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 By Brian Michael Barbeito Dec. 30, 2005 In the coffee shops of nowhere, some letters from the neon signs are missing, burnt out, and, as they say, you couldn't write it better than that. There are smoking rooms, and most of the patrons are there. This is the third tier, the workers quarters of the titanic, and we are sinking, yes, but there is a quiet beauty, a sad beauty, to the blue collar world. Its cold outside, with an unforgiving wind. The saviour has gone away from such places. They say cleave a piece of wood, but its a plastic world, so what is one to do? Anyhow, the speciality coffee shops make me ill. The blue bloods have no fight and no verve. The middle of the road ones are too crowded. Its the end of the world places for me, where cagey girls smoke their life away and lung cancer hangs around the room like an invited spectre. The woman beside me says that she has been made to feel uncomfortable by the man now making a purchase at the counter. I ask why and she says he was staring at her in a creepy way. I turn and know which one of the two men it is. Its not the dishevelled one that looks half crazy. He is harmless. Its the other one, the nondescript looking one. He is perhaps Armenian or something close to that. I ask her, ' Plenty creepy or just a glance?' She says 'Plenty creepy.' She is off to the washroom. Now I turn around and stare. Now I have to send him off centre. He sees me. More seconds than the alotted eye contact time with a stranger. I say, ' Hiiiiiiiiiiiiii...,' and he is startled. He manages a hello and walks into the smoking room, the room where lung cancer resides under half a neon sign. He won't bother now. I have showed him a little insanity, and he errs on the side of caution. The real questions are big, bigger than both of us. Could you kill someone if you had to? Then we sit. And I see that the college girl is studying. She is alone with a starving heart. That wind...it can wear down the strongest. The place is a dump. Like places I used to go to. There is actually a man in a brimmed hat, an old style one. They were called Stedson perhaps? He sits near the girl. They are mismatched but have met before. Their eyes meet and she smiles and says hello. In a world of so many obligatory hellos and half hearted smiles, her's is genuine and welcoming, but he is not interested. He doesn't understand, and neither does Captote's ghost, who is of course absent. Capotes ghost might be in a high end coffee shop, but not here, not with the stink and the cancer in the air and the blue windy night and the man with the sneaky eyes and the toilet with no top on the tank and the immigrants and the floor thick with spills and the run on sentences and run on hours of the cold nicotine stained night. Capote can't see this girl. She has dyed her hair black, and tried to manage good posture. She is wanting a connection, but nobody is biting. She is lost and she is found and she is lost again, all with one inhale of smoke. She can't approach a male, but has to hope and play the game. Everyone has to follow their own style. All the sad girls of the world and Capote with his lisp. There is a chance for better days. There is a chance for the neon glow. Life can be a grind, just a mousetrap, but there is the dark eyed night and the hair held up and the back of the neck exposed, and the skin there, the skin there is holy and sacred, and you can't say such things, and writing about it is a crapshoot, as nobody will understand. And the Armenian pervert talks to the dishevelled retard, about inanities and maybe sports scores or the news of the world. And the Stedson hat man has a zippo because of course he would. And the others stare into space, and take up space, and not much more. And the lonely girl with the lingering neck puts on her coat, because a chill has entered the room. I think to myself that maybe it is Capote's ghost after all, but then think, ' Nah...' ------------ About the author: Brian Michael Barbeito lives in Aurora, Ontario, Canada. His two most recent books are Medium Double Double Milk (non-fiction) and Fluoride And The Electric Light Queen (poems), neither currently published. Email: Brian1750@Hotmail.com Tell a friend about this site! ------------ All articles are EXCLUSIVE to Useless-Knowledge.com and are not allowed to be posted on other websites. ARTICLE THIEVES WILL BE PROSECUTED! |
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