June
4, 2018
Greetings from
the tableau,
On my table was
a cup of coffee, my closed laptop, my hat.
My hands. It is the only claim I
had staked to the real estate, but generally it is a widely accepted social
flag that this is my space.
She totally
missed that cue. She sat down and put a
huge purse on the table between us.
There were other tables but she sat with me. There was no exchange, nothing
to take the awkwardness out of it. Well,
I suppose only one of us felt awkward.
The Starbucks
was two blocks from my hotel. I knew it
opened at 5 am and I was there when they unlocked the door. It is on a side street of Boston’s theater
district, at the moment hidden from view by some construction on the building
next door. But I knew where it was.
It was just
dark enough on the narrow street that it should have given me pause, but I have
a foolish naivete about some circumstances.
As I walked past the shrouded scaffolding, knowing I’d find the coffee
shop on the other side, I nearly bumped into three men standing behind it
smoking. All of us were startled.
I sipped my
coffee and watched the people walk in. The
door swung again and again the tables along the windows began to fill. I could see our reflection in the glass, our
twin world slowly turning the dark into color.
It became obvious
they came here each morning. A cluster
of women, some carrying purses, or paper shopping bags, tucking them around their
legs as they nested among the tables in the corner and along the front of the
shop. They knew each other. I looked at the over the rim of my cup and
tried to imagine what was happening here.
Not office workers
getting an early start. Not waitresses
on their way to work. Not mothers out to
get a 5:15 cappuccino at a hard to find coffee shop on a bleak street in Boston.
Sprinkled in
with the first customers were the street people who had just been smoking outside
and a few other stragglers. They fumbled
with their coins and wadded bills at the counter and sat down with their coffee,
stuffing their belongings at their feet.
Some still wore the blankets they slept in. They were not at Starbucks for the Italian
Roast, but because it was open and it was dry.
I watched the
group of women, some with coffee, others pawing through their bags, taking out
wrapped food, or papers, all of them talking in quiet conversations. And then I knew what I hadn’t absorbed at first. The women were all men.
A few more
filtered in and joined the group, men in wigs and loose floral dresses. Heavy makeup.
Some were very adept at the application, others clearly not so. I could not hear all of what they said, but I
could tell they were relating things that had happened during the night. They passed papers to each other, I could
hear them making plans.
The restroom
is for customers only. Once one of them
bought coffee and got the code for the door, then they all had the code for the
door.
Other
customers swept in, ordered, rushed out.
The usual morning rush, people grabbing a fast coffee, people with
phones and papers and briefcases and credit cards and fitted suits and a place
to go next. They would not see the
others at the tables.
I thought
about this moment and realized how often I have repeated it. Up early in a strange city, out running, or
searching for coffee, and I find myself at home with those who have no home.
A man in the
other corner shouted something, no one looked, not even the baristas behind the
counter. He wore several layers of
clothing and a tattered knit hat. He
held his cup of coffee with both hands when he raised it to his mouth, still
muttering. Same guy from Atlanta and
Phoenix and Salt Lake and LA and New Orleans; just a different coffee shop, a
different wet street that smelled a little bad.
Just a different doorway to sleep in, another steam grate, another shelter
that locked the door when it was full. The
newspaper he used for a bed had a different masthead but it was the same
newspaper they all sleep with.
The woman was
at my table, the purse between us. It was
vinyl, worn at the straps and the edges.
I could tell she was living out of this bag. I don’t know why but it struck me strange
that there was a hand sanitizer clipped to the outside. I said good morning. I figured we were going to spend some time
together, might as well break the ice.
Except she didn’t know I was there.
Some of the
women had gone outside to smoke. In a
minute a couple of the street people had joined them, cadging a cigarette from
them. It was lighter outside now and I
could see them together, laughing, sharing whatever it is they had in common. It was like a silent movie with no subtitles. Try to guess what is being said; what the man
in the ill-fitting wig and the blue polyester pantsuit was saying to the
toothless guy with the sleeping bag draped over his shoulders.
I don’t know whether they would describe it
this way, but I could see this was a treasure for them, to be with other people
from the fringe. Just to be with someone
from the tribe who understood without any explanation.
Coffee was
$2.14. It was easy to get another cup
and leave it my table when I packed my laptop up and put on my hat to leave. The woman sitting there didn’t say anything, nor
did I expect her to.
I pushed open
the door and walked out into the richest nation in the world.
Hope
this finds you among your tribe,
David
Copyright
© 2018 David Smith
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