96. Last Exit on Brooklyn

In Seattle’s semi-urban University District, there was a cafe my friends and I frequented, starting when we were college-age ragamuffins. Standing alone, literally the last place at the southern end of Brooklyn Avenue, it was in a funky brick building, the aptly-named Last Exit on Brooklyn. A beatnik-style coffeehouse, it was known at the very least for strong java and spiced tea long before Seattle’s “coffee boom.”  It also was a hangout for all types of students, dropouts, teachers and townies. Neither an innovative concept nor a vestige of an earlier era, the business was planned to become the hippest place north of Berkeley when it opened in 1967, and was a success from the start.

The name is a takeoff on the Selby novel Last Exit to Brooklyn, and fittingly, the Seattle coffeehouse welcomed a lively spectrum of the counterculture, from the vocal and colorful to the brooding and intellectual. The clean-cut & square were probably more comfortable elsewhere. Patrons ranged from old beatniks in berets who debated philosophy and art while smoking fat French cigarettes, to strung-out down-and-outs needing a warm place to return to Earth. And there were political radicals looking for like-minded revolutionists, and flower-child peaceniks. Professors, writers and composers found inspiration at the place, in spite of, or because of, the clatter and bustle. On the sidelines, there were some adventurous youngsters like me, so green but trying to look hip.

Most people sat at the big round tables, where conversation among strangers sprung naturally. And it was the old days, so tuna can-ashtrays were provided for the many smokers.  Everybody knew it as “Last Exit” or just “The Exit” and we went there day or night for social contact and 1^st class people-watching! Oh, and to get great coffee of course.

There was an open mike—in the early days it was for poetry. You never knew, sometimes that was pretty good; occasionally, it could be dreadful. It became obvious that dreadful poetry drove away business, so music performances at the mike were encouraged, and that went over very well with customers.  Anything was welcome. It could be Irish sea shanties, a protest folk singer, or jazz flute and string bass. 

Something I probably hadn’t seen in a restaurant before, being a sheltered kid from “BeaverCleaverVille,” they had a bulletin board for notices of upcoming campus rallies, services & stuff for sale, and sign-ups for classes of all kinds. If you wanted to protest the war, learn to play the blues harmonica, catch a ride to Boulder, find a house share, learn Irish dancing, or meditate together in the sacred forest, you could always find it there. I never thought to eat at the Exit, but I remember they had a short menu of wholesome fare that included a pretty generous and affordable PB&J sandwich. Obviously, the owner’s intent was to keep you alive, not to gratify your desire for cuisine.

For many, the most important activity at the Last Exit was Chess, which could be played or watched by anyone, any time—and even at the master level during tournaments. The ancient Chinese strategy game Go was also available for players.  Early on, Backgammon got very heated with serious gambling involved. When someone pulled a pistol during a squabble, the management finally had to ban the game.

The Last Exit building was leased from the University of Washington, and in the early 90’s, the U was expanding again and needed the building for office space. The coffeehouse had to find new digs, and they reopened in a smaller storefront a few blocks up the Ave. But with changing times, people had different notions of hanging out, and the business closed in 2000. That was, I suppose, thanks to the isolating influences of modern life— smart phones and laptops—plus the inexorable “Starbucks Effect” on coffee culture.

My last time there would have been in the mid-seventies, just before I moved away from Seattle to the east side of Lake Washington. Yes, I sold out my principles and became a suburbanite! But there are many of us, getting on in years now, who will always remember the Last Exit on Brooklyn as a place to go to witness—no, to participate—in a true phenomenon. It was like we were beginning or accomplishing something pretty far-out just by ordering a cup of coffee and taking a seat.