Michael Gravel Edmonton Writer

That Guy

Damn thing about sitting in a cafe with liquid coffins and ink fingers is the interruption. If it ain’t the popshit on the stereo then it’s the cracker head at the next table. Looking around the joint – dead. Plenty of empty chairs. A guy should be able to sit in peace and chill the fuck out. The barristas await the formation of a queue but none is forthcoming. The paper cups are rattling and the milk is low. Speaking of dairy, I love half and half in an Americano. Is that wrong? Why do I know what an Americano is? Did they exist 20 years ago (in this city)? What about iced coffee? I don’t remember iced coffee from the old days. Happy Pop yes, but not “Frappuccinos”. In this joint, every time I tee up a tasty black inspired drink I dump at least 5 bucks including tip. I once paid eight bucks for an extra hot latte with all the trimmings. I should have got a pat on the back for that one, and I should’ve ended up in emerg with a caffeine overdose. Avoided. Empty chairs. Quiet.

I can’t remember the last time I sat in here with no distraction. Maybe I never did. There was that one morning, no music, wet rags on the counter, shotgun dead and nobody in sight. My cup made a little ring on the table and I spilled a bit on my leg. The girl at the far table took her glasses off and rubbed her face in pain. At least it looked like pain, could’ve been boredom or confusion. Giving up nothing, I unsleeved my pen and took it to task, rattled off three pages in the notebook. If I had half the jam I’d do it again, tonight, but those days are rare. You gotta pinch them while you can or they’re dust.

I know the place well only because I visit. I see the same fucker every time. Laptop cracked and a tall something in his hand. Poor bastard seems to live here and I don’t blame him, nice digs and all. I used to see him in the morning – long hair dayblitz tuzzle, lozenge cherry smoke – glowing big on the corner of 105th. He’s cut his hair now but he still wears the dilapidated suit jacket and simmering forehead. He’s a fixture character in the minute drama of this place, a guy about whom few know and fewer care. I’ve seen him fall on his ass twice and take a swing at a cycle cop once. About a year ago I tried to talk to him but he crossed the street before I could get a second word on the table. Now he sits with a blue screen on his face, surfing the whatever. Man, what is your story? I’ll buy you a double shot for a tidbit, a salacious crumb from your life. No ask and no bite.

More than once, that guy has made my day simply by existing and walking the street.

Entry #85 · May 12, 2008 in