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.
There’s a woman here without socks on, sandals with toes sunning themselves as legs boldly thrust forward into the world. Chunky heels, a firm step, a heavy stomp. Somehow it makes them stronger. Women who wear pointy high heels, they teeter-totter and tip over. These are practical feet who want to walk.
My feet, also in sandals, while bare, they have an ankle strap. These are easier to walk in, but don’t look as free.
It’s a Frappuccino night despite the A/C making it downright frosty in here. I treasure my nights here, despite it being cold. Without socks on, my feet are cold. I definitely need a sweatshirt.
–6:25 PM—
A blonde haired mom and two kids walk in. The round boy and the girl in a blue dress squeal and play hide-n-seek between her legs. She says, “Hush!” when they yell.
I smile at her. “They’re cute.”
“It saves them from a lot,” the mom replies. “If they weren’t cute, they’d be in a lot more trouble.”
I flip through the book One Day My Soul Just Opened Up and it speaks of closure. Famous Kitty Carlisle says to her reflection every morning, “I forgive you for yesterday.”
Be compassionate; it’s as simple as that.
–7:35 PM—
A little brunette girl walks in behind her dad. She is all sunshine, excited about everything. She pushes her dad’s unshaven but fit legs away as he almost steps on an ant. The floor is dry. She moves the “Beware. Wet.” yellow cone by the counter. She is as free and expressive. as we all should be.
What prevents us from being our wonder-full selves?
Okay, I forgive myself for the pity party I threw myself on my previous journal pages. I allow myself to move beyond my distress and enjoy the happiness I’ve been given.
I will not always be happy and I am allowed to dwell on the negatives for moments in time. I forgive myself for being moody.
–8:50 PM—
I go up to the counter for my second venti Frappuccino and I smell flowers, like a shampoo or shower gel. The scent is not overly floral sweet but like bubble gum candy. It’s the woman behind me.
“What are you wearing?” I ask. “It’s delightful.”
“It’s cucumber melon antibacterial gel from Bath & Body Works,” she says. She wasn’t aware anyone else could smell it. I don’t know why.
Her male companion pipes in. “It’s a great smell, huh?”
“Do you use it?” I ask him.
He rubs his hands together. “Sometimes she gives me some.”
“A man who appreciates a good scent,” I say with a proud nod. The friendly couple smiles.
My second frapp is vanilla, but it doesn’t taste very vanilla-y. I don’t feel like going up to get another one.
–9:00 PM—
Two guys now sit across from me, reading. One of them takes notes on a yellow pad of paper. He asks his friend about “syllogisms.” I’ve heard of the word, and I wish I could interject with the answer, but they are both devastatingly cute.
They look older than your typical college student if that’s what they are. Who else would read in a coffee shop? Syllogism Guy has dark hair and a dark goatee. He’s wearing a black shirt, black shoes holding a yellow highlighter in his right hand. He reads from what looks like a library book.
It’s a quick glance I make because staring is too obvious. I pretend my gaze radiates throughout the store. Yep, I’m suave.
They discuss logic, both respectfully silent when the other one talks. The only sound between them is of the pages turning.
The other guy, I’m attracted to his voice. He argues respectfully with Syllogism Guy. He wears faded blue jeans, a grey T-shirt and has dark hair. His fit body is pleasing, too. Could I be worthy of such a guy?
Should I give him my phone number? The idea both thrills and scares me. Be safe? Or risk? Another glance. “Venti CM” is written on his cup. Does that stand for Caramel Macchiato? I could ask him.
His phone rings. He ignores it. He has sideburns.
Suddenly, Syllogism Guy closes his book. They stand and walk out. I was not courageous. I watch them through the window as they drive around in a circle. Rugged Voice left his coffee cup on the ground in the parking lot.
He’s too good not to be taken. If he’s here next week, I’ll talk to him and offer my phone number for sure. After all, what’s the harm in that?
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.
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?
