now I'm here. Simple as that."

"Wow," I said, half impressed, half skeptical. I wanted to believe Gary. But I didn't buy the story. He didn't give me any details. Anyone could have made up that story.

"So you're telling me you were playing in a band all over the world, something few people have the opportunity to do, and you walked away from it all, and now live in Carbondale, Pennsylvania?"

"Yeah, I did walk away," Gary said. "I was just done with it. Being in the band was great, but like anything else, it started to become a job. And just like any other job, it got old. We'll talk in a couple years and see how you like running this cafe. It may be your big dream now but someday you'll be tired of it. You'll want to walk away even if you turn it into a big chain of coffee shops to compete with Starbucks."

Our conversation was interrupted by a couple of customers who walked in the cafe.

"Well, Hank, looks like it's back to work for you. I'll see you next week."

Gary turned and headed for the door. I waited on the customers still thinking about Gary's story. After the customers left, I called my friend Jake and told him about Gary. 

"He's messing with you," Jake said.

"I know that. But I don't understand why. He's a nice guy, a good customer, and always normal until now. Why would he make something like that up?"

"Who knows?" Jake said. "I got people coming in my office everyday telling one bullshit story after another."

"I don't get why. So he could tell his friends he pulled one over on the coffee shop guy? He doesn't seem like that type."

"I don't know, Hank. Maybe he's got a confidence scam going. He gets to know people, builds trust, and then tries to sell them a guitar autographed by Joan Jett for five grand or something. It's the perfect setup. Everyone knows Joan Jett. Who the hell can name one member of her band? Anyone can go around saying they played for Joan Jett. You could do it. How's someone ever going to prove you wrong?"

"I don't think that's it," I said.

"I don't know what to tell you. People are fucked up, Hank. That's just the way it is."

[Read the rest of the story when the book is published in November.]

Copyright © Greg Halpin, 2010 All Rights Reserved