Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
The coffee shop is pretty damn full.
I’m in RoCo. It’s my new favorite coffee place, an old house converted to a business on the corner of 8th Avenue and East Main Street.
Every table is in use. Many regulars are in attendance. Like me, at a table, computer open. My eyes and ears are open even as I read, think, and type. Wonderful community and social energies swirl through the room like a strong, happy breeze. I love the noise and action, enjoy looking up at the faces, glancing at the fashion.
Most clients are, ahem, ‘my age’. They look like, ahem, boomers, like me. I’ll be seventy next year. I think I’m in the middle of the age spectrum here. Sure, there are so younger outliers. Teenagers who look like they’re wearing colorful fleece pajamas come in as pairs, order, take their stuff and leave. A few twenty-somethings, thirtyish, and fortyish folks are partaking of drink and food, chatting with others, reading, so forth. Hoka shoes are spotted on many, the shoes of my people. Columbia sportwear and Patagonia dominates. They’re the clothes of my tribe, but this is Oregon, where some of that stuff is produced, and where Columbia is headquartered, up north, west of Portland. Two children, about ten, are also present with an older woman. The children are on ice cream on this chilly, foggy, autumn day. The weather doesn’t daunt them from enjoying a cold but sweet treat.
The baristas take orders, prepare, and serve, all laughing and chatting as they do. Regulars come in and get greeted by name, including Sugar the dog, who waves their tail in happiness and await their standard treat.
Sunshine has burst through outside. Cold air storms me as the doors open and close. This is the United States, Oregon, Ashlandia, in 2025.
Head down, I’m bulling through the story, editing to find the thread and resume my novel writing. I look up to see a man watching me. He delivers a sharp head nod. “Hello.”
I nod back. Smile.
He says, “You were on our flight last night.” He nods toward a blonde woman. Yes, I do recognize them now that they’ve revealed themselves.
“Yes,” I answer, trying to come into the moment.
They’re dressed in costumes. He is a plug. She’s a double outlet. I love it. They wish me happy Halloween and leave.
Then, ’bout an hour later…in come another man and woman.
“Hi,” she says, smiling, nodding. “You were on our flight last night.”
Shivers of deja vu had their way with me. It feels weird to be recognized and remembered like that, twice. I keep thinking, what did I do that made others notice? Drooling while I slept?
It goes well, satisfying, at the new (for me) coffee writing haunt. Actually, this is a return to this particular haunt, RoCo, which used to be formally known as Roasting Company. They’ve changed the inside tables, making better use of space. They’ve also changed their small parking lot into an additional outdoor seating area, with tables and chairs under black netting. It’s better than I’m describing it. Besides those two areas, seating is available on front and side porches. The side porch features a fire pit and makes it cozy. The place reeks with sociable, companionable, inviting vibes.
My third day back here last week, I noticed the woman beside me was editing a typed manuscript. She struck up conversation about the weather because I’d just come in and she was preparing to leave. It came out that she’s a local cozy mystery writer. Published her first last year and was working on her editor’s feedback for the second. We’ve exchanged names and greet one another regularly since. She introduced me to her husband, who directs the local Peace Choir. Several friends sing in it, and I’ve attended dozens of their concerts. Six degrees, you know?
Another time, as I was sitting and writing, I noticed several others basically doing the same on their laptops. Today featured a conversation beside me between a man and woman. They were discussing a curriculum for a theater class. Included topics that I overheard were screenwriting and directing. Sounds fun, I thought.
So RoCo has good writing vibes, IMO. I’ve written about forty pages since coming here, and edited more. What I thought was the novel’s end, wasn’t. And the coffee works for me. Staff is friendly and professional.
Think I’ll keep coming here, as long as they’re here and will have me.
This dream had quite a jumbled collection.
It starts with me returning. I was off to the military; now I was back. People had been staying in my place while I was away, but that was done with my permission. Things were a little out of hand because they’d treated it like a party crib. I had a stern conversation with them; yes, they were welcome to stay there. Sure, it was okay to have people over, but they’d start trashing things, and that wasn’t appreciated. They were very understanding in return.
Then I was tidying. I had shelves of old electronics, mostly stereos, cassette and 8-track tape players, CD players, and VHS players. The dust on some were thick. As I resettled back into life, I exclaimed to myself, “Man, I have a lot of gear here. How the hell did I get it all?”
A young boy came up. He didn’t pay any attention to me. He seemed to be looking for something so I asked, “What’s up?”
The boy answered, “I’m looking for a music player for my friend. He wants one for his bicycle.”
I said, “I think I can help him.” I pulled out a small black box and dusted it off. “This has a radio and tape player. It’s small and he can mount it on his handlebars.” I looked more closely at the black box. “It also has record player on it so I don’t know if he would want it.”
“That’s okay,” the boy said. Taking it, he went away.
In a weird dream shift, my place was both outside and inside. I worried about my cats. I had two, and they were a plush gray with golden eyes. Both were young. I looked around for them. They were busy investigating things just outside and playing. When I called their names, they hastened to me, which mitigated my worries.
Then, I worried about my schedule. I needed to call and find out where and when I needed to be for work. Going through my cluttered place, I picked up the phone and dialed 633 while going to my desk to find what the final four numbers were. A woman answered the phone, “Operator intersect.”
I laughed. “Sorry, I didn’t expect that,” I said. “What’s an operator intersect?”
The operator explained, “The call is diverted to the operator whenever the call is not completed but the line is open in case someone has an emergency but can’t finish dialing.”
I answered, “Sorry, I just don’t know where I’m calling. My bad.”
Next, I thought, oh, I should call Mom. So I did. Answering before a ring finished, she said, “About time.” No hello or anything else.
Irritation jumped through me. “Wait, are you pissed because I didn’t immediately call you when I got home? Is that what’s going on here?” She did not answer. I said, “You’re being childish. I’m going to count down from five. If you don’t start talking before I’m done with the countdown, I’m hanging up. Understand?”
No answer.
I began the countdown. When I said, “Three,” I went on, “Oh, forget this. This is stupid. You’re an adult, Mom, and you’re behaving like a child.”
Then I hung up on my mother.
Dream end.
I’m addicted to people watching. People fascinate me. The way they move, talk, walk. Too often I only know their surface. So, I love it when they share me.
Today, one of my favorite baristas informed me that Monday is her final day. That surprised me; she’s been here for a while and went through the training to become a Starbucks manager. Now she’s moving on to the Medford Police Department as a community liaison officer.
Since she engaged me and made the revelation, I pecked at her with questions. She willingly volunteered that her family is part of the law enforcement community. Mom is a homicide detective with twenty-seven years of experience. Dad is the chief of police. Like, wow. Her ultimate goal is to be a forensic psychology. She’s in a master’s program to that end, although it is an online course. She ultimately wants to help people traumatized by crime and testify as an expert witness.
I’ll miss her, yes, but it’s wonderful to learn more about people and witness them reaching for their dreams.
Michael Seidel, writer 