A local coffee shop can be quite a fascinating place. There’s always a few of the same people, no matter which place you choose or where in the world you are. I’m not talking about individuals, but rather the types. There are always the few diligent students, who are hard at work at some paper, or studying some book. There are the normal chatters, groups of two, three, or occasionally four, who gather about a table, chatting away about their days. The opposite of those, there are always the readers, people who come to simply get a coffee, pick up a book, and forget about the world. Similarly, there are the workers, people hard at work on the next great screenplay or book which will never come out. But those, those are just the boring types, the normal, the expected. There are others. The shady person who just seems to be there, no coffee, no computer, no book, no conversation. The old employee who still visits, despite the looks the other employees give them behind their back. And the callers, people who in spite of the noise choose coffeeshops as their place to conduct telephone conversations. Though sometimes, it feels to me like it may be because of the noise.
I truly love local coffee shops. I love going to them and telling stories about the people there. I don’t need to know them, or even think about why those stories are such. Me, I’m one of that first group. Just another college kid. Behind my textbook and computer, I become practically invisible to everyone else. Which means they hardly ever notice my people watching. Whenever I get stuck on a paper, or tired of a textbook, or lost in my studies, I look over the top of my laptop, past my textbook, and watch the people of the coffee shop living their lives. Then, I open up a notepad document, and write down who they are and what they’re doing. The truth used to not matter, not to me. All that does is the idea. I never talked to the people, never actually tried to eavesdrop, I never even bothered thinking about the truth of their stories. That was, until Tuesday.
Like every Tuesday, I was sitting in a coffee shop, sipping on my cappuccino, doing anything but working on the critical paper I had open in front of me. I know, that is bad form on my part, but I needed an escape from the reality of the situation. It was the second to last week of my life in college, and I felt grossly unprepared for the next step. And so, a final paper that should’ve taken a few days of on and off work had taken a week. And I was still stuck. I looked up, past my computer, and began my usual notepad of stories.
There was a small group of kids from the college, sitting around a table, gossiping. No work to speak of lay before them. They were freshmen, having been diligent with their workload after a disastrous first semester. Well, two of the four. The third had been good about doing her work in the first semester as well. The last one was here to put off studying for his English exam. They’d gathered to gossip because the bearded one, Paul, had asked a junior out, and he’d said yes. Paul, being a good friend, wanted to tell all his friends, but chose his closest few to discuss how exactly to tell them. The one with the fauxhawk, Jose, was happy for his friend and agreed that the junior he’d gotten a date with was attractive, for a guy, but was worried about how to phrase it without seeming gay.
I couldn’t help but smile as I put that down. It wasn’t so long ago that my friends had been like that. Well, before the vast majority of them left for the real world. Shaking my head, I edited another paragraph, reordering it so that my evidence was spread out amongst my arguments rather than in a confusing cluster at the beginning of the long and winding section. Then, after thinking a moment, I broke the paragraph into two, separating the aspects of form and those of style in that particular scene. That should help make the general flow of the thing improve, I thought to myself with a sigh. I scrolled down to the next paragraph and looked up again, switching to my notepad. Time for a more complicated one.
In the corner, away from the gaze of most, sat a man in a suit. He had no book, no computer, and was talking with no one, but I wasn’t getting a lurker vibe from him. He had a small cup of coffee held in his left hand. No, this was something else. He looked at his phone, waiting for a call. A call that would never come. He was a mafioso, obviously. He’d come here to enjoy a cup of coffee while he waited on news about a job. A heist. He’d set everything up over at the Fed bank on the other side of town and was waiting for a confirmation that the job was done well. Only problem, it had fallen through. One of his guys, a minor bookie, had gone and turned on him, and warned the Reserve and the FBI. The FBI had hidden, lying in wait for the unsuspecting crew to break into the place, then popped out to arrest the lot of them. Shots had been fired, and most of the crew died, the rest were taken into federal custody. And the man would be waiting here for quite some time, for something which was unattainable.
I couldn’t help but chuckle. Normally, my tall tales were a bit more reserved. More realistic than something so ridiculously out there that it would make national news. But that felt right, and it helped relax me for my editing. I went through the next paragraph and realized that a solid quarter of it was a tangent unrelated to my general argument. I pushed all of that into a footnote, then made a brief, summation of the argument to fit in that long section’s place. Proud, I pushed on to the final paragraph before my conclusion. After running through for grammatical or stylistic errors, I realized that this final paragraph was solid, but should come before the previous one for ideal impact. So, I cut the entire paragraph, footnotes and all, and pasted it between the two other paragraphs I’d edited today. Just the conclusion to go, then the introduction, and then I could turn it in on time, for once. I scrolled down to my formulaic conclusion. Then, my mind once again began to wander. I turned my eyes up ever so slightly and looked for someone else who drew my eye, pulling up my notepad as I looked around.
My eyes were drawn to a young couple, in the corner. They were talking quietly over baked goods and coffee. Their eyes remained locked as their intimate chat drew almost no attention. This was the first time they’d been on a date in the daylight. After a solid three, no four dates at night, she’d decided that she was ready for a nice daytime coffee, no romance about the date, just an opportunity to talk and get to know one another. He, of course, had been ready for such a serious thing since the third word from her mouth on their first date, but he wasn’t about to reveal that. Not yet, anyways. Now, the two of them were finally both ready to make their casual evening dates something more serious.
I sighed as I finished their story. It was sweet, caring about someone like that. I missed that feeling but feeling it through others helped make up for the absence. I looked down to my conclusion. On the one hand, thank goodness it was formulaic. Even though it probably bored the hell out of any professors who had to grade more than one of them in a semester, it meant I just needed to switch around two sentences and make sure everything was grammatically correct. And since the conclusion was generally the last thing I did, also check the spelling, because if I’m completely honest, they were often written after midnight while I was less than in a put together state of mind. That process, while long and boring, was not as soul sucking as killing a baby you put so much work into. Soon enough, I had the conclusion finished, and with the same quick switching of headings at the end of the introduction, my paper was complete. With a small fist pump and a cracking of my neck, I saved it separate from the original, and opened up my email to send it in. One ten-page essay, done. I sent it to my professor.
As I was getting ready to shut down my computer and head back to my apartment, a news alert popped up. ‘Seven dead, including one police officer and one FBI agent, in attempted robbery.’ Odd. I opened it up. Evidently, a group of people had attempted to rob the Federal reserve across town, while the FBI were running a training drill in the area. Only one of the robbers survived, and is in Federal custody, but refuses to name any accomplices. I looked over at the man in the corner. A great sadness possessed him as he chugged down the last of his beverage and walked out of the coffee shop.
I shook my head. It had to be a coincidence. But I couldn’t help but have a nagging suspicion. A strange feeling in my gut. I finished closing down my computer and put it in my bag. Getting up, I walked past the conversationalists around the central table. “Listen, Paul, I ain’t gay. I’m happy for you and all, cause if I was gay Jacques would be a catch, but shut up with that ‘you’re so totally gay,’ bull. You know it ain’t true.”
I looked confused at the group, along with most everyone near them. Odder still. I opened the door to leave, and the couple followed me out. The man asked the woman, “So, if we meet back up for dinner this evening, would that still be five or count as our sixth?”
She kissed him on the cheek as she walked towards her car. “I’d say you’ve earned a six.” Laughing, she climbed into a small coupe, and drove off.
I looked at the man. “What’s that about?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Sorry you had to hear that. She’s just a bit nervous about getting into anything serious, I think.” Then, he sighed, “Crap, I think I’m in love.”
I patted him friendlily on the shoulder. “Of course, you are,” I said, then very confused, I walked away. Odder still.
When I got back to my apartment, I opened up my enormous notepad file on my spare hard drive. After copying today’s stories into it, I began to scroll back up, through all the minor stories I’d told about people in the local shops. I focused on the college kids my age, because those I could confirm with ease. Ten stories and twelve long and somewhat confusing text conversations later, I’d found it was true. Everything I wrote.
I didn’t know the how or the why. Something was odd about me, not wrong, but different. But this was a gift, it had to mean something. I don’t know what, but if it doesn’t mean anything, why would I have it? Right? I don’t know, that’s why today, as I prepare to go to my therapist, I need to get my story exact, right, and thorough. I can’t afford to sound crazy, even though I know it does. I put my laptop into my bag, for the proof. Taking a breath, I went through the story one more time, as I started to leave. A local coffee shop can be quite a fascinating place...
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