On Thanksgiving morning, shortly after nine o’clock, a man in a puffy black Steelers coat pinched a cigarette between his stiff fingers and hunched his shoulders as he hopped around in the cold, while a white-bearded hippie in a denim jacket crossed his arms over his chest and leaned calmly against the brick front of the Bloomfield Sandwich Shop.
“Too bad Crazy Mocha’s closed,” the smoker said.
“Why?” the bearded man asked. “You want some coffee?”
“Yeah,” the smoker said.
The bearded man nodded. “I’ll make you some coffee,” he said, and ducked into the shop.