I walk under the bright blue sky. Sun in my eyes, cold wind in my face. In the park I spot a falcon sitting up in the trees. It’s piercing eyes staring down at me. It swoops down and makes a quick and determined course towards a large group of pigeons, who take off and try desperately to avoid his hunting path. I doubt he’s trying very hard because he doesn’t actually catch any one of the easy prey and presently lands on a tree branch on the other side of the park. Quit playing games with me falcon! You might have actually had me for a minute there but now I can see that you never really had any true intention of going for it.
As I open the door the sweet smell of coffee and sugary syrup hits my nostrils and I am instantly transfixed. I’m normally not a coffee drinker but today I could use the extra boost. “Give me something mochalaty” I say to Patrick behind the counter. “Mochalaty!?” he says in confusion. “So I’m guessing that you DO want something with coffee in it? I’m just going to go ahead and be inventive here.” Great. Patrick always seems to know how to please me. I sit down at a small table by the window as more and more people start streaming in. Strange, I don’t think I’ve ever seen this place quite so busy. What exactly happens on a lazy Saturday afternoon that makes people suddenly feel the need for a coffee break? The large windows make this particular establishment quite excellent for people watching, though I could honestly do without the constant stream of mall traffic passing by. Along with the usual suspects hanging out in the corner, two rather scruffy, scrawny looking men are sitting in the high-backed wing chairs by the fireplace, warming up and trying to get comfortable, avoiding drawing too much attention to themselves and getting kicked out.
Mort Goldblum is a slinking sort of man, tall and old, looking almost fragile. His white hair travels down to around his mouth and chin, long slender arms and legs looking all too much like my own grandfather’s. He most often wears the same thing: worn blue denim jacket with a stained white shirt underneath, brown slacks frayed around the ankles, thin brown socks and faded brown loafers with a hole torn out of one of the toes. He is an obviously intelligent man, never to be seen without a book in his hand. And yet he too has somehow ended up on the streets, forced to brave the cold along with a group of mostly-crazy old men who often engage him in mostly asinine conversations about events that have never taken place and dreams that will never come true. This is his 7th year and he has miraculously managed to retain his sanity.
Ms. Danquith enters and sits down in front of me. She retired long ago but still enjoys the going down to the local Hope Street School and volunteering her time as a substitute teacher. She had taught 7th grade English for 38 years and never once forgot the names of her students. The kids she sees now really don’t appreciate her as much as she deserves, but then again what kid does appreciate women as ancient-looking as she is, perpetual grimace plastered across her face? Both children and adults also can’t help but notice that she always seems to be wearing any one of an array of strange hats. Today it is a bubble-gum pink fuzzy thing with rather large ear flaps, no doubt warm but far too bright and bubbly for the rest of her personality.
Nick Hoffledorf is a grumpy, incorrigible old homeless man whom I quickly learned about when I first started coming here. He’s rather strangely lumpy and is always seen wearing a brown leather jacket, black sweatshirt and black baseball cap with tufts of wispy white hair sticking out the sides. He comes in here every day and sits slouched way down in one of the soft leather chairs in the corner in order to stare angrily at people whom he feels are getting a better deal at life than he is, which, considering his situation, is pretty much everybody. On many occasions he has been known to try to flirt with some of the many pretty young girls who also frequent this place. Since they undoubtedly will ignore him and start talking to Patrick instead, he glares at them ever more incessantly until he can’t stand it anymore and goes to complain to the manager about how unfair it is that these girls don’t want to talk to him. Jane is a very patient woman, but sometimes his special kind of craziness is just more than she can take.
A white limo pulls up to the curb just outside, exciting a group of little girls who jump up on top of the window sill couch and press their faces up against the cold pane of glass, certain that anyone who rides in such a car must be somebody important and interesting. A bunch of bride-grooms carrying suits and a rather large, white wedding dress, ever so carefully wrapped in layers of protective tissue paper and plastic, step out and hurry on into the Biltmore next door. I guess everyone gets their special day when they get to be considered someone important and interesting by random strangers walking by. Maybe someday that will be me, but the closest thing I’ve come to an actual relationship in the past couple of years is my rather new, yet almost daily stint with Patrick, who will not only make me a mean cup of marble-mocha-frappa-macchiato-cino whenever I’m in the need, but who also does a great job of filling up the extra space on my already too-small bed on nights when the both of us should probably be getting in some much-needed sleep instead.
Maybe next time around things will be different. Maybe someday I’ll find someone who will give me the kind of emotional connection I really need, but hey, I’m still young, right?
Anyways, these 2 hours are just about up and my coffee’s getting cold. Time for a refill!
