The title of my blog post has absolutely NOTHING to do with what I'm going to write about. In my current job, I've quickly come to realize the power of a good headline to draw the reader in (evil laugh).
I've never been part of an "underground" movement, or blogged for that matter, so this is kind of exciting. For my first contribution to Chimerical Café, instead of responding to a cultural or political spark of some sort, I’d like to pay homage to Eclectic Swagger’s poetic daydreams; approval of colorful characters; unpretentious love of romance and dreamy prose; and of course, her total appreciation for my crazy mindless musings. I should warn you in advance that this is entirely TOO long for a blog post, but hey, I type FAST. Here goes…
Greetings, from Seattle, Washington, USA. Somewhere near the intersection of Queen Anne Avenue and Mercer Street, in the hip, bustling neighborhood of Lower Queen Anne, is a young, charmingly mysterious twenty-something male sitting at Café Ladro, drinking a piping hot double shot Yankee Dog, wearing a plaid button down with one sleeve rolled to the elbow, his fingers (making love) to a laptop covered in stickers of his favorite artwork, a box of cigarettes holding down his receipt. $3.25. The last four digits of his credit card number are 5683. He does not carry cash. He does however carry a spiral bound notebook, some mint flavored toothpicks and a very old movie ticket stub for the 3 p.m. screening of Vicky Cristina Barcelona at The Big Picture.
He took a young Cornish theatre student to that movie. They decided to make the afternoon show because she had tickets to a Massy Ferguson concert at the Vera Project that night. They are not together anymore, and we might never know why. She was a sophomore, too young to appreciate a good merlot, too old to wear Doc Martens, which she secretly did when picking up teriyaki from the place across her apartment or stretching canvasses in her basement. She was originally from Ellensburg, but came to Seattle to audition for a play about the sexual and emotional escapades of a Latvian immigrant at the underground Ballagan Theatre. She had lied to her mother, saying the audition was for The Lion King at the Paramount. Her mother had believed her. All she had wanted was the very best for her daughter.
The young boy at Café Ladro, now a bit jittery from the caffeine, does not know this, but a man in his late forties is sitting about two tables away, watching this boy send an instant message within nanoseconds of receiving one. This man is not in a good mood. He is in this trendy coffee shop because he senses the onset of a midlife crisis. He doesn’t love his wife; just her sweet pulled pork and mashed potatoes. He hates his job at the power plant, and wishes he could be a world scrabble champion or lead guitarist for a Beatles cover band. He used to run cross country for Oregon State, now he only runs to the mailbox and back, to pick up the monthly TV guide and REI coupons. He doesn’t understand why they call it a Yankee Dog, and not a Cup of Joe. He does not get why the boy has one sleeve rolled up, and not the other. He doesn’t understand why the boy does not carry cash. And he doesn’t understand why the boy broke up with his daughter.
Meanwhile, standing on the sidewalk on the opposite side of the café is a beautiful woman, half-Greek half-Irish. She says she’s 38, but is actually 47. She’s holding a blue umbrella to shield her new bangs from an annoying February shower. She was on her way to her car, parked a block away on Republican, but had to stop when she saw the young boy in the café window, still drinking his warm beverage, still typing. She could have recognized that plaid shirt anywhere. It was what he had worn on their first date in Chinatown, and what she had ripped off on their first night at his studio apartment. She knows she should keep walking, because the drive back home is a long one. But she stands frozen, drained, curious. He is much too young for her, and she now knows that. She sheds a tear, on the inside, but shakes it off right away. She wasn’t going to pull a Julia Roberts from across the street. After all, she was secretly hoping to run into him.
She jay walks across Roy Street, the lights of Counterbalance Park behind her creating more than a Hollywood moment. As she gets closer, the boy sees her, first her blue umbrella, then her face. She is wearing a big yellow scarf. He could recognize that scarf anywhere. It was what she had worn on a ferry ride with him to Bainbridge Island, and what she wore the night he asked if he could “draw her.” She had laughed at him, and his pathetic attempts to turn her on. Even so, it had worked.
He turns down his laptop screen as she walks in, and an odd reflex forces him to quickly put his cigarettes in his pocket, even though she knows he smokes. She walks right up to his table, and sits down across from him. She doesn’t say anything, instead taking a sip from his coffee in silence. He takes her hands, slowly, and looks at her. His eyes shamelessly trace the skin on her hands, the folds near her neck, the lines near her eyes. She grows uneasy. It has only been a few months since they last saw each other, but she knows that he notices how old she has gotten. She feels those big tears peer over her lower eyelids. She looks away, over his shoulder, and notices the man in his late forties staring at her. He is angry, confused. His blood pressure rises, from what he sees before his eyes and from years of sweet pulled pork. The man is her husband.
I am also in the café, looking at all of this unravel in silent contentment. I feel a little evil, a little guilty, a little sad. I quickly pen an ‘intermission,’ so I can get myself more coffee. The bearded man behind the counter asks if I’d like to make that a Yankee Dog. I politely decline. Part of me still feels sorry for the man who never made it to the World Scrabble Championships.
