Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
The coffee shop is full of refugees, if you will. The roads heading south into northern California, Interstate 5 and Highway 101, are closed for a blizzard. Several groups exchanged tales. They expected rain — it’s spring, you know — but they didn’t expect this snow. I feel for them and their disrupted plans, but they have phones and computers, and a comfortable place with okay food and good coffee.
The place has become packed, and of course, their vibe is totally different from the rest of us.
Several friends, Bob and Ellis, were in the coffee shop, sitting at a table a few feet away. Both are regulars. Bob comes in and does the Times crossword puzzle every day.
He shouted to Ellis, “I can’t get this clue. Can you help? It says, James Coburn film, In Like. I don’t know what it is. Do you know?”
“What is it?” Ellis shouted back.
Bob shouted his request again.
Sitting nearby, Michael shouted, “In Like Flint, Bob.”
Ellis said, “Let me think.”
Michael shouted, “In Like Flint.”
Bob and Ellis looked at Michael. “What’s that?” Bob asked.
“In Like Flint.”
“Flynn fits.” Bob looked at Ellis. “You ever hear of that?”
“It seems familiar,” Ellis replied.
Bob beamed at Michael. “It fits. Thanks, Michael.”
“You’re welcome,” Michael answered. “Sometimes it takes a community.”
Coffee, a comfortable coffee house, sunshine through the window, and something to write. How could a day be more pleasant for him?
Heavy snowflakes fall and melt. Filling the sky, pixelating the scene with their white presence, it’s warm and cozy in the coffee shop. Most have laptops or phones and attend their electronic lords with religious focus. But consensus comes as patrons and employees remark on the snowfall beauty. They like this weather, it’s agreed– as long as it doesn’t get too cold, too deep, or too slick.
It was Wednesday. As though scheduled by God, school children began filing into the coffee house at 2:05. Within five minutes, the number of people went from six quiet adults to six quiet adults and fifty noisy children aged ten through fifteen, at a guess. The volume rose. Their voices climbed louder. A fighter jet taking off would have been drowned out.
The cliques formed and routines were honored. Then one teenaged female raced back through the coffee house and out the front door. As she left, she screamed and then did a little dance. A girl outside ran up to her. The two surged into a long hug and began jumping up and down without releasing each other, joy overwhelming their expressions. Other girls in the coffee shop turned, saw the scene and ran out to join them. “Eva, Eva,” one running girl shouted as she raced out, answering one question.
Of course, other questions surfed his mind, like who was Eva and where had she been? She seemed very popular. It was like she was just getting back from prison, a hospital stay, or a very long trip.
Slow for a Friday, the coffee shop was relatively quiet. The baristas’ joking behind the counter was actually heard across the business.
Only three other patrons occupied tables. Regulars, he knew their names, drinks, and faces. He supposed that they knew the same for him. Maybe not. Maybe they weren’t as observant as him or didn’t care.
A thin sigh passed his lips. He was supposed to be writing but it was one of those days when procrastination stopped him like a mudslide blocking a road. He was a little bored, tired, and restless. I’ll begin in a minute, he told himself, and noted the time. Yeah, like he was really that disciplined and focused. More coffee will help, he decided.
Reaching for the cup, he glanced at the coffee shop table. The blond wood – he didn’t know what kind it was – had a dark knot which resembled a mustache. As he chuckled at that, he spotted two small symmetrical knots above the mustache. They were like eyes, he mused, sipping coffee.
The eyes blinked at him.
His body quailed with alarm as his mind shouted, “What the hell?” He set the coffee down.
A new knot rose, forming a mouth below the mustache.
He looked around the coffee shop. No one was near. He wanted to show someone as validation for his sanity, and then pulled out his phone to photograph the small developing face. As he raised the phone for the photo, the mouth moved.
“Help me,” he heard. “Help.”
Pulling back, he lowered the phone. Friday was about to change in ways he’d never planned.
It’d been an eyeblink. He’d been writing like crazy. He swears that he felt like he just sat down and opened the docs, delving into the novel, picking up the pieces of where he is and where he was going.
Coffee remains in his cup, but it is cold. This is an icy day, and the cold coffee doesn’t entice him. His rear end resents the chair’s hard seat. He has no idea how much he wrote and revised. Three more chapters were added and edited, other sections put under the editing grinder and polished, ensuring these new pieces fit smoothly as possible for this draft.
Time to stand up, stretch, and breathe. Back to life.
Back to reality.
He smiled as The Neurons remembered that song and stuck in his music stream. Fortunately, coffee shop music flowed in and overpowered the Soul II Soul song.
He wondered, though, will it show up in tomorrow’s morning mental music stream?
His fingers dance and skate across the keyboard. He talks with the characters, stares at far scenes until focus is found, laughs at a surprising turn. He turns his head, listening for what’s being said, rolling with the tension. Quarreling with the muses, he devotes fierce time trying to tie the story’s ends together and grasp what’s to happen next, hunting for the button that will make it all make sense.
The he stops, stretching his arms, deeply inhaling, blinking his eyes, working out back kinks, shifting so blood can find a way through his ass, and gawks at the coffee shop around him. He swears it was full before.
Now he writes alone.
The coffee shop was half full. Looking around, he counted ten other patrons. Another four people were working behind the counter. All were female except him.
He was the only male presence. The realization made him feel a little conspicuous. Being the only one present conferred enormous responsibility on him.
At least in his mind.
