September 3th, 2015
I stepped outside my front door, hungover after a long night of terrible gigs, and shuffled West along 3rd street. I called Mahammad at my regular Avenue A coffee shop, Native Bean.1 He has my number stored on their phone, so whomever pick ups always says,“Hallo, Miiiiiis-ter Chatfield!”
I say, “Can I get a double espresso…
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