I’m a writer. I’ve always been. Always will be. I wish I had more time for it. I keep my facebook media open, but rarely actually get around to posting blogs. I’ve had a few blog sites come and go. Writers groups come and go. But, I always get back eventually. I have a self-published book out there on Amazon. My computer is full of short stories, and even three novels.
Here’s an excerpt from “Glasses”
“Yes – sir. We have coffee and sandwiches. This is a bistro.”
Old people. I mean, really old people. We say things like, “poor fella, his mind is slipping” when, in fact, he’s driving you BAT-SHIT-CRAZY!
After his wife repeated my words, “They have coffee and sandwiches!” – yelling into his left ear two times, he said, “Oooh,” and then mispronounced the word bistro. He ordered the Tuscan soup.
It’s a good job, don’t get me wrong. Employees get discounts on the plethora of tasty food options. We have outdoor serving in the warm weather, cozy indoor heating during the cold seasons. There were always plenty of new faces all the time, which kept things fresh, on account of the business around the corner. A business cram-packed with old people shopping for old things; old people whose minds are slipping, if you catch my drift.
They were always telling me their names and showing kindness and a hospitable nature that gives them away as not being from around here. Not to say everybody here is awful; just that the uber-kindness of the visiting elderly sets them apart. The old man who ordered Tuscan Soup at table 3 kept calling me Jonas and asking me when I’ll go back to college. “Soon as I get back on my own two feet,” I told him. See I’ve dealt with oddities like that before and have a special way of handling them. It helps them cope with the changing world. It puts a smile on their face, gives them resolve where they might not have it. Plus when they come with a sane spouse or friend I get an extra big tip for being so understanding and nice.
I could always tell if they were coming or going to that warehouse looking place that brought them all around. There was a certain heavy smell of aged dust that clung to their jackets and sweaters. It also gave away the less aged that went there, typically beanie wearing hippies from campus who wanted their dorms to be more “eclectic.” Aside from the smell the place left on them, it was pretty common to see an item or two from their haul as it sat on their table while they looked it over, serving as conversation pieces until they brought it home to their own heap of stuff.. Vases that possibly had something to do with a Dynasty, wooden boxes with hidden latches or missing keys, any metallic object you could think of – only with rust on the edges.
It wasn’t the trinkets that kept them going on with life, and it wasn’t the trinkets that kept them coming. It was probably something along the lines of the mystery of life which seemed embodied in the things they bought; things they probably overpaid for. Unless, of course, the sellers were in the same mental state as the wandering customers, in which case things were probably sold at a fraction of their worth. For a year I worked at the bistro before ever actually going into that place.
It was actually en route between my house and work, except that I usually skipped streets for the alleyways. You might understand – that there comes a point where you just don’t want to be around people anymore. But, I was feeling sociable that day, felt like I could handle a little more bat-shit-crazy, and like my twenty dollar tip for being “Jonas” was burning a hole in my pocket.
When my shift ended I took the streets home and found myself window shopping at the emporium. That’s not what it was called, emporium, but for the most part that’s exactly what it was. And what it still is I imagine, a place like that doesn’t fold up or shut down. There will always be old things for people to have an interest in. The very things in our homes today will end up there, eventually.
Evening was setting in, those few moments when shadows are cast in the most appealing ways which photographers always go scampering about trying to capture. An angel in the cemetery, black post fences, trees beginning to crisp and lose their leaves, things of that nature. The store was set in such a way that the sun streamed through the large windows on either side of the entrance so that some of the more interesting objects on display cast long shadows that would keep a child awake at night.
My reflection stared back at me in the left side bay window, a dying sunlight on my back. I’m not as average as a yawn; maybe a sigh, or a shrug. Hair color somewhere between dark blond and brown. 5 foot 10, not particularly muscular, but not terribly thin. And at least, as I usually compare against the rest of my family, no need for contacts or glasses.
