The People Watcher
I carry my tall mocha latt� to a table by the wall, along with the magazine which I fully intend to buy, hoping not to be mistaken for one of those people who brought piles of them to page through while they sipped their coffee, only to put them back in the racks without a purchase--their pristine newness violated.
Turning a page occasionally, I glance at the tableau across the coffee shop of the bookstore. The centerpiece of the scene, a thin, intense young man, has plumped himself down in the middle of the cozy overstuffed leather sofa angled across the corner of the caf�, ostensibly placed there to invite relaxed reading. Monopolizing the roomy sofa by extending his arms across the back on either side, he is trying to engage another customer in conversation, monopolizing him now as well, while the poor guy attends to him at first politely, then (perhaps grudgingly?) puts his reading on hold.
Tuning in to the rambling one-sided conversation (Okay-- eaves-dropping), I hear the Couch-Guy recounting how his girlfriend dropped him off there on the way to the dentist. The remnants of his lunch are on the floor at his feet: a take-out sack from Barney�s Burgers and a large-sized drink cup from same, empty except for the ice, which he noisily brandishes, shaking it now and then for emphasis to punctuate his story. It seems he has just received a cell phone call from said girlfriend saying she has developed car trouble, will not be picking him up; and he is short of cab-fare (pause, seemingly on second thought)--well, he guesses he could grab a cab and have the driver wait at his girlfriend�s while he runs in to get the fare, but the dilemma is that she might not be there yet and he doesn�t have a key.
There are other short pauses in the flow while the story-teller seems to reflect, and during one, the Long-Suffering man heretofore burdened with listening or pretending to care, murmurs something to CG and leaves. It occurs to me CG might be running a scam on LS, probably about the time it occurred to him. I bet myself if I check out another reading area across the store, I�ll discover where he has sought sanctuary.
But Couch Guy seems unperturbed; he noisily sucks the dregs from his cup, stirs the ice, sucks on it again, glancing around for another likely audience, and tries to engage a fellow at the small window table by the sofa. This fellow is apparently deaf or has no qualms about ignoring CG�s overture: a kind of sigh of resignation and an opening gambit directed at his quarry, �Man, you can�t count on a woman!� The occupant of the table gathers up his newspapers and walks away without a backward glance.
Trying to be invisible, I keep my eyes on my magazine, turning pages purposefully; but I decide to jot down a few notes on my napkin. I hear the jingle of coins and glancing up, see that CG is moving to the window table just vacated. He�s counting change, covertly glancing around, (looking for someone else to gull?) then busily dials a cell phone number--a cab company? The Girlfriend?--the latter, I guess, since there is no ensuing conversation--but the screen on the phone isn�t lit up either, I notice before he flips the phone shut.
Another quick glance around the small caf� seating area (I gaze fixedly at my magazine), then CG gets up and leaves. I feel momentarily sorry for his plight whether short on cab fare or money for controlled substances, but not even fifty cents-worth of sorry.
My napkin is only half-full of my scrawled notes, so I glance over to another table. A Thirty-Something woman and a man, smartly dressed, sit across from each other, the woman�s long dark hair carelessly drawn back at the nape of her neck, tamed with a �squishy� of synthetic hair (match-your-color available) an arresting shade or two lighter than her own. A few errant strands have escaped the elastic, adding to her intent look: leaning forward, hands upturned, slim fingers reaching out to her companion as if in appeal. As she talks, he runs his fingers distractedly through artfully unkempt thick dark hair (a look no doubt achieved by a pricey barber). I can�t see her face, but he keeps his eyes on his own hands, fingers splayed, thumbs curving over the edge of the table, as if poised to push his chair away--and that�s what he does! He pushes away from the table to stand, his face betraying nothing, looks at her wordlessly and turns away to leave. He doesn�t look around, but there is an instant of hesitation as if waiting--for what? for her to grovel?
The woman shakes her head slightly in defeat, her hands now flattened in front of her, and sits back, slumping a little in her chair. I am totally on her side, whatever the cause of the exchange. Keeping her head lowered, she toys with the cup left behind by her companion (now dubbed �A-H� in my notes), and I hope it is full and she�d just hurl it at his departing back. But she picks up her own cup as if to drink from it, pauses and sets it back down, suddenly leaning over to open a large tote-bag at her feet. She pulls out sun-glasses, then stands up and heads for the restroom, leaving the tote bag-- I will certainly keep an eye on it while she�s gone and warn off any opportunistic purse-snatchers sitting idly by!
When the woman returns, wearing her sunglasses, she walks to a nearby rack, then sits back down with a magazine. She doesn�t remove her sun-glasses, just absently turns pages, now and then glances toward the entrance. After a few minutes, she stands up, neatly clears her table, picks up her tote and heads for the door. I see her fumbling in her bag and pulling out car keys. So the couple came in separate cars--I am relieved; I sincerely hope they ended their relationship. No big loss for her, I judge it.
As I scribble notes on my rapidly filling napkin, I am aware of a muted conversation at a table behind me.
A woman, youthful-sounding, softly reading aloud a passage from a book. I hear phrases like �breasts straining against her bodice� and �a vein throbbed in his temple�(I don�t hazard a look), as well as �his tongue seeking hers�, and so forth--romance genre, which I long ago resolved never to stoop to writing, even if mine would sell. (Uh-huh, that and a quarter will buy you a latt�).
Curiosity defeats discretion (and in the interest of accurate note-taking), I get up for another napkin from the service counter, which necessitates passing that table going and coming. I pour myself a cup of water while I�m at it, carefully blotting spills while I covertly glance at the couple.
The man sitting across from the owner of the �youthful-sounding� voice, is older than his companion by a decade, I�ll bet--she is indeed young, perhaps in mid-twenties. He is a �Suit�, her boss maybe? A kind of made-it-and-moneyed, but pseudo-blas� type: suit coat unbuttoned, tie casually loosened-- and while she reads to him, he devours her cleavage with his eyes.
(Take that, JC, I can do it, too. Actually, she doesn�t have any cleavage showing, but if she had, I�m sure he would.)
Did I detect a slight trembling of her mouth? maybe she�s aware of his looks and having a little difficulty concentrating on the book. Decidedly dry-mouthed--she takes a sip from her cup, quickly licks her lips.
The Boss suddenly leans toward the young woman, says something very softly and standing with the motion, hastily buttons his suit coat, thus successfully concealing any tell-tale bulge in his well-tailored slacks; the girl also stands, smoothly retrieving her handbag. The book is left smouldering on the table while the two walk quickly to the entrance, he holding her elbow cupped in his hand.
Where to, folks? There�s a not-so-cheap hotel about a half-block away, I want to helpfully volunteer.
Now what? I don�t see any other likely subjects...yet.
Just as I�m ready to pack up my pencil and napkin notes, I notice someone else has taken a table vacated earlier.
An attractively dressed woman sits down, sets her drink carefully at a distance from her laptop and taps the keyboard busily. She glances up at a man approaching the table and shuts her laptop, smiling at the man. It appears he is expected, and that they are meeting for the first time, because he introduces himself and offers her his hand. She takes it, smiling into his eyes, and names herself, followed by a title.
She takes charge of the conversation in a business-like manner, but seldom losing the smile, and he replies with an answering smile, that has nothing to do with the exchange. Rather, it seems an affirmation that he is getting the tacit message underlying what sounds like a job interview.
Sure enough, business finished, the woman is now describing a home-life. Single mother, two children, etcetera, etcetera. Where is this little t�te-�-t�te headed? The man leaves first, the woman a few minutes later, pausing at a magazine rack to surreptitiously watch his progress out to his car. Then slowly follows...
Time for another mocha latt�...decaf this time, I think.
As I stand there waiting for my latt�, an older woman is ordering a coffee and coffee-cake, receives her order and takes her time choosing a table.
She takes a gadget out of her purse, hooks it on the table edge, and hangs her purse from it--obviating the need to set the purse on the table or the floor, or hang it over the chair-back. Wow! I like that--wonder where she got it?
The woman leaves her table, purse and all, carries her coffee to the condiment bar, pours half-and-half into her cup, adds two bags of raw sugar, then sprinkles her drink liberally with powdered chocolate topping, stirs it, wipes up what she sloshes, goes back to her table.
She slowly eats half of her cake, obviously savoring it, then carefully wraps the other half in a couple of napkins, stirs her coffee again and sips from it while looking around at other patrons, me included. But her look is glancing, and I am careful to be gazing elsewhere. She�s wearing a wedding band.
The woman seems restless, frequently looking toward a display of books on the subject of local history.
She�s left her purse and accoutrements once--either in defiance of a cautious nature or too trusting by half. She may now feel the need to be reading something, but is hesitant to leave again, to push her luck, or her trust in humankind, too far, and pick out a magazine.
Aha-- At that moment, the deus ex machina appears. From the direction of the book rack she kept watching. She�s not alone, as I first thought.
An older man joins her familiarly, hands her a book, sits down. I�m close enough to make out the title, �A Sailor�s Manual�.
He takes the proffered cake she wrapped earlier. She also offers him the cup of coffee but he waves it away. She seems to persuade him with a word of two, though, and he tastes it, asks her a question, she indicates the two packets of sugar, says something, nods toward the condiments. He shakes his head. She settles back and turns to the index at the back of the book. She�s animated now, smiling, a word or two is audible, �Force Five...� She�s now speaking louder, and I realize the man is hearing impaired. Wearing two aids. Wears a wedding band.
They are discussing boating and have apparently encountered high seas, or high winds in the recent past. And the book apparently reinforces their experience.
They�re married, I decide--a long time. Comfortable with each other.
Probably share several children, are retired, and an outing to the book store is just one of the pleasures they enjoy together.
I sigh. I�m finished people-watching. I�ve come full circle: from a non-existent relationship, to a failed one, to a clandestine relationship, a wanna-be one, and at last, as if I was searching for something, a devoted marriage.
I look down at my own wedding ring, decide to take time on the way home for grocery-shopping and serve a real supper tonight.
First, I'd better clean off my table...
But you have to admit, a book store is a great place for a story.
Original Images by GHizer
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