Mid-morning sunlight poured into Joseph's living room. After a long winter, Joseph and Garret, sitting around sipping hot coffee, welcomed the mild spring weather – a cloudless, breezy Philadelphia day. They sat back and stared out the windows at blue sky.
"I figured out my next career move," said Garret.
"Just now?"
"Yeah. Just now. Sitting here drinking coffee on this fine morning."
"I suppose I'm supposed to ask what you're going to do."
"Up to you."
Joseph sighed, feeling obliged to humor his friend. "Okay, what is it?"
"I'm going to open an office."
Joseph waited for details. Minutes passed before he asked "What kind of office?"
"A small one – basic. Reception area and a separate room for me. Modestly sized desk—"
"Gotcha, yeah, but I meant what kind of services will you provide? You're not a doctor or a lawyer or a professional of any kind, last I checked."
Garret shot Joseph a disapproving look. "Who says only doctors and lawyers and professionals can have their own offices? I wanna help people, Joe. I'll be there for our community. I think I'll be happier than I would've been if Fishtown Mews had come together as it should've."
"Okay man, that's noble and all, but how are you qualified to help people? What will you do for them?"
"It's simple. People will find me when they have no place else to go. They'll come to me with their situations, whatever those situations may be, and I'll advise them, do field work, help them solve their problems."
"Field work?"
"Yeah. You know, research. Like in those p.i. books when people bring their cases to the dick and he goes out there and sees what's up. It starts with one person, the client, and then once I get out there to do the seeing of what's up, I put myself in the right place at the right time and other people start coming out of the woodwork to reveal whatever pertinent information they can offer. I connect some dots, drink whiskey, and everyone wins."
"So you'll be a p.i., that's what you're saying."
"No. I won't actually be a p.i. – that was just an analogy to help you understand. I'll be more of a floater looking for the right set of circumstances. I'm sure it'll be slow going in the beginning but once I help those first few clients, word will get out."
Joseph shrugged, tiring of the conversation.
"You see, Joe," Garret continued, "it's not about a product or service – that's small minded thinking. It's not about a fancy title. It's about people helping people, and hopefully more people doing good things for the world than bad…."
Garret rambled on, but Joseph tuned him out, closed his eyes. He thought of how he might spend the rest of his day off from work, perhaps a walk to Palmer Park to sit around there for a while in the beautiful weather, rather than just sitting around his apartment.
Showing posts with label coffee. Show all posts
Showing posts with label coffee. Show all posts
Just a Cup of Coffee
The dogs in the painting hanging from the north wall of Joseph's apartment looked down on Garret and Joseph. The sun shone through the apartment's front windows as the hands of Joseph's grandfather's old clock struck Ten.
"What's going on today?" asked Garret.
Joseph lay on a beaten up, very comfy leather loveseat. "Let's go to a diner."
"Now?"
"Yeah."
"Aramingo?"
"Nah."
"Acropolis?"
"It closed."
"Oh yeah, I forgot. Bummer."
"Huge bummer."
"Hmm. Spring Garden Restaurant?"
"I was just there."
"Mugshot?"
"The coffee shop?"
"No, the diner on York."
"Haven't been yet."
"Let's check it out."
Joseph shook his head. "I don't feel like trying a new place."
"We could bike to South Philly. Oregon, Broad, Melrose, Penrose…."
"Penrose? You crazy? I love it, but dude we're in Fishtown. You realize how far that is?"
Garret threw his hands into the air. "Okay, I give up. Pick one or let's just hang here."
"Let's go to Aramingo."
"Dude, that's the first one I said."
Fifteen minutes later, a white haired waitress stood before them in a shirt a little too tight and a little too low cut. The decade could've been any of the last six – nobody there would know the difference.
"Eggs over easy, bacon, potatoes, white toast, small stack on the side. Coffee, small orange juice, water please."
The waitress seemed to absorb Garret's order. She looked at Joseph.
"Coffee, black."
"That's it?" asked the waitress.
"Yeah, Joe, that's it?" Garret prodded, surprised.
"Yes please."
The waitress traipsed away from their table and checked in on another.
"Whadja wanna come to a diner for if all you want is coffee? We coulda made coffee at your apartment."
"Dunno. I just wanted to get out."
The walls around them listened on as they spoke of nothing important. The world and all of its problems, those of the '50s and the aughts and those of today, were far away and almost unreal. People in booths and at tables around them touched their forks to plates of scrapple and chipped beef and waffles and looked at each other and talked about family and friends and their dreams.
Garret and Joseph finished up and rode back to Joseph's apartment and didn't do much for the rest of the day. They weren't hungover or jaded or depressed, but content to just be. Joseph looked for a while at the painting of dogs on his wall. He'd never noticed a faint smile on the face of a sitting beagle.
"What's going on today?" asked Garret.
Joseph lay on a beaten up, very comfy leather loveseat. "Let's go to a diner."
"Now?"
"Yeah."
"Aramingo?"
"Nah."
"Acropolis?"
"It closed."
"Oh yeah, I forgot. Bummer."
"Huge bummer."
"Hmm. Spring Garden Restaurant?"
"I was just there."
"Mugshot?"
"The coffee shop?"
"No, the diner on York."
"Haven't been yet."
"Let's check it out."
Joseph shook his head. "I don't feel like trying a new place."
"We could bike to South Philly. Oregon, Broad, Melrose, Penrose…."
"Penrose? You crazy? I love it, but dude we're in Fishtown. You realize how far that is?"
Garret threw his hands into the air. "Okay, I give up. Pick one or let's just hang here."
"Let's go to Aramingo."
"Dude, that's the first one I said."
Fifteen minutes later, a white haired waitress stood before them in a shirt a little too tight and a little too low cut. The decade could've been any of the last six – nobody there would know the difference.
"Eggs over easy, bacon, potatoes, white toast, small stack on the side. Coffee, small orange juice, water please."
The waitress seemed to absorb Garret's order. She looked at Joseph.
"Coffee, black."
"That's it?" asked the waitress.
"Yeah, Joe, that's it?" Garret prodded, surprised.
"Yes please."
The waitress traipsed away from their table and checked in on another.
"Whadja wanna come to a diner for if all you want is coffee? We coulda made coffee at your apartment."
"Dunno. I just wanted to get out."
The walls around them listened on as they spoke of nothing important. The world and all of its problems, those of the '50s and the aughts and those of today, were far away and almost unreal. People in booths and at tables around them touched their forks to plates of scrapple and chipped beef and waffles and looked at each other and talked about family and friends and their dreams.
Garret and Joseph finished up and rode back to Joseph's apartment and didn't do much for the rest of the day. They weren't hungover or jaded or depressed, but content to just be. Joseph looked for a while at the painting of dogs on his wall. He'd never noticed a faint smile on the face of a sitting beagle.
Sweet Revenge
"Is Dan there?"
Don't people say 'hello' anymore, thought Dan. "Who's asking?"
"Name's Johnson. Is Dan there?"
"What's this in reference to?"
"I have an important matter to discuss with him. There's money involved. I'd rather not discuss it over the phone, so I'd like to arrange a meeting."
"I don't know anyone named Johnson. Well, that's not true, but you're not that Johnson."
"So is this Dan?"
"Where would you like to meet?"
"You choose."
"Aramingo Diner. Tomorrow morning, eight o'clock?"
"8:00 am sharp. See you there."
The next morning rolled around and Dan was more suspicious than curious. Something he didn't like in Johnson's voice, something seductive, made him wonder if he should even show up. But Dan didn't have a lot going on lately. He'd never met this Johnson, but somehow he knew just where to sit when he saw a grey haired man alone in a booth.
"Coffee, black," he told the expectant waitress.
"Daniel, it's nice to meet you."
"What can I do for you, Mr. Johnson?"
"Please, just Johnson."
Dan nodded and took a sip of his coffee, which the waitress had delivered within moments of his order.
"Until recently, you were employed at LDS Products, is that correct?" asked Johnson.
"Yes."
"And from what I understand, your departure from LDS wasn't made under the best of circumstances?"
"Being fired usually isn't."
"I didn't want to put it so harshly, Dan, but no, it usually isn't."
"So what do you want with LDS, or with me?"
"I'm sure you're aware that one of LDS' largest accounts is a certain retail chain with a presence in thirty seven states?"
"Of course I am."
"We have it on good authority that a top man at LDS has been bribing a top man at that retail chain for many, many years. Were you aware of this too?"
"No," Dan lied, "but it doesn't surprise me."
"I'll cut to the chase. We want you to blow the whistle on LDS."
Dan took a long, deliberate sip of his coffee.
"Why would you want me to do something like that, Johnson?"
"Fair question. Without going into specifics, I represent a firm that can offer a nearly identical product range to this retailer. When you blow the whistle on your former employer, they'll lose the account, and the company I represent expects to step in and take it."
"If you have the goods on LDS, why not blow the whistle yourselves?"
"Another fair question, but one you could surely answer on your own if you gave it some thought. One reason is that if the information leak were tied to the company I represent, this could hurt if not ruin their chances of winning the account in the aftermath of the scandal. Nobody likes to give business to people who cause trouble, and the leak could raise questions my clients don't want to answer. Another reason is that it'll all sound better if it comes from a former LDS employee, and you're in a unique position to be that man."
"So I do the dirty work, and your clients ride in to save the day."
"Precisely."
"I could easily guess the name of the company you represent."
"Maybe, but don't bother because I won't confirm it. And why should it matter to you anyway?"
"You're right, it doesn't matter to me. What does matter to me is what you're offering."
Johnson smiled and removed a pen from the pocket inside his suit jacket. He wrote down a number with four zeroes on a beverage napkin and slid it across the table top.
Dan looked down at the napkin and then back up at Johnson. "I know how large that account could be for your clients. I think the number you wrote down is missing a zero."
"Check, please," Johnson told the approaching waitress. He waited for her to walk away. "Dan, we're talking about cash. The amount we've offered is significant. Give it some thought."
"I've given it enough thought already. Add a zero or find another ex-LDS man to sink their ship."
Johnson smiled again as the waitress brought their tab. He removed a few bills from his wallet and stood to leave and extended a hand toward Dan. They shook.
"I'll speak with my client and get back in touch with you. Good day to you, sir."
Dan sat and finished his coffee. He had no doubt that Johnson would meet his demand, a pittance compared to the profits his clients would make if their plan were to work. "Waitress," he said, "I'll take some eggs and scrapple and white toast. And more coffee." He added, to himself, "I'm celebrating sweet revenge."
Don't people say 'hello' anymore, thought Dan. "Who's asking?"
"Name's Johnson. Is Dan there?"
"What's this in reference to?"
"I have an important matter to discuss with him. There's money involved. I'd rather not discuss it over the phone, so I'd like to arrange a meeting."
"I don't know anyone named Johnson. Well, that's not true, but you're not that Johnson."
"So is this Dan?"
"Where would you like to meet?"
"You choose."
"Aramingo Diner. Tomorrow morning, eight o'clock?"
"8:00 am sharp. See you there."
The next morning rolled around and Dan was more suspicious than curious. Something he didn't like in Johnson's voice, something seductive, made him wonder if he should even show up. But Dan didn't have a lot going on lately. He'd never met this Johnson, but somehow he knew just where to sit when he saw a grey haired man alone in a booth.
"Coffee, black," he told the expectant waitress.
"Daniel, it's nice to meet you."
"What can I do for you, Mr. Johnson?"
"Please, just Johnson."
Dan nodded and took a sip of his coffee, which the waitress had delivered within moments of his order.
"Until recently, you were employed at LDS Products, is that correct?" asked Johnson.
"Yes."
"And from what I understand, your departure from LDS wasn't made under the best of circumstances?"
"Being fired usually isn't."
"I didn't want to put it so harshly, Dan, but no, it usually isn't."
"So what do you want with LDS, or with me?"
"I'm sure you're aware that one of LDS' largest accounts is a certain retail chain with a presence in thirty seven states?"
"Of course I am."
"We have it on good authority that a top man at LDS has been bribing a top man at that retail chain for many, many years. Were you aware of this too?"
"No," Dan lied, "but it doesn't surprise me."
"I'll cut to the chase. We want you to blow the whistle on LDS."
Dan took a long, deliberate sip of his coffee.
"Why would you want me to do something like that, Johnson?"
"Fair question. Without going into specifics, I represent a firm that can offer a nearly identical product range to this retailer. When you blow the whistle on your former employer, they'll lose the account, and the company I represent expects to step in and take it."
"If you have the goods on LDS, why not blow the whistle yourselves?"
"Another fair question, but one you could surely answer on your own if you gave it some thought. One reason is that if the information leak were tied to the company I represent, this could hurt if not ruin their chances of winning the account in the aftermath of the scandal. Nobody likes to give business to people who cause trouble, and the leak could raise questions my clients don't want to answer. Another reason is that it'll all sound better if it comes from a former LDS employee, and you're in a unique position to be that man."
"So I do the dirty work, and your clients ride in to save the day."
"Precisely."
"I could easily guess the name of the company you represent."
"Maybe, but don't bother because I won't confirm it. And why should it matter to you anyway?"
"You're right, it doesn't matter to me. What does matter to me is what you're offering."
Johnson smiled and removed a pen from the pocket inside his suit jacket. He wrote down a number with four zeroes on a beverage napkin and slid it across the table top.
Dan looked down at the napkin and then back up at Johnson. "I know how large that account could be for your clients. I think the number you wrote down is missing a zero."
"Check, please," Johnson told the approaching waitress. He waited for her to walk away. "Dan, we're talking about cash. The amount we've offered is significant. Give it some thought."
"I've given it enough thought already. Add a zero or find another ex-LDS man to sink their ship."
Johnson smiled again as the waitress brought their tab. He removed a few bills from his wallet and stood to leave and extended a hand toward Dan. They shook.
"I'll speak with my client and get back in touch with you. Good day to you, sir."
Dan sat and finished his coffee. He had no doubt that Johnson would meet his demand, a pittance compared to the profits his clients would make if their plan were to work. "Waitress," he said, "I'll take some eggs and scrapple and white toast. And more coffee." He added, to himself, "I'm celebrating sweet revenge."
The Coffee Shop
At times he turned to the bottle, but the bottle wasn't always a friend. He was good at lots of things, but not the things he really wanted to do. A battle between 'hell is other people' and a deep, maddening loneliness drove him to wild thoughts, and often to drink. He wanted a wife, but where could he meet one? He usually had a job, but couldn't always keep one. He valued good results at anything he did, but his work never felt important, always meaningless somehow.
Wintertime was more difficult than the rest of the year. Shorter, grey days. Snowfall. But he spent more time at the coffee shop in the winter months and that's where he met her.
She just wanted to get out of the house for a bit that day, otherwise she would've made her own coffee. She saw him reading with such a serious face and it made her smile and ask if he were in pain. She wanted to know why he read books that made him cringe and look so depressed, and he became defensive until he realized how ridiculous he sounded and they both started to laugh. She'd just moved to the neighborhood and was killing time before her roommate came home and his shyness made her curious. She loved her family and her career and had a positive attitude about everything.
They dated casually and then became more serious. One night she saw his ugly side, his black-out-drunken side, and she told him he'd have to stop doing that or there'd be no way she could date him, no chance of him meeting her family. He gave up the bottle for her and they lived long lives and they went to their coffee shop often, even though they could make their own coffee at home.
Wintertime was more difficult than the rest of the year. Shorter, grey days. Snowfall. But he spent more time at the coffee shop in the winter months and that's where he met her.
She just wanted to get out of the house for a bit that day, otherwise she would've made her own coffee. She saw him reading with such a serious face and it made her smile and ask if he were in pain. She wanted to know why he read books that made him cringe and look so depressed, and he became defensive until he realized how ridiculous he sounded and they both started to laugh. She'd just moved to the neighborhood and was killing time before her roommate came home and his shyness made her curious. She loved her family and her career and had a positive attitude about everything.
They dated casually and then became more serious. One night she saw his ugly side, his black-out-drunken side, and she told him he'd have to stop doing that or there'd be no way she could date him, no chance of him meeting her family. He gave up the bottle for her and they lived long lives and they went to their coffee shop often, even though they could make their own coffee at home.
The Neighborhood Association
Fifteen local residents, serving as the neighborhood association's board of directors, sat on brown metal folding chairs on the basketball court of a community recreation center, poised with the task of approving 2014's calendar of events. Eleven of them made carefree small talk, chatting about friends and family, occasionally trying to engage the other four people, whose statements were typically curt and disinterested. The meeting began on time.
"Alright folks, we're all busy, so let's get started and just get through this. Only one change from last year's events schedule, so not a lot to discuss. Did everyone review the calendar I emailed out this week?"
"Mr. Chairman, sir."
"Yes, John?"
"Before we vote on 2014, a few of us would like to reexamine the flat rate."
The Chairman rolled his eyes. The new, annual, flat membership rate for the community center had been heavily debated and finally approved at their last meeting. He shook his head. "No, John. Sorry, but we've been through that and it's done. We're here tonight for one reason only, and that's to finalize this year's events calendar."
"Well, I'm afraid we can't do that. We," he held out his hand and motioned toward three friends in attendance, "don't wanna vote on anything without either repealing that new policy altogether, or at least adding some new stipulations. For example-"
"John I said no to you already," the Chairman interrupted, "that's old business and it's done and it's not why we're here. We can't go backwards. Let's just stick to tonight's agenda." The Chairman's ten supporters spoke up in agreement, and the room's volume rose momentarily.
"Well if that's how you feel, then fine, but I can tell you that the four of us are all going to abstain, and you won't get the eighty percent minimum mandate to approve the calendar."
The Chairman frowned. The others looked at him, confused, and wondered what exactly John meant. "What's he talking about?" asked Bob.
"Come on, John, you can't be serious. Ha, good one! You wouldn't actually hold our community calendar hostage because you don't like our new membership fee structure, would you? Especially now that we've already notified everyone of the new system and sent out 2014 dues collection forms?"
"Not a joke, Mr. Chairman. We're serious. Reopen the dues discussion or no calendar approval. The rec center will be shut down indefinitely."
"But John, families rely on this place for after school care, music and art classes, youth sports, Saturday evening socials, fundraisers, heck we already have two weddings tentatively scheduled for next year! Would you really shut all of that down just because you didn't win your fight against flat rate open enrollment?"
"Sure we would. The four of us are members of this community and members of this board just like you, and we don't want everyone having access to every event in this place like we're some kind of soup kitchen."
The Chairman felt his anger rising and thought of Master Yoda, trying unsuccessfully to calm himself. "You elitist bastard. I don't know how you and your cronies ever got on this board to begin with. All you do is sit around at your high priced coffee shop and play your big money card games all day, you sons of bitches-"
"Mr. Chairman, please," said Bob, "that's unproductive. Let's try to figure this out."
John was all smiles at this point, pleased to have rattled the board leader's nerves.
The Chairman took a deep breath. "You know what, I don't see us getting anywhere tonight. Let's table this vote and have a meeting same time next week. Between now and then, I hope at least one of you will change your mind and come off this silliness. It's not silly, in fact, it's mean-spirited."
"Fine, Mr. Chairman, have it your way. But don't expect anything different to happen next week." John and his three coffee shop buddies left the room all at once, leaving the Chairman, Bob, and the others still seated and somewhat shocked.
"Can he really do this, Alvin?" one of the others asked the Chairman.
"Our bylaws state we need 80% board approval for the annual calendar, but this vote's always just been a formality. It's never been an issue. A motion to amend the bylaws would open a big can of worms. Between now and next week, let's just see if we can get one of them to come over to our side. Joey, you're friendly with Alan's partner in that new restaurant, right?" Alan was one of the three board members on John's side. "See if you can put on some pressure through your friend – if we get Alan's vote, that's all we need."
They sat around a while longer and cursed the coffee shop gang, plotted other ways to exert some influence, then went home to their families and told their wives all about the evening's drama. Within a few days, the entire neighborhood would know that the community center might close down for a year. Most adults pointed fingers, while most kids just tried to understand why their parents couldn't get it right.
"Alright folks, we're all busy, so let's get started and just get through this. Only one change from last year's events schedule, so not a lot to discuss. Did everyone review the calendar I emailed out this week?"
"Mr. Chairman, sir."
"Yes, John?"
"Before we vote on 2014, a few of us would like to reexamine the flat rate."
The Chairman rolled his eyes. The new, annual, flat membership rate for the community center had been heavily debated and finally approved at their last meeting. He shook his head. "No, John. Sorry, but we've been through that and it's done. We're here tonight for one reason only, and that's to finalize this year's events calendar."
"Well, I'm afraid we can't do that. We," he held out his hand and motioned toward three friends in attendance, "don't wanna vote on anything without either repealing that new policy altogether, or at least adding some new stipulations. For example-"
"John I said no to you already," the Chairman interrupted, "that's old business and it's done and it's not why we're here. We can't go backwards. Let's just stick to tonight's agenda." The Chairman's ten supporters spoke up in agreement, and the room's volume rose momentarily.
"Well if that's how you feel, then fine, but I can tell you that the four of us are all going to abstain, and you won't get the eighty percent minimum mandate to approve the calendar."
The Chairman frowned. The others looked at him, confused, and wondered what exactly John meant. "What's he talking about?" asked Bob.
"Come on, John, you can't be serious. Ha, good one! You wouldn't actually hold our community calendar hostage because you don't like our new membership fee structure, would you? Especially now that we've already notified everyone of the new system and sent out 2014 dues collection forms?"
"Not a joke, Mr. Chairman. We're serious. Reopen the dues discussion or no calendar approval. The rec center will be shut down indefinitely."
"But John, families rely on this place for after school care, music and art classes, youth sports, Saturday evening socials, fundraisers, heck we already have two weddings tentatively scheduled for next year! Would you really shut all of that down just because you didn't win your fight against flat rate open enrollment?"
"Sure we would. The four of us are members of this community and members of this board just like you, and we don't want everyone having access to every event in this place like we're some kind of soup kitchen."
The Chairman felt his anger rising and thought of Master Yoda, trying unsuccessfully to calm himself. "You elitist bastard. I don't know how you and your cronies ever got on this board to begin with. All you do is sit around at your high priced coffee shop and play your big money card games all day, you sons of bitches-"
"Mr. Chairman, please," said Bob, "that's unproductive. Let's try to figure this out."
John was all smiles at this point, pleased to have rattled the board leader's nerves.
The Chairman took a deep breath. "You know what, I don't see us getting anywhere tonight. Let's table this vote and have a meeting same time next week. Between now and then, I hope at least one of you will change your mind and come off this silliness. It's not silly, in fact, it's mean-spirited."
"Fine, Mr. Chairman, have it your way. But don't expect anything different to happen next week." John and his three coffee shop buddies left the room all at once, leaving the Chairman, Bob, and the others still seated and somewhat shocked.
"Can he really do this, Alvin?" one of the others asked the Chairman.
"Our bylaws state we need 80% board approval for the annual calendar, but this vote's always just been a formality. It's never been an issue. A motion to amend the bylaws would open a big can of worms. Between now and next week, let's just see if we can get one of them to come over to our side. Joey, you're friendly with Alan's partner in that new restaurant, right?" Alan was one of the three board members on John's side. "See if you can put on some pressure through your friend – if we get Alan's vote, that's all we need."
They sat around a while longer and cursed the coffee shop gang, plotted other ways to exert some influence, then went home to their families and told their wives all about the evening's drama. Within a few days, the entire neighborhood would know that the community center might close down for a year. Most adults pointed fingers, while most kids just tried to understand why their parents couldn't get it right.
Introductions
He sits and the clock ticks. He wants them to see him. He sees them all the time: at Higher Grounds, at Liberty Lands, at the Piazza. Here they are at 700 and he doesn't want much, just small talk.
He's employed various tactics already. At Higher Grounds he once spilled coffee at their feet. At Liberty Lands he tossed a Frisbee that landed right beside them. At the Piazza he did tricks on his skateboard, brushing past them. Never the most direct approach, though, a simple introduction. It made sense to him logically and yet felt like it would be weird.
Today, at 700, he eavesdrops. Their conversations sound so interesting, so appealing! Their dialogue so crisp. Even the pauses – he stares at them during the pauses – they look so happy during the pauses. How can people be so content during pauses in conversation? Is it because they're drunk? They drink it all down so smoothly – beer, wine, whiskey – the bartender keeps pouring and they just keep drinking. One speaks more than the other.
"Missanelli's right, you can't play a guy over Ryan Howard just because he hit well in Double A and Howard doesn't hit lefties."
The other guy shakes his head. "Can't do that to a veteran. Bad for clubhouse morale. . . ."
"She looks innocent but I can tell you she's not. I can assure you. . . ."
"We saw the Pixies that year, right after Bush's second term began. Where were we? Cleveland. Yes, Cleveland. . . ."
He hears these snippets and knows they could all be the best of friends. He's a Phillies fan, he's heterosexual, he likes the Pixies. He's even been to Cleveland.
He knows what he's going to do. It has to work! When the really chatty one is mid-sentence, he'll time it just right.
"So tomorrow night it's the Nationals. We still have an outside chance if—"
"Oh, excuse me," he says as he pretends to trip over himself, knocking into one of the two young men, the one called Garret.
Garret brushes himself off, repositioning his chair. "No problem, dude."
Garret and Joseph stare at the guy who just bumped into Garret, waiting for him to go on wherever he was going before he slipped and bumped into Garret, but the guy just stands there, staring.
"Fine day for a beverage, is it not?" he asks them, instantly regretting his choice of words.
But Garret and Joseph look at each other and then back at him, raise their glasses. Garret says, "Indeed it is! A fine day for a beverage."
His eyes light up. He's satisfied, then elated. "Good day, gentlemen." He turns and leaves the bar, goes about his day, feeling he's one step closer to his destiny, that of being their friend.
He's employed various tactics already. At Higher Grounds he once spilled coffee at their feet. At Liberty Lands he tossed a Frisbee that landed right beside them. At the Piazza he did tricks on his skateboard, brushing past them. Never the most direct approach, though, a simple introduction. It made sense to him logically and yet felt like it would be weird.
Today, at 700, he eavesdrops. Their conversations sound so interesting, so appealing! Their dialogue so crisp. Even the pauses – he stares at them during the pauses – they look so happy during the pauses. How can people be so content during pauses in conversation? Is it because they're drunk? They drink it all down so smoothly – beer, wine, whiskey – the bartender keeps pouring and they just keep drinking. One speaks more than the other.
"Missanelli's right, you can't play a guy over Ryan Howard just because he hit well in Double A and Howard doesn't hit lefties."
The other guy shakes his head. "Can't do that to a veteran. Bad for clubhouse morale. . . ."
"She looks innocent but I can tell you she's not. I can assure you. . . ."
"We saw the Pixies that year, right after Bush's second term began. Where were we? Cleveland. Yes, Cleveland. . . ."
He hears these snippets and knows they could all be the best of friends. He's a Phillies fan, he's heterosexual, he likes the Pixies. He's even been to Cleveland.
He knows what he's going to do. It has to work! When the really chatty one is mid-sentence, he'll time it just right.
"So tomorrow night it's the Nationals. We still have an outside chance if—"
"Oh, excuse me," he says as he pretends to trip over himself, knocking into one of the two young men, the one called Garret.
Garret brushes himself off, repositioning his chair. "No problem, dude."
Garret and Joseph stare at the guy who just bumped into Garret, waiting for him to go on wherever he was going before he slipped and bumped into Garret, but the guy just stands there, staring.
"Fine day for a beverage, is it not?" he asks them, instantly regretting his choice of words.
But Garret and Joseph look at each other and then back at him, raise their glasses. Garret says, "Indeed it is! A fine day for a beverage."
His eyes light up. He's satisfied, then elated. "Good day, gentlemen." He turns and leaves the bar, goes about his day, feeling he's one step closer to his destiny, that of being their friend.
Drew's Drive
Drew turns left onto 8th Street off Callowhill and sees the line of cars backing up the entrance to 676 West. He takes a deep breath and holds it for about four seconds before he exhales. Another morning drive from the city to Valley Forge.
He thinks of today’s schedule as his black Ford Fusion passes the Broad Street exit. Meetings to attend, phone calls to make, countless emails from people who expect prompt responses.
A dark green Jeep Cherokee comes to an abrupt halt in front of Drew and he taps the brakes just as he sips his coffee and some of the coffee spills onto his khaki pants. “Shit,” he says out loud to nobody. He tries to wipe away the coffee with his hand, but only makes the stain bigger.
Suddenly Drew’s thoughts cease and he feels trapped, like his life is a record being played over and over again and he doesn’t much like the song.
He turns the radio to 88.5 and hears a few guitar strokes before familiar lyrics at a different tempo from a voice he doesn’t recognize. It’s Outkast’s 'Hey Ya,' an acoustic version. The original was hot while he was a student without a care in the world, and though this cover slows the pace, it transports him to a time when he was free, each day unfolding on a whim.
The song ends and for a moment he’s thankful for his life, his family, his and their health. Forty five minutes later he arrives at his office and goes through the motions, gets through the day with a stain on his pants and a tune stuck in his head.
(Listen to Obadiah Parker's acoustic cover of Outkast's 'Hey Ya' here)
He thinks of today’s schedule as his black Ford Fusion passes the Broad Street exit. Meetings to attend, phone calls to make, countless emails from people who expect prompt responses.
A dark green Jeep Cherokee comes to an abrupt halt in front of Drew and he taps the brakes just as he sips his coffee and some of the coffee spills onto his khaki pants. “Shit,” he says out loud to nobody. He tries to wipe away the coffee with his hand, but only makes the stain bigger.
Suddenly Drew’s thoughts cease and he feels trapped, like his life is a record being played over and over again and he doesn’t much like the song.
He turns the radio to 88.5 and hears a few guitar strokes before familiar lyrics at a different tempo from a voice he doesn’t recognize. It’s Outkast’s 'Hey Ya,' an acoustic version. The original was hot while he was a student without a care in the world, and though this cover slows the pace, it transports him to a time when he was free, each day unfolding on a whim.
The song ends and for a moment he’s thankful for his life, his family, his and their health. Forty five minutes later he arrives at his office and goes through the motions, gets through the day with a stain on his pants and a tune stuck in his head.
(Listen to Obadiah Parker's acoustic cover of Outkast's 'Hey Ya' here)
Robert Drifts
Robert opens the backdoor and lets Bubba out. The grassy backyard is extraordinarily large for a city row home. Aged wooden fence enclosing him, Bubba can run around to his heart’s content.
As is his Saturday morning ritual, Robert ascends the rear stairs with his freshly poured cup of coffee. He breathes heavily when he reaches the third floor and thinks of younger years when scaling the Art Museum steps would’ve felt like less work. Easing into his most comfortable chair, purchased twenty years ago when he was a ripe twenty five year old rebel, he places the coffee mug on a table to his right and lights a cigarette. The chair faces out the bay window protruding from the third floor’s back room, his study, and he sees a landscape his wife wouldn’t recognize.
For the best, he supposes, to replace abandoned buildings and old, empty warehouses, relics from an industrial economy long since displaced from Philadelphia to China and wherever else. He sees the many young folks starting their Saturdays and imagines himself in their shoes, new to the neighborhood, not a care in the world, meeting his wife for the first time at Ortlieb’s on a Tuesday night.
Closing his eyes, drifting, Robert strolls with her down 2nd Street, drives while she adjusts the radio, stands beside her in their garden. . . .
Bubba barks loudly, startling his owner. Robert re-lights the cigarette and walks downstairs to join the chocolate lab. He lets Bubba lick remnants of coffee from his mug as he stares off into uninterrupted blue sky, trying hard to feel something other than sadness.
As is his Saturday morning ritual, Robert ascends the rear stairs with his freshly poured cup of coffee. He breathes heavily when he reaches the third floor and thinks of younger years when scaling the Art Museum steps would’ve felt like less work. Easing into his most comfortable chair, purchased twenty years ago when he was a ripe twenty five year old rebel, he places the coffee mug on a table to his right and lights a cigarette. The chair faces out the bay window protruding from the third floor’s back room, his study, and he sees a landscape his wife wouldn’t recognize.
For the best, he supposes, to replace abandoned buildings and old, empty warehouses, relics from an industrial economy long since displaced from Philadelphia to China and wherever else. He sees the many young folks starting their Saturdays and imagines himself in their shoes, new to the neighborhood, not a care in the world, meeting his wife for the first time at Ortlieb’s on a Tuesday night.
Closing his eyes, drifting, Robert strolls with her down 2nd Street, drives while she adjusts the radio, stands beside her in their garden. . . .
Bubba barks loudly, startling his owner. Robert re-lights the cigarette and walks downstairs to join the chocolate lab. He lets Bubba lick remnants of coffee from his mug as he stares off into uninterrupted blue sky, trying hard to feel something other than sadness.
Missing Stephen (on Bibliophilic Blather)
(Karen Wojcik Berner has been so kind as to post this story on her lovely blog, Bibliophilic Blather. You can find it by clicking here.)
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