One of them had a bomb
He sat, as he always did, alone in a coffee shop. It could have been any coffee shop anywhere in the world -- a brassy espresso bar in Milan, for example, or perhaps a sumptuous, converted Victorian in Portland. This one just happened to be the Royal Grounds in San Francisco, which was a down-and-dirty kind of place -- in fact, little more than a shabby room with custard walls and unshaven college students and a truly defeated espresso machine in the back. Emerging from a hidden somewhere was the sound of Frank Sinatra hiccuping the same three or so words endlessly from a scratched CD. This was something the lone barista manning the counter didn't seem to mind or even notice.
Our man, sitting in the corner, clutched his paper cup and stared out the window. His drink could only be described as a failed attempt at a latte. A thick, crusty layer of brown foam clung stubbornly to the top, even as the watery beverage beneath it was mostly consumed.
Anyway -- it was a destitute, anonymous Thursday night, and the patrons came and went as anonymously as the evening itself. But here among the skipping Sinatra and the faceless interactions sat a man looking out the window -- and most of us would say that he too was anonymous. In fact, he himself would have been inclined to agree.
He was intrigued by a couple of older gentlemen sitting outside, adjacent to the entrance, each straddling a pair of rickety wooden chairs. Their faces were deeply wrinkled, illuminated softly in the yellowish light, their backs slightly hunched with age. Two gents -- each dressed in the casually handsome way that is the hallmark of certain older gentlemen. And they were having themselves a fine laugh, the one grinning a wicked grin, the other chuckling hoarsely over his espresso. It was clear that their acquaintance was a generation's worth of reckoning, if not more.
And these men, of course, would have been merely another two anonymous figures comprising an average Thursday night's tableau of anonymity, but for this one fact: they had been laughing continuously amongst themselves for nearly an hour. Cackling, sniggering, chuckling -- ever since they ambled through the door, and, while standing at the counter awaiting their order, one leaned towards the other, spoke something unintelligible, and both instantly guffawed -- a hearty chortle, which continued unabated as they walked back out the door and settled at their tiny sidewalk table. The college students scarcely noticed, ears barricaded by iPod buds and eyes occupied by nursing practicums and Montaigne. But the man at the window turned and stared at this little spectacle -- a welcome object for his contemplative fixation.
Our window-sitter could have hardly known the history of these two men, but he knew that he was witness to something of a mutual enlightenment. A certain shared spirit, perhaps. And it was clear that the laughing gentlemen were quite beyond that of the world's common cares. Each possessed a subtle twinkle -- a certain mischief written in their eyes. It was the twinkle of their convincingly joyful resignation.
And as our man at the window was contemplating the scene before him, the two men arose, stretched their backs, and sauntered off slowly into the night. The sound of their gruff laughter continuing yet trailing off, then suddenly obscured in a loud clanging noise -- the cascade of empty bottles in a nearby dumpster.
Our man, sitting in the corner, clutched his paper cup and stared out the window. His drink could only be described as a failed attempt at a latte. A thick, crusty layer of brown foam clung stubbornly to the top, even as the watery beverage beneath it was mostly consumed.
Anyway -- it was a destitute, anonymous Thursday night, and the patrons came and went as anonymously as the evening itself. But here among the skipping Sinatra and the faceless interactions sat a man looking out the window -- and most of us would say that he too was anonymous. In fact, he himself would have been inclined to agree.
He was intrigued by a couple of older gentlemen sitting outside, adjacent to the entrance, each straddling a pair of rickety wooden chairs. Their faces were deeply wrinkled, illuminated softly in the yellowish light, their backs slightly hunched with age. Two gents -- each dressed in the casually handsome way that is the hallmark of certain older gentlemen. And they were having themselves a fine laugh, the one grinning a wicked grin, the other chuckling hoarsely over his espresso. It was clear that their acquaintance was a generation's worth of reckoning, if not more.
And these men, of course, would have been merely another two anonymous figures comprising an average Thursday night's tableau of anonymity, but for this one fact: they had been laughing continuously amongst themselves for nearly an hour. Cackling, sniggering, chuckling -- ever since they ambled through the door, and, while standing at the counter awaiting their order, one leaned towards the other, spoke something unintelligible, and both instantly guffawed -- a hearty chortle, which continued unabated as they walked back out the door and settled at their tiny sidewalk table. The college students scarcely noticed, ears barricaded by iPod buds and eyes occupied by nursing practicums and Montaigne. But the man at the window turned and stared at this little spectacle -- a welcome object for his contemplative fixation.
Our window-sitter could have hardly known the history of these two men, but he knew that he was witness to something of a mutual enlightenment. A certain shared spirit, perhaps. And it was clear that the laughing gentlemen were quite beyond that of the world's common cares. Each possessed a subtle twinkle -- a certain mischief written in their eyes. It was the twinkle of their convincingly joyful resignation.
And as our man at the window was contemplating the scene before him, the two men arose, stretched their backs, and sauntered off slowly into the night. The sound of their gruff laughter continuing yet trailing off, then suddenly obscured in a loud clanging noise -- the cascade of empty bottles in a nearby dumpster.
posted by Jeweled Accumulation at 9:51 PM
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