the gadfly

just waiting in line for my cup of chai. far too normal of a scene for me. but today was a little different because i was in a new place, tucked away in the far corner of the bowels of a little bookshop. an older gentleman startled me with his slightly grizzly appearance as his hand reached in front of me for a refill on coffee, which I later would determine to be neither the first refill nor the last. admittedly, i was slightly put off by being cut in line. ah, human nature! i hate that i succumb to the impatience of the line. but, i do! i do! scanning the room, i spy the last empty table and scatter my belongings across it, ready to settle into a focused writing session of an impending paper deadline.

in just a few moments, it comes to my attention that i am going to need a new seat with an outlet. a quick glance around the room brings my eye to the man from the coffee bar. recognizing that his work, too, is strewn across the table (lording over a well-positioned outlet) and pinpointing him as someone who i won't be expected to have a conversation with, I approach him.

"do you mind if i share your table?"

turns out he is a chatty sort of chap. the thick manuscript set to one side of his computer prompts me to inquire deeper into his life. he is a novelist, has been writing for years. some history,some mythology, the last two dark ones. mostly fiction.

"do you always work in these sorts of places?"

with a thoughtful gaze and a number of hand gestures he describes the flexibility of writing in a place where you are accountable to no one. a place where you can create your own space and become fully engaged in your work as you become a part of the story. if he is talking malarky, he sure has me fooled. i am hanging on every word.

he wears thick rimmed glasses tucked over gray tufts of hair and a hat with the traces of what once must have been quite a feather. he holds scraps of paper covered with notes and mumbles many a word to himself. his most recent title didn't ring a bell to me and honestly, i wanted him to remain nameless, there is a strange kind of empowerment in not knowing.
he listens and asks thoughtful questions.

its as if he knows everyone that comes in and each one wants to share our outlet.
"i forgot to tell you about that spot. you... are the power seat." for someone 'not accountable to anyone,' he seems
to maintain a deep sense of community and a genuine concern for all who overlap his space in this place.

"These are the kind of places where people come who have potential and who really do things," he says.

and he means it. he sees it in the other tables around us and he sees it in me.

i fear we have lost the essence of community. we don't engage with the people, even in the places that we frequent daily. it would be far to presumptuous to share a table with a stranger. i know i am guilty of prefering to huddle in the corner with my headphones on staring at a computer screen. how has it come to this?
and when did it become such a burden to ask real questions?
i have always had this habit of sitting on the coffee shop or on the subway creating stories about the lives of the pople around me. but the thing is, they have stories. incredible ones. real ones.

I want to take back the tables. i want to pull up a chair next to a stranger and take a moment to see the world through her eyes. i want to find these people with potential, the ones who are 'really doing things.' i want to soak in their dreams and be inspired.
and that, friends, is just what i intend to do.

so, here's to you author extroidinaire who returned to the table only to find a note
scratched on a napkin. you have started something. because as you said, things happen in these places.