I love that the baristas here write names on the for-here mug. I feel personalized. I’m drinking the Brazil, so this reminds me what cuppa of coffee to get next : this or try something new.
Wi-Fi here keeps flickering, and I can’t connect my tablet to the network. So I’ll write here, in my journal, by hand. There’s no going back now. It feels personal.
Speaking of, I just had a conversation with the man next to me.
I always wonder what motivates a man in a business suit, complete with a tie and tie clip, to be in a coffee shop at 3:10pm on a Friday afternoon. Me, I’m done with work for the day, and I’m waiting for a storytelling event nearby.
The man has an accent. Middle-Eastern, I think. It’s a soft voice, casual and smooth. I would never know that if the Wi-Fi wasn’t jittery.
I met with my editor the other day. She commented that she can run her entire magazine from her laptop at a coffee shop.
I agree. It’s pretty amazing. I can write for any publication anywhere and talk via email to anyone. However, the life you write about is up there, beyond your keyboard, above your laptop screen.
Staring at my screen, I’d never have noticed his light blue, long sleeve shirt.
Last week, I hugged Roomie down in Maryland, and that’s when it hit me: I’m saying goodbye.
I almost cried.
I’m moving soon, so it’s time for those farewells, that talking to the people I should’ve been talking to all along. My Grande Java Chip Frappuccino turns into a venti with extra ice added. More room to cry in my proverbial cup of coffee, if I did such a thing.
It was a wonderful chat, in a Starbucks of all places. We discussed families. Her boy is having some of those young child sensitivities, including separation anxiety. I totally get that today.
Her second baby is due in August, and she thinks she’s having a girl. Will a family of my own be in the future? We laughed about keeping kids occupied with a video or DVD for an hour. Years ago, we never would. Now, that’s an hour well spent!
I lamented our distance to come. She said, “We’ll always be friends,” casual as if saying the rain has stopped outside.
Then she drove away. When I arrived, the parking space next to my car was empty, so she had parked there. An hour later, when I left, her spot was still empty.
Coffee shops should be places to say hello, welcome people with hugs and squeals, or at least a handshake. I’m here in my usual spot drinking my usual drink, missing my familiar places already. I’ve taken them for granted.
Looking out the window into the dark night, my car’s in her usual place, headlights facing towards this store. Too many nights like this, I sat in that car, talking to Dad on the phone about his frustration that Mom wasn’t getting better and she didn’t seem to be trying. We talked and I stared into Starbucks, feeling empty even though there were lights inside. I willed the night to go away so I could forget him, Mom, and my own heartbreak.
Dad’s been gone for one year and three months. I miss those talks. They weren’t all bad. We compared notes every week about which one of us saved the most money with our grocery store coupons that week. It was a pretty even matchup. We talked about my job, his bus rides and talking to the regulars there, Pittsburgh sports and how terrible my high school teams were playing, and always the weather.
Dad would be tickled that I’m moving to Detroit, the place where he and Mom honeymooned. They toured the Ford manufacturing line, and that’s all I ever knew about it.
I wish I could ask him now. I’m curious about what else they did.
As if a higher power is watching over me, a little girl and daddy walk out of the Red Robin next door. Pink shirt, jeans faded, red balloon. Leftovers, two boxes of Styrofoam. Dad’s in long sleeves, maroon, and tan pants. He buckles her in the backseat, a minivan with silver doors and auto close. He puts the food on the front passenger seat. They back out now–how charming, how happy and content. Unlike a family of four just moments ago: the mom yelled at one girl while dad takes another girl in the restaurant.
What a shame. A wasted opportunity. I’d never take that for granted. My throat closes up at the thought.
I can’t take this. I need to write. My journal is filled so far with my newspaper article transcripts, notes about the houses we’ve already looked at in Michigan, reactions from my coworkers at my announcement and, funny this, a list of the four closest Starbucks to the area we’re looking at moving to. Now I add to that:
“At K’s parents’ house, I couldn’t find my School Days book. Did I take it to Delaware already? Worry, worry. An hour ago, found it. Looked through it, found Krista-TN stuff, letters Dad wrote me. Read one, his familiar print, all caps. A Penn State item taped in the letter. Weather report. Shows he videotaped for me. Mom and Star Trek group news. I missed Dad and I cried. I talked to him, to no one, about how I miss sharing this Detroit move news with him. I have to believe he knows, but I miss hearing his voice, his thoughts on it all. Cried more. Then had the strength to go into our Home Theater room and watch my wedding video. Father-in-law took it, used to think that was distracting from our ceremony. I am so blessed to have those images. Dad smiling. A smile! A cough. His large glasses, his cane. And somehow, that comforted me. I still cried.”
Gotta stop here. I’m about to cry again. Time to go out to my car and cry into my cup of Frappuccino. Time to say goodbye to this night.
“Dad would like you to drive the van,” my mom says to me. “It’s easier for him to get in and out of it.”
Despite my dad’s notoriously poor behavior as a passenger, I immediately respond, “Sure, I’ll drive.” Then I conjure an image of how the rest of my family will react when they find out that I’ve pulled the short straw. Relieved, they will celebrate by high-fiving one another and cheering, “Woo-hoo! Kelly has to drive!”
Soon thereafter, on a sunny and warm spring morning, I arrive as promised at my parents’ house, where Mom and Dad have been waiting with my sister and brothers. Waiting is the most popular item on the day’s agenda. It starts with the family waiting for me. It is to continue downtown at Henry Ford Hospital where we will stew for eight hours and hope that dad gets to come home with us after his surgery.
Dad sits up front beside me. Everyone else piles into the seats behind us, and we begin our trek to the hospital.
“Your dad likes to be early.” Mom doesn’t have to remind us of that. We know it. Dad is a morning person, and he’s never late.
When my siblings and I were children and living at home, we had Saturday mornings to look forward to Dad waking us up. He would step into our rooms while we slept and begin a loud phonetic rendition of the bugle call, “Reveille.” Then he’d sing these words in the same cadence:
It’s time to get up!
It’s time to get up!
It’s time to get up in the morning!
It’s time to get up!
It’s time to get up!
It’s time to get up in the day!
Dear Ol’ Dad had borrowed that morning routine from his camping days with the Air National Guard from 1954-1962. Other young men were being called up by the United States Army to serve in far-away places. Dad thought that by enrolling in the Guard, he had a better chance of staying close to home and finishing his six-year-long apprenticeship to become a printer. All worked out even better than he had planned. About half-way through his eight years of service, he met my mom, who had come to vacation in Michigan.
Dad enjoyed getting up at the crack of dawn and I think he wanted his family to like—or at least embrace—mornings too. Whenever we took a road trip, we’d rise before daybreak. The sky was dark; the air was crisp and chilly. There was no time to waste. Other people weren’t around to tie up the freeways. We had at least three hours to get ahead of everyone else.
On the morning drive to the hospital, I am reminded of how hard it must be for Dad to have to relinquish control of the steering wheel. He’s used to being the one behind the wheel. He drives everywhere he and Mom go, and sometimes he even drives me where I need to go.
Practically every year, Dad takes me to the Frank Murphy Hall of Justice where I complete my annual stint of jury duty. He spoils me. I don’t have to go into downtown Detroit alone, find a parking space, and walk by myself to the courthouse.
“I’ll drive you,” he insists.
Mom comes along and the two wait for me to get a break or to be excused for the day. They wile away their time at Greek Town Casino and then the three of us get lunch. Our little arrangement is something pleasant that I think we all look forward to.
Today, however, I experience familiar and familial pressure as I drive downtown. I go an acceptable five miles over the speed limit. Dad gruffly says, “Slow down!” Moments later, when I drive at the posted speed limit, Dad suggests that I could “go a little faster.” All the time, he foresees potential problems with traffic and warns, “Watch out!” “Take it easy!” “Give ‘em a little more room.”
I force myself to relax, despite the tension everyone in the van is feeling. There’s a hush that comes over us. No one wants to distract me from focusing on Dad’s instructions.
“The road coming up has a big pothole. It’s just past the light. See it?”
When I was sixteen, I had my first car accident—which wasn’t my fault. My dad didn’t seem mad at all. During college, when I had a second car accident which was my fault, he again showed only concern for whether or not I was alright.
I’m sure he’s not remembering these things that happened decades ago. He treats my brothers and sister the same when they drive. He just likes to be the one in charge and taking care of everyone else.
Having worked as a printer for The Detroit Free Press for over forty years, Dad knows the city’s history, the parks, the office buildings, the old stadiums, the bars and hang-outs, and most importantly, the back ways into town. He skillfully directs me down streets and through neighborhoods that I wouldn’t be comfortable in if I were by myself.
Dad explains that the humming bridge over the Rouge River needs to have water poured onto it to cool it down when it gets hot. He says that when he was a little boy, the Army responded to race riots by camping out in Clarke Parke. Later, more race wars took place in the 1960s, and the National Guard came to keep order but they didn’t have ammunition in their guns. Army paratroopers came in next and shot a bunch of people.
We drive east on Fort Street from downriver and pass by desolate Woodmere Cemetery, where several generations of my ancestors are buried. It has been over twenty years since we visited. Back then, a recorded voice was blasted over a loud speaker to tell women not to stop at the gravesites alone. Today, I wish I could forego this drive to the hospital and take a detour inside the wrought iron, gated yard in order to kneel beside my grandparents’ graves and reminisce.
I would rather not have to face the fact that my dad has bladder cancer. I don’t want him to have to undergo surgery, to be poked and prodded, to be in pain and discomfort.
Dad seems to calm the more he talks about places that he’s passed thousands of times. We see the old, abandoned Greyhound Bus station and turn at the corner of 14th Street. A block down at West Lafayette is Green Dot Stables. Dad tells us, like he had many times before, that the guy who opened it used to be a harness racing jockey. Dad doesn’t seem to notice the graffiti and burned-out buildings along our route. Unlike him, my brothers and sister are squirming in their seats because they would have rather taken the freeway. Doesn’t Dad realize that I-75 would be faster?
I’m not nervous about driving through poor parts of town with my family, mostly because my dad is sitting right beside me. Despite the fact that he’s turning eighty this year, I still believe he’ll keep us safe, no matter what.
It occurs to me that my father is behaving like an imperfect tour guide. I consider his insider’s knowledge of Detroit, his familiarity with the roads, and his ability to tell great stories. I set aside the fact that Dad has little to no patience when behind the wheel of a car, and I get a crazy idea. I blurt out, “You should be an Uber driver!”
Laughter erupts in the van. I sneak a peek at my dad and can tell that, for a brief moment, he isn’t thinking about cancer, pain, and surgical complications. He’s not worried or stressed. He’s simply smiling in response to my ludicrous suggestion.
Have you ever just sat in a coffee shop and listened to conversations?
This can be done anywhere really: in a park, on a bus, at a college football game, a kids’ softball game, in a lunchroom, at your coworker next cubicle over. Anywhere. What does that say about them?
I’ve listened everywhere, partially because of boredom, partially out of curiosity. Dad always enjoyed being in the Now, and that’s why I’ve always enjoyed people-watching and people-listening.
I’m sipping my Clover Reserve coffee, the West Java Preanger while it’s still available. What are people saying here, today?
What’s This Song?
A guy finishes humming and says, “Do you know what that’s from?” The woman with him is shaking her head. “It’s from the movie the Officer and…the one with Richard Gere.”
ME: It’s An Officer and a Gentleman, geez. You don’t even know the title? I didn’t hear that tune in it at all. Maybe you should try harder. Are you trying to impress this girl, like on a date, or is she a friend who tolerates you? Does she know movies? Does she care? She just tapped some sugar into her coffee and walked away. You, you’re dumping about…is that four or five packets of sugar…in your coffee? You’re both staying here, and you have to-go cups? Don’t you see my for-here mug beside you as I mix my Splenda and steamed 2% milk? I’m saving a cardboard tree. You’re drinking that coffee black. Ugh.
A Guy and His Buddy
A guy walks in, shakes his buddy’s hand. “Free car?” the guy says, a smile in his voice. I don’t hear his buddy’s response, but the guy says to him, “You can get a car for a reasonable price of a truck.”
ME: Sounds like buddy’s in a world of trouble. Is he poor? Is he desperate? Why does he want a truck, or is that something the guy wants? I’m thinking pickup truck–I mean, what else is there?–but buddy’s got a jean jacket and a laptop. He doesn’t look the truck type. The other guy, he has that sauntering attitude around his beefy self. I could see him wanting a truck but stuck driving daddy’s Caddy. Or am I just thinking of my ex-boyfriend’s lawyer-to-be friend from those oh-so-many years ago?
About Bill
“I went to Bill’s class on Friday, and it wasn’t filled.”
ME: Is he a college student? Probably, since it’s around 1:30 pm. That’s too early for high school to be out. What does Bill teach, and why isn’t he filling up his classroom? Does the girl he’s talking to know the class or Bill? Is he not a popular teacher? Could it be that the subject isn’t fun? Does the class happen at an awkward time? As a college student, I couldn’t handle morning classes. The 9:00 am ones were tolerable, but the 8:00 am classes were too much, too early. At least you’re there to support your friend.
What does this say about me and interpreting them? Some of this stuff is so perfect that, as the cliché goes, I couldn’t write or make up this stuff.
I feel a little jealous. I’m left out of the loop. Something cool is going on, and I’m not a part of it. Why am I not a part of it all? Maybe that comes from being picked last for sports teams in grade school.
If I was curious before, I’m more curious now. There’s the context behind the above comments, and I’d love to know more about them.
“Hey, behind you,” I whisper to my husband. “There’s a woman writing.”
We’re sitting along the wall in what I’m calling “our spot.” I seem to default here when I come in; the light is good and I’m out of the way from the main path. My husband finished his mocha coffee latte drink a few minutes ago and is checking something on his phone. I glance over his shoulder and see a woman writing.
I don’t know how I know that she’s writing something personal, but I do. Maybe it’s the slouch her shoulders, determined but relaxed. Maybe it’s the slow way her hand moves, the pause she makes, deliberate yet light and free. She’s focused but not intense. Is it a story? Journaling? A project?
I’m curious.
My husband half turns, that way, when you try to casually stare without being obvious. I’m staring directly at her. She doesn’t notice me.
“I can’t tell,” he says.
Neither can I, but it’s time to leave.
“I want to see,” I say.
The exit is behind me; there’s no reason for me to move in her direction. I stand up and shrug my coat on. I make my go-to excuse, and I say it loud enough so that if she was listening, she wouldn’t be suspicious.
“I’m going to use the bathroom before we leave.” That door is in front of me, so I can conveniently walk past the writing woman.
She is writing Thank You cards.
The cards are white, but they don’t have that white embossed shiny-matte, off-white texture of wedding cards. Her cards have Thank You in black, neutral font. The text is friendly and readable, not some flowery script but not a dull Garamond or Times New Roman. There’s a color design clustered in the center around Thank You–flowers, I think–but the style is neither masculine nor feminine. There’s a stack of cards next to her in a non-descript box with a flimsy plastic lid that you’d find in a Hallmark store. It looks like she’s writing with an ink pen, nothing fancy but higher quality than you’d get in an office supply store.
I see all of this in about 5 seconds, maybe 10. Staring can be creepy, and there’s no time to casually chat. I don’t want to disturb the magic. She’s intent and focused and fortunately doesn’t see me staring at her and the table full of notecards.
I walk out. I don’t bother to fake-stop in the bathroom.
I think of this now because it’s April, the month of so many things: National Poetry Month; Camp NaNoWriMo; National Rebuilding Month; Testicular Cancer Month, Autism Awareness Month, and National Card and Letter Writing Month.
I started writing letters to my friend about two months ago. These are notecards from Target $1 Spot. The 8 cards are all the same design with the word “Gratitude” on the front. I bought them because they’re a friendly peach color with matching envelopes.
So far, I’ve received no letters in return and I don’t expect any. I write as if we were talking side by side and, yes, I write them when I’m in coffee shops. These small cards aren’t intimidating because there’s only room for a thought or three, just short and fun. And now I discovered a whole movement.
There’s a campaign calledWrite_Onwhich distributed 10,000 free writing starter kits to encourage people to write a letter a day in April. I’m not a fan of setting daily deadlines; to me, it’s a setup for self-failure if you miss a day. Regardless, I signed up for and received one of the kits.
The six-card kit includes envelopes for mailing–as a papercrafter, I can say that including envelopes is the polite thing to do. There’s stationary with envelope, stickers, a colorful inspiration booklet and a gelly roll pen. I’m a writer. I like paper. I like pens. Any letter writing I do, once a day or not, spreads more joy than if I didn’t write at all.
I’ll never know what that woman was writing or thanking people for, but do I need to?
