Inside a Starbucks

There’s an old man sitting cattycorner to me in the leather chairs at Starbucks. He’s falling asleep. He looks like a perfect candidate to be drawn, if I knew how to draw. He has the white gotee and the white thinning hair, but long enough to be scraggly and reminds me of most old man characters on TV shows. I half expected him to have a cane and yell about “kids today.” Looking at him I wonder if he’s alone. He doesn’t have a ring on. He’s here alone. Did he have a love once but lost her? he’s gotten up just now and I discovered that his hair is not what I thought it was. It’s in a long matted ponytail almost like dreds, despite being a white guy. He left the shop carrying a few dollars, leaving his things behind. I realize now that it’s not just coffee and newspapers, it’s a rolling suitcase and a couple of grocery bags. Is that all his belongings? Does he carry it around with him? Everyone has a story. You can’t make it through life without one. Even if you’re a vegetable unable to live your life, your story carries on. The people that care for you are your story. The things they learn from you, without you even knowing it, are a part of your story. He’s back, the old man. He got a cookie from the Subway next door. He looks clean enough to not be homeless, but whose to say? I wonder if he’s lonely or if he’s accepted his loneliness, that it doesn’t even register with him anymore? He’s easily in his late 70s or 80s, maybe older. How long has he been alone? I don’t want to live till I’m in my 80s, if I’m still alone then. I can’t imagine adding old age and a decaying body to that. I don’t want that life. At least now I can do things I love to do like go to Niagara Falls, Canada or hike around the mountains of Colorado. If I’m too old to do that and STILL have no one to share life with…I just can’t bear it. I can’t even imagine. According to his cup his name is Jim. According to mine, it’s Christy. No one ever spells my name right, I’m used to it. I do always applaud someone and verbally recognize it when they spell my name right. They deserve that credit. He kind of reminds me of this old guy I remember who would always feed the birds at the pond by my old apartment complex. He always wore a wool hat, even in the summer. He always had his Walkman on his belt. An old school cassette Walkman. I used to smile and wave at him as I watched him feed the birds the bread or crackers he brought. I’d be sitting there on the grass writing or listening to music, looking out at the water hoping to catch the elusive beavers that I saw lived there for awhile. He’d smile and wave back. He also seemed alone. You could tell who was alone and who wasn’t, at least I thought I could tell. The walkers and joggers of that pond area in the Village who were not walking with someone had a look about them if they were truly alone. They didn’t need to walk too fast to get home to someone. They weren’t talking to someone on the phone while they walked. They had no ring on. They had all the time in the world to sit and look out at the water and ponder life as I did so much when I lived there for several years, both before and after Colorado, when I was in my 20s. Apparently Jim here does have a buddy. A fellow old guy sat down across from him in the brown leather chair next to me and they clearly know each other, in the way they are talking. Glad he has someone. Even if it’s just a friend. Sometimes I feel like I don’t even have that. Sure theoretically I have friends. They exist in some virtual world via internet or in text form when they can respond, but they don’t exist in face to face form. I can’t see and touch them. I can’t be sure that I’m truly being heard by them, because their presence isn’t known. When or where they read my words said to them in unknown. I can’t even be sure that they really heard me. In person at least I can ask them. I can read their face, I can get a hug from them. I sometimes feel like a friendless friend. I try less and less to maintain friendships based on how many times they’ve been unable to hang out with me when I've asked them to, even with reasonable reasons, which they always are. It just gets too hard. It's been too many years since college, since friendships were taken for granted at how abundant and readily available they were. I think the greatest gift the universe has to give is to be connected to one person. At least one. To share your life with them, even if it isn’t your whole life. I look around the Starbucks, guy/girl couples all around. But there are a couple women like me (and one guy), on their computer, on the internet somewhere. I don’t think they are writing, as they aren’t typing very often and I am feverishly typing. With the soft piano music playing in my ears, I can still hear the whir of the machines making those lattes or cappuccinos. There’s also the light chatter of those who are not alone today. I’m just grateful it’s Saturday and I’m off work today. That I get to spend the day in Starbucks writing, is a gift in and of itself. I get to enjoy this Trenta sweetened iced green tea. That’s enough for today. Now to get back to the story I’ve been writing since December. Book 1 of the trilogy “yet to be named” (that’s not what it’s called it’s just ‘yet to be named’). Its current title is "1995" as that is when it takes place. It’s 159 pages and counting. Another thing to be grateful for. My writing. My imagination. My ability to give a voice to characters and a voice to myself, even if I’m not the best at it, out loud.