Café Thoughts

There is an inherent poetry in a café (one that carries the accent over the e), which is perhaps born more of reputation than merit. There is the gentle murmur of conversations and orders, a murmur not so different from the bustle of any other food service place, but one that feels different because it's weaving through the smells of coffee and breads, tucked between the cellophane-wrapped brews and twine-hugged gift baskets. The seats are all uneven--every one will wobble, almost as if they're custom ordered that way. Often, the wrought-iron tables have imbalanced feet, like a toddler walking after waking, or maybe a too-drunk friend as you designated-driver them from the bar to the car. The names are smug; they're foreign, yet familiar, and you have to practice to not say "expresso" because then you'll sound like a twit. The prices are smug, too--you walked in here, so you're going to pay $2.95 for ten ounces of orange juice and crushed ice, and you're not going to grouse, are you? The employee behind the counter has piercings--probably one of the hiring expectations--and a too-peppy smile that comes from the one free serving they get per shift. There's always one employee who's angry about something, banging around in the background. You hope that this one isn't the one that will ring you up, but it inevitably is. Despite the vibrating vibrancy of a caffeine-fueled job, there's a drag on the energy in the place. Maybe it's the customers, all of them sitting in various state of desperate isolation, save the two separate couples (one a set of businessmen conversing about the important things of life--not God, but godawful people they both despise; the other girlfriends catching up on everything but what is most on their minds) who single-handedly fill the café with the sense of busyness that the business relies on. In one corner is a college student, the bright yellow Used sticker on the spine of her philosophy book is reading, brow furrowed, no doubt wondering why the French deconstructivists couldn't say what they meant, not realizing that what they meant is exactly what they said. In another corner is an old man, his hair retirement-silver, a nonplussed expression on his face as he holds the ancient artifact of his youth in his hand, a newspaper that is more poorly copyedited than an online blog and almost as trite. Next to him steams his coffee, the lid off, additional sugar packets opened and poured in, but the drink untasted. He's forgotten it in his haste to feel indignation at the way "millennials are killing vacations" and not-so-secretly thanking his WASP God that he doesn't have to clock in anymore. Outside, the traffic groans in its gritty throat, gurgling past the store as you wait for your order to be processed. The stereotype of them spelling your name wrong on the side of your cup is only a stereotype, so you get your juice and your too-pricey food and you softly thank the harried employee. The door chimes softly as you step into the flow of foot traffic that slowly mirrors the more frantic steel-and-glass traffic in the streets, taking in a lungful of air that is probably going to give you cancer. Then you walk away from the café, sipping the orange juice that is more sugar than oranges and try not to think about what you've done.

Meanwhile, I type this entire experience, sitting in my home, in a quiet suburban neighborhood, far from any café, and I think.