A Morning at the Coffee Bean —

Photos of workers picking coffee beans in Guatemala or somewhere, not here with the privileged. I savor the scone Mickey brought, watch the device-addicted vaguely respond to things not in their aura. An older gentleman in a plaid cap, black and white checks, snoozes in his easy chair, hands folded as if in prayer, not smitten by tech, too old probably. 

Music beats from ceiling speaks, woman’s voice. An Asian man, middle aged or more, shakes his head at someone I can’t see in the store across the way. Coffee shop we sit is morning full of everyone going somewhere different. Mickey’s pen moves beside me, scone wrap crinks, he sniffs. The music beats, beats, beats a rhythm that portends something urgent, something serious and then fades to horns from another world before a similar beat prevails. It is all the same, really. Voices, espresso steam machine, chatter 

I can’t quite pick up or understand over the incessant beat, beat, beat and the workers in the coffee fields on the wall—I wonder what they are doing right now. Intrigued by an indie poster outside in the sun—get the app. Six people in the corner, men, one sleeps, five pairs of eyes glued to pocket screens, all hats caps. Woman tentatively takes the chair at the table next to us, offering a wan, friendly, half-smile. A couple takes the table on the other flank, bald guy, goatee says he wants boots like hers. Rose served me coffee, Rosie served me yesterday. Strong black serviceman comes through the door with fresh air-gas for the machine. My Rose is black, I miss her skin under my hands, but dread feeling unloved again. 

A student in a plaid shirt rushes by, outside, in my peripheral eye and then a woman pushing a babe in a carriage passes, mouth chattering something—To whom? I didn’t notice if the child was listening. A girl finishes her cell phone connection, pocket’s it, one ear freed from massive white headphones, all the while talking to her friend Sitting in the chair at the table where she apparently stands waiting for an exuberant, smile pasted young man bouncing toward them. I guess that was it—they’re gone suddenly. Legal talk to the left, device crack to the right. 

The old guy has woken up, plays with his cell phone. I’m disappointed, but it is, after all, only an antique flip-phone. What in the world is he staring at there? Frowning. Sleeping still? Nope, flips her shut, pocket’s it, far away gaze, fist on cheek or cheek on fist. Sad enters me. He seems alone and this ruckus at the Coffee Bean is perhaps his only social scene, considers sleeping some more, but opts for company when he glances around and pulls out his phone to reread the message he wishes the author had bothered to deliver in person today. 

Another carriage, another mother decked in athletic wear, purple, with lips expressing determination. The ultra-young catered to, the ultra-old ignored. A woman enters, looks all around to see if anyone interesting is here. Not me. She sits momentarily in the easy chair opposite the lonely old guy sitting at his flip-up and abruptly jumps up and moves to a safer spot . . . somewhere, if that Is at all possible. 

The old guy drifts back to sleep, hands again in prayer, the five cushy chairs surrounding him bare, same as they may have been when occupied by the five guys buried in their media. Same difference to the sad, old guy, nodding off, perhaps dreaming of love in the past or someone gone or his favorite game show on later, lower lip in a pout. Wealth oozes down the street, a boutique with headless manikins displays its wares—a frilly, red child’s dress, a conservative, pastel mauve business skirt, a suit and tie, sin man and a mistress’s slung scarf before leading into a hanging briefcase. A woman at the table across from us talks eloquently with her hands. I wonder what she’s saying . . . distracted by a round behind on a short Latino woman, just entered wearing painted on tights. I can see why people sit so long in these places, safe to carry on about nothing in particular or dream undisturbed with the incessant rant music clearly trying to say something important and failing miserably. The round behind leaves with cup in hand, body in an S shape that displays her breasts through the sport T, blonded hair, pursed lips. 

Wow! Another baby, two, one in arms, one in cart, one in, one out. I guess this is mommies’ outing destination. Short man, hat and backpack, shades and vigilant manner, plops his burden in the soft chair next to the undisturbed snoozer. I wonder if he will be able to tolerate the loneliness he may find by sitting there. Old news or maybe today’s, still old, sits atop the garbage bin. The backpack guy arranges his things, clearly aware of the old man, even interested, perhaps wondering. It is enough to cause the old man to rise and hobble out lest someone engage him, touch him. 

The backpack guy’s eyes follow him out the door and he returns to arranging his books and such, offering a smile not received or acknowledged. There is sadness enough at home to attend to now he’s been ousted. People, so many paths, move everywhere—another backpack, younger, loping—some in a rush, some with nowhere to go, both old and young, living lives they have agreed to even if they’ve forgotten when or how, but all, every one of them, going somewhere else. I stepped out for a smoke and saw it myself and the air felt warm, felt safe, no threat in this easy neighborhood hawking its wares to the unwary. Different gaits, different fates.

 Daniel Joseph Cryns