Some will always remember the large portrait of Vera herself. Eyes so large, and yet despite it was a painting, her eyes mirrored the delectably tasteful coffees from within–wetting your whistle, if you will. She gave the establishment breath — an inspiration for a purpose.

I was a young pup when I came to Minneapolis, entering the gay community to seek refuge from the fundamental views of my mothers’ religion. I, like anyone else, new or old came to Veras–almost as if the universe had led me there with an iron hand.

From there I had conducted the majority of my early life–gaining a sense of what this gay community was or was not. I learned a lot about people, developed my own taste, whether that was in men or coffee I don’t remember. I met many people there, unique individuals. Veras was my home away from home and countless nights I would sit there, typing away on my laptop during the early days of writing “French Roast” — A novel which was focused on Vera Cafe, though much more of an indirect sense..but the inspiration came from the fact of my own hardships in struggling to adapt to a gay world.

The news of the closings of Veras came to me today. I was ill and didn’t believe it until I had traced to their website at www.verascafe.com. The news was true.

How suddenly, the past memories flashed back into my mind. The constant changes that happened over the course of the past few years–most recently the addition of alcohol. Those noises I can still hear. The constant rattling and banging of glasses. The whizzing and whirring of the espresso coffee makers, steam billowing out from the sides. The tantalizing smells of coffees brewing at all times of the day.

How I missed Joking around with Rachel as she stressed and slaved preparing the foods behind the counter, catching herself off guard on occasion to the temptation of having a smoke with me outside on the patio.

Which leads me to the days I would sit out there. Men, reading books. Some read philosophy, others were mystery, some were comedy. Some would just sit out there and lurk, if you will, watching the traffic drive past Veras alongside Lyndale Avenue, back and forth between Uptown and Downtown.

Even the chirping of chickadees as they squabbled for the crumbs of fallen cookies on the ground and the squirrels that were so daring enough to get involved with their messes.

The constant display of unusual art work, with the only one coming to mind radiated all the colors of the rainbow of a man lounging on the sofa, appearing to have a disfigured face. From the newsstands by the doors as palm trees swooned graciously towards the mocha-colored cielings, displays of the Lavender’s magazines.

I look back tonight, feeling discouraged. My summer getaways when I want a place to go and relax and be myself is now gone. How I enjoyed Veras, not for the fact it was gay-friendly, but because I would not be subject to supporting corporate america. How I, too, was contributing towards one anothers success.

I knew something was up when I was in there last week with Sarge. Wayne looked tired and not himself. It was dead in there, hardly another soul in sight, and even the traffic outside, that once use to roar and rumble seemed to have halted to a subtle whine.

Now, I am probably going to walk down Lyndale on the corner of Twenty-Ninth, an area transformed by the construction of luxury apartments nestled neatly alongside the Greenway Corridor — this community that was created nine years ago seems to have crumbled to dust in the proof of our economical demise. The collapse of prosperity is true.

I will miss being your patron, Wayne, and thank you for the four years of service you had provided for me and the nine years for the community.

Noel