sound – Michael Seidel, writer

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.

Daily writing prompt

What do you listen to while you work?

View all responses

Give me some chatter, baby. I like hearing the baristas tossing comments around as orders are given and taken. Add some background music, pop and rock songs which I sometimes know, hovering on my conscious awareness. Pump in some coffee making clinks, grinding, hissing, thumps, and clacks. All that together enhances my focus and concentration.

It’s a melange of familiar and forgettable noises blending into one sound, a combo which is easily shunted aside and ignored. It’s when a quiet rises and spreads that I stop my thinking and typing and look up to see what’s going on.

Sounds different from the norm will puncture my focus. Like, a child’s scream. A dog’s bark. A growing argument or increasingly loud disagreement. These all pull me up from under. But otherwise, with that coffee shop blend percolating around me, I think and type until, oh, damn, I forgot to drink my coffee. OMG, the coffee shop is empty. And, my ass has fallen asleep from sitting so long. And, I was supposed to leave ten minutes ago.

Those are all signs that it was a pretty productive day.

It’s Wenza. Middle and high school are in session. You know what that means.

2:03 PM, the murmuration of children begins. Noises double in decibels and echo like we’re in a gym. Screeches, shouts, laughter, blow out my ear drums in three second sound bites.

Cliques form. Tables and chairs are hunted. Backpacks are dumped. A line snakes out from the counter. Drinks are ordered, picked up, shared, consumed.

Happens every Wenzda when school is in session in Ashlandia.

Oddly, today, besides the sounds and visuals, the school children bring in smells of a lunchtime cafeteria. It could be roast turkey with mashed potatoes and gravy. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s just memory of another time making itself known.