Kismet
October 15th 2007 00:00
Mid-afternoon. On a quiet street cafe. Five tables set out, all occupied.
First table. A young man in his mid-twenties, deeply immersed in a thick law book. His tie hangs loosely around his neck. One hand combs through his messy black hair in panicky movements, while he gently turns the page with the other.
Second table. An old woman, sitting up with her back straight, sipping on her cup of tea the way a proper lady should. The sunlight makes her white hair glisten.
Third table. A man gesturing wildly with his arms, whispering harshly to his companion. His left foot taps impatiently while he sips from his espresso cup hesitantly. His companion, a woman with flaming red hair, neatly braided. Her hands stroke the side of her cup as if absent-mindedly.
Fourth table. A little girl playing with a handkerchief, folding it in various shapes and pretending to make it fly across the table. After each flight, she sips on her chocolate milk and gets back to folding again. Across her, a woman in her thirties, looking lovingly at the little girl one moment, then staring blankly at her white shoes another.
Fifth table. A man in a business suit, sipping on his latte while typing on his laptop. He closes his eyes while he furiously taps on the keys, the glow of the monitor reflected on his wire-rimmed glasses.
The cafe door opens. A waiter in a red apron steps out, carrying a plate of brownies. The music from inside fills the street.
Two pairs of eyes lock.
Whose eyes were those? What would their story be? How would your story go?
First table. A young man in his mid-twenties, deeply immersed in a thick law book. His tie hangs loosely around his neck. One hand combs through his messy black hair in panicky movements, while he gently turns the page with the other.
Second table. An old woman, sitting up with her back straight, sipping on her cup of tea the way a proper lady should. The sunlight makes her white hair glisten.
Third table. A man gesturing wildly with his arms, whispering harshly to his companion. His left foot taps impatiently while he sips from his espresso cup hesitantly. His companion, a woman with flaming red hair, neatly braided. Her hands stroke the side of her cup as if absent-mindedly.
Fourth table. A little girl playing with a handkerchief, folding it in various shapes and pretending to make it fly across the table. After each flight, she sips on her chocolate milk and gets back to folding again. Across her, a woman in her thirties, looking lovingly at the little girl one moment, then staring blankly at her white shoes another.
Fifth table. A man in a business suit, sipping on his latte while typing on his laptop. He closes his eyes while he furiously taps on the keys, the glow of the monitor reflected on his wire-rimmed glasses.
The cafe door opens. A waiter in a red apron steps out, carrying a plate of brownies. The music from inside fills the street.
“You’re beautiful, you’re beautiful. You’re beautiful, it’s true. I saw your face in a crowded place. And I don’t know what to do, ’cause I’ll never be with you.”
Two pairs of eyes lock.
*****
Whose eyes were those? What would their story be? How would your story go?
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Comment by Em Dy
They both took notice when they heard the music. It was their theme song after all. Chosen because everything seemed insurmountable then.
How can they have forgotten? They've been through rough waters before. The situation at hand is nothing compared to that.
Comment by bh
this is a true story.
this is for Emily and I hope that she is well.
(it also helps if the reader knows who Delilah is.)
***************************** ***************************** *********
Your text goes hereThe small isolated incidents in our lives.
Near the end of November of that year, when the chilly night and hint of the rain in the air presaged the coming of the cold months, a homeless man lugging a backpack and a bedroll and wearing a nondescript overcoat trudged across the adequately lit but almost empty parking lot towards the front of the small convenience store. When he got by the door, he stopped and lifted his face to the sky to check if the space he was standing on was protected from the imminent rain. Convinced that it was, he unhitched his packs set them down on the sidewalk against the wall and walked inside the store. It was almost midnight. He walked unhurriedly and without breaks in his strides. He glanced briefly at the cashier's counter and the tall slender woman behind it whose attention was, at that moment, being vied upon by two men. Pretty , he thought. He proceeded towards the back wall and then turned left to follow the aisle to the corner where the alcoholic beverages were stocked. He opened one door , reached for a dark bottle of beer and , in almost the same motion twisted the cap off. He shot a furtive glance at the cashier and saw that she was still being distracted by the two contending Romeos. Dropping to one knee, which made him disappear from behind the shelves , he took a long pull on the beverage and,without the benefit of a drawn breath, finished it in seconds. He laid the empty bottle on the floor and then availed himself of another one. The second one took two pulls. When he was done, he headed nonchalantly to the oppposite corner of the building . When he reached the door, he had already circumambulated the interior of the store, and on his way out, he didn't take a second glance at the cashier. Outside, the rain has started but the downpour was not intense. He hoisted his pack and bedroll, drew his collar tight and ambled toward the nearby park where the tall sycamores grew. A little while later, he was swallowed by the darkness.
A great number of calls sent to my phone were eventually directed to the message machine. Some callers found themselves compelled to leave a message, others, for some reason or another, just hung up without leaving a single word of acknowledgement. And since I don't have a Caller-ID installed, a lot of these unidentified incipient calls were lost into the void. When they installed my phone, I refused to pay extra to have my name taken off from the published directory. I found it idiotic that I would be paying more when they would actually be using less ink and space. It's like paying more for unleaded gas or doling out extra bucks for a diet drink. Or decaf.So my number was listed and I got my share of unsolicited calls from all over the world. I was not a "home" person and I didn't get up to answer the phone in my sleeping hours.
I often stopped at the store to get a can of Coke or a bottle of Aquafina and a copy of the Times on my way to work so that I could drink a coke while driving and read the paper at work ( once in a while, I got interrupted and actually had to perform some sort of task). The first time I saw her, she wouldn't smile at me. When I bellied up to the counter, she rung up the items, announced the total, gave me my change and said, "thank you, have a good night". I thought she was very attractive but a little stuck up. A loose red sweater, flaming red hair and not a shadow of a smile. Or maybe, she was just like me. Maybe, we were two shy persons passing in the night. One night, I didn't see her behind the counter when I entered the store. I went in the back to get my coke. Then bedlam. With a loud noise, a bottled drink, out of nowhere, dropped beside me followed by another, and another, and another. Scared the crap out of me. I thought somebody was throwing bottles and missing me by just inches. I looked up and there it was. The first smile I saw on that beautiful face. She was halfway up a ladder trying to pile up cases of bottled drinks. And did one too many.
"I'm sorry."
"Thank God for plastic, huh?"
I helped her straighten up the mess and we walked back to the counter together.
"What's your name?"
"Emily. What's yours?"
"A****."
"Nice to meet you."
"The pleasure's mine."
After that, the smile always came, followed by small talk. And I always got my paper, the Times or SF Chronicle; she reserved the last copy for me.
"Why do you always get out-of-town papers?"
"Maybe because they have better writers?"
"I guess, you're right"
"Some people watch movies because of certain actors. I read a paper because I follow certain writers. Do you write?"
"I'm just a cashier at a convenience store. I don't have much to write about."
"We all have stories to tell. You probably have more than most people, but don't realize it."
You could write about the reasons why all these men chase you. I didn't verbalize that thought.
One day, inside the downtown branch of the same store, I was at the head of a 6-man deep line when she walked in the door. She was wearing a pair of camouflage hunter's pants and plain unmarked gray t-shirt. A pedestrian outfit worn elegantly on a prepossessing body. With her gaze downcast, she took her place at the end of the line and didn't notice me. I walked up to her until we were literally toe-to-toe. And she stared at my shoes for a few seconds before finally bringing her gaze up to my face. Her face lit up in recognition and broke into a smile. It didn't match the joy I felt in me.
"So, this is where you hang out , huh?"
"I, sometimes, work in an office nearby. It's a part time job. This is within a walking distance, so I come here to get a drink and what not."
Then sadness shadowed her face.
"I won't be working at the other store anymore. I got fired."
My jaw dropped. In disbelief. Disappointment. Despair.
"Why?"
"Somebody drank two beers in the store. They found the empty bottles the next day."
"But that wasn't your fault."
"I know, but it didn't matter."
Then, it was her turn, she was at the front of the line. She was the only one at the line.
"I want to know if you have my paycheck here..."
Not wanting to intrude in her privacy, I turned and walked slowly towards the door. At the door, I turned and looked at her. Misinterpreting the meaning of my act, she stopped conversing with the other person and was looking at me. She raised her hand slowly and said:
"I'm going to miss you."
Although it felt like something was wickedly pulled from under me, I managed to mouth the words " I'll wait for you." and pointed my forefinger to the exterior of the building. Then I turned and stepped across the threshold.
Outside, she told me the name of the company she might be working for. She repeated it three times but I still didn't get it. She said it was by the college. I told her that the college area wasn't that big. ( I found out later that the area was practically boundless).I looked for a pen to write her number but couldn't find one. I bought pens by the dozen, all the time, but didn't have one when I desperately needed it.
"Wait.", she said, and dug into her purse for her cell phone."How do you spell your name?"
I spelled my name. She punched the letters on her phone.
"Okay, what's your number?"
I gave her my number and she entered them in her cell's memory.
"We can go to lunch"
"I can't go today because I have to be somewhere, but we'll have lunch."
"Okay."
Then she got in her car and drove off.
I noticed a jump in the traffic in my recorder, but a lot of them didn't leave any message.
I learned later that she was having some kind of financial difficulty and her parents offered to put her up in an apartment but she had to move to a different town. She was a single parent raising two young kids.
Later, I moved to a different town. In another state.
Yes, Delilah. Play a song for my friend and let her know that I hope she's doing well. And that she can collect on that lunch date anytime. Play the song with the line: " I saw an angel, of that I'm sure." Because I did see one and, in my heart, I'm sure.
my life is brilliant, my love is pure
I saw an angel, of that I'm sure
she smiled at me on the subway
she was with another man
but I won't lose no sleep on that
cause I've got a plan
you're beautiful, you're beautiful
you're beautiful, it's true
I saw your face in a crowded place
and I don't know what to do
'cause I'll never be with you
yeah, she caught my eye
as we walked on by
and I don't think that I'll see her again
but we shared a moment that will last till the end
there must be an angel with a smile on her face
when she thought up that I should be with you
but it's time to face the truth
I will never be with you
--
Posted By bh to blockandcounter at 5/16/2007 07:00:00 PM
Comment by Shani
Comment by What's Your Story?
What's Your Story?
Big Day Plunge
bh: Wow. Thank you for sharing that. I dunno... I'm at a loss for words again!
Shani: bh has his own blog!
Comment by bh
Comment by bh