(no subject)
Crossroads
I walk into the bar, and off the bat, I count five people wearing red shirts. I don’t know why, but for as long as I can remember, I have counted things. I’ve always been pretty observant, and tonight’s no different. Since I just recently moved to the city, I am still acquainting myself with various people and places. I like to lurk in the shadows and take in everything that’s going on around me. The patrons of this particular bar are of an interesting breed, decked out in their predictable attire.
Being in a new city is strange because you can stay invisible for a while until you figure out where you want to belong. This is the second city that I have ever lived in, so I must acquaint myself with new people and places. I make it my job to seek out engaging points of interest during this important crossroads in my life. So coming here, to this bar, is just the same as any other free night. It’s just what I do.
After work, three days ago, I hopped off my train two stops early to go exploring. I walked past this bar and noticed a group of five unkempt guys moving band equipment from a trailer to the bar. They were wearing yesterday’s clothes and had dirty, shaggy hair and stubbly beards. Their scruffy look was appealing to me, so I immediately decided that this would be the next bar to observe.
This bar is quite small. It has a tiny stage where that disheveled band must have played. Right now, the stage is empty, but the juke box is blasting a variety of rock songs - from classic rock to indie rock. The long counter is peppered with grimy glass ashtrays and lined with seventeen old black stools; nine of these stools have a significant amount of paint chipping off of them - the remaining eight (of the same style) appear to be replacements. There are six round tables with four stools each. Every table has its own, heavily used, ashtray. The musty, gray haze of cigarette smoke combined with the weak lighting creates a mysterious atmosphere - something that I’ve always been drawn to.
The people that hang out in this bar are fairly pretentious. They are standing in defined groups throughout the bar and seem to be self-important. They interact with each other in a way that they believe reflects positively on their individual characters. For example, I see two girls privately giving each other the cold shoulder one minute, and the next minute, when their groups mingle into one, they pretend like they are best friends, smiling and hugging each other without a second thought. They manage to do all of this under the façade that they are having the time of their lives.
The patrons of this bar always have something noteworthy to talk about - which makes my eavesdropping much more amusing. I often hear the names of obscure bands, to the point where I can actually rattle off the names myself. There is discussion of literature, politics and life in general - a few of my favorite things to listen to.
I notice two guys, one leaning against a stool, the other standing in front of him. One guy has shaggy, light brown hair and sideburns; the other guy has very short dark hair with a full beard. They’re both wearing ripped blue jeans and flimsy T-shirts. The shaggy haired guy has an old, yellow intramural soccer shirt (number 12); sideburns is wearing a faded black shirt with a comet and the words, Azure Ray, screen printed onto it. I assume that Azure Ray is a band of some sort. They’re drinking bottles of Old Style and smoking Lucky Strikes. As I read their body language, it is obvious that they are having an intense discussion, so I decide to listen in.
I hear the shaggy haired guy first.
“I feel like I am at some sort of crossroads in my life.”
“What do you mean crossroads?”
Before speaking, he enjoys a slow, deep drag from his cigarette and takes a drink from his bottle.
“There are so many options for me right now. I’m on my own, I’ve nailed down a regular income, even if it’s not the highest paying, it still pays… but I have the ability to work my way up and achieve something. I’m on the verge of actually becoming an adult of sorts. At the same time, I wish I could pick up and leave town like Sal in On the Road. I want to experience that kind of adventure - go someplace new, make friends and do it all over again”
I find it interesting that we have two things in common: he wants to do what I have done - pick up and leave, start anew, and he’s a fan of Kerouac, one of my favorite authors.
“Yeah, I guess we’re all going through the same thing. I mean, I just moved in with Maura, and I’m feeling that way too. Maybe moving in wasn’t the right thing; maybe I should leave with you”
They laugh at the thought of leaving town with a level uncertainty - they are halfway serious, but too anxious to further discuss it.
“I guess that’s the exciting thing about it all - we’re not sure. We’re never really sure.”
“I know, now more than ever, that uncertain about almost everything. We just have to play it all by ear; take it all one step at a time.”
“I totally agree with you. It’s all about the moment.”
This conversation is typical. Many of these people are very inquisitive and opinionated. They clearly highlight two or three things that they want to discuss before actually getting into it because they are thinking and overanalyzing everything. As a result, they are often found trying to save the world by staying active in the neighborhood community. Their activism is impressive, as is their welcoming attitude to all races. This group is the most integrated that I’ve seen so far.
Although this group is eclectic, there are still certain aesthetic requirements of the regular attendants of these bars. The guys are always wearing clothes that seem to be just a little too worn in, probably purchased from either thrift stores or trendy, overpriced clothing stores. You can always tell who is trying too hard by the way that their clothes fit. A favorite among the females are long vintage skirts; their overall appearance is simple and classic with an edge - their unique accessories transform their normal dress from every-day to edgy. My guess is that they buy the bulk of their clothes from the same as the guys but also visit normal stores to keep their looks updated. This crowd seems to have an unspoken rule that brands are to be hidden, maybe as a silent rejection of the mainstream. To complete the look, almost everybody has a cheap beer, like an Old Style or Pabst, in one hand and a cigarette, normal or menthol, in the other. Their beer and cigarettes seem to be their social crutches.
My social crutch in these situations is my chapstick. I must have at least two chapsticks at all times. I don’t know what it is, but whenever I’m alone in a group of people who seem to know each other, who are somehow connected, I take out my chapstick and just apply. I guess that it’s soothing or something. I haven’t fully analyzed that aspect of myself yet.
The best feature that I have noticed about this group is the way that they dance. They always try to do a variation of the mashed potato: hips swinging, arms flailing - it’s terrible, but somehow they make it look good. I think it has something to do with the entire group being so oddly homogenous. The way that they dance reflects their “I don’t care” attitude. Even though they seem as if they don’t care, it’s safe to say that if an outsider saw this dancing out of context, it would be somewhat embarrassing for both parties.
I am intrigued by this group. Perhaps I could find a way to fit in and look the part. I need a group of friends, and I find these people to be somewhat appealing. They would definitely make for interesting times, considering the way that they interact with each other. Despite my need for a crowd of my own, I am not sure that I have the energy to promote myself in the way that they are known for. I want to stay invisible for a while, until I have exhausted my options. It is only then that I will truly find what I’m looking for. There are so many different groups that I haven’t had the chance to meet.
I finish my observations and leave, mixed in with the crowd. Overall, my time in the shadows was well spent -now I have a glimpse into their world.
I hop on the train, another invisible face in the crowd. I purposely sit next to the shaggy haired fellow from the bar. His friend is nowhere to be found. My guess is that he went back home to Maura. So here I am sitting on the train next to a new person whose life I have taken the liberty of getting to know.
The train is the one thing in this city that everybody has in common. Every time I board the train, no matter what line I take, I can rely on the fact that I’ll find people from all walks of life. The most obvious are the homeless, who sit on the train because it offers protection from the outside; to them, this is home. Across from my seat is a homeless man, probably a drifter. He’s sleeping with his face on the bag resting in his lap. He looks awful - his threadbare clothes are filthy with the dirt of the city. The layers of time have created a gray film over his entire being. He smells like a freshly opened bag of barbeque potato chips - he hasn’t been able to bathe in a while.
Before I moved to the city, I was used to living in my suburban bubble. Eight years ago, when I began high school, I would’ve never imagined that I’d actually leave the burbs to live here; it seemed too dangerous back then. Now, I wouldn’t trade this for the world. It’s so rewarding to be free from the prearranged life that I was stuck in - here I am, sitting next to a stranger who interests me, across from an old gray homeless man with a story that trumps every story that I’ve ever heard. I’m so glad that I got the job at the art gallery - it helped push me into this new life.
The man wakes up and immediately looks at us - me and my stranger - as if he knew that we were thinking about him. He slowly drifts back to sleep. I decide that the man’s glance is a good way to initiate an interaction with the guy next to me. We look at each other and nervously look away, half smiling. For some reason, strangers rarely talk when on public transportation - that’s reserved for the scammers, who are always looking for an easy handout.
During the week that I moved into my apartment, I saw a female scammer who had a brain problem one day and five hungry children the next. She always dressed the part. I gave her a buck when she explained her brain trouble - I was naïve and she sensed my unfamiliarity with public transportation, so I was a prime target of hers. After I had a second encounter, I became skeptical. I didn’t let her fool me again. Ever since that woman, I’ve always questioned those who talk to me on the train.
I glance back at the stranger. He’s picking at the dirt under his nails. I decide to follow him off the train to explore his neighborhood. The stranger notices that I get off with him, and he calls me on it.
“Hey, weren’t you at the same bar as I was?”
He is going through his coat pockets, looking for something. Under the light of the streetlamp, I’m able to notice that he has striking blue eyes - ocean blue or ice blue. He grabs his cigarettes and lights one up, leaving three behindin his pack. One of his cigarettes is turned upside down - somebody must have given him a “lucky cigarette” to smoke last.
I have no clue why this guy is talking to me. I’m uneasy because my intention was to be invisible, but here I am standing in front of my stranger, illuminated by his observations. I feel compelled to respond - something I wouldn’t usually do.
“Yeah, I boarded the train right after you did.”
I try to justify my actions. I wonder if he knows that I don’t live in his neighborhood. I grab for my chapstick as he speaks again.
“The reason I ask is because I saw you standing alone at the bar, and then alone on the train. I’ve never seen you around the neighborhood, and it seems weird that you got off at my stop.”
Why did he call it ‘my stop?’ I’m free to get off at any stop and explore any neighborhood, aren’t I?
“I was bored. All of my friends are out of town.”
I lied because I want to look normal to him
“That’s fine, whatever. I just wanted to introduce myself. Now that we’re out of that crowded bar, I have the chance. No need to be on the defense…. I’m Trent.”
“Anna.”
He puts his hand out to shake mine. I hesitantly reciprocate. His hand is warm but rough. He has a calloused palm.
“You should stop by Roscoe’s Café on Monday. I’m reading some of my stuff at 8:00. Come by if you’re interested.”
He pulls out a stack of about twenty flyers from his back pocket and hands me one. I give him a confused look as I receive it. I’m still a little skeptical of his outgoing nature. There’s something fishy about him.
“I’ll see you later.”
Trent walks right, I walk left. The bank clock reads 1:45 AM.
I’m glad to be away from Trent’s spotlight. My intention was to remain incognito, but I ruined that by staying so close. I am intimidated by those who are similar to Trent. I feel like I would never live up to their unwritten standards. The people in that bar were all absorbed in their own world. To get an invitation to this coffee shop is strange because I’ve never been acknowledged. Even though there’s something weird about Trent, I’ll have to go check out the scene on Monday. I need to continue my search.
I enjoy walking around at night, especially on nights like this one - crisp air that requires a light jacket. I like having the cold on my cheeks; I can feel that I am alive. I notice a stranger walking down the street. As he passes me, he adjusts his coat to look busy. I find that a lot of people do this, or something similar, to avoid uncomfortable eye contact, especially during the darkness of the night.
I pass two couples and three lonely strangers after five minutes of walking. I come across a 24 hour diner and decide to walk in. The diner, which smells of aged syrup, is almost completely deserted. There’s a girl around my age sitting at the counter and a middle aged waitress behind the counter wiping something with a soiled rag. Two Latino bus boys are in a booth off to the side playing cards, laughing about something. An oldies station is softly playing from a small, black radio on an shelf behind the counter. I sit down in a booth close behind the girl at the counter. When the waitress eventually notices me, I order coffee and a bagel.
I see that the girl also ordered coffee and a bagel, and I find it strange that we both want the same thing. I like to put two creams and two sugars in my coffee; I notice only one discarded package of each next to her cup.
“Nice choice,” I tell her, holding up my mug to toast her decision.
Whenever I notice similarities like this - coincidences - I always acknowledge them.
“You too.” She speaks in a monotone voice.
I can tell that she’s surprised that I’m talking to her. I motion to her
“Come sit over here. I’m Anna.” Something draws me to this girl. Normally, I’m not this forward.
She doesn’t move. She opens her purse and locates her cigarettes, an excuse to turn back to the privacy of her plate.
I find my chapstick at the bottom of my bag. I have to say something to fill the awkward silence that I’ve created.
“So what brings you to the White Palace on a night like tonight?”
“I’m trying to get away from things… I came here because it’s usually deserted at this time,” she says as she spreads raspberry jam on her cold, toasted bagel. The smoke from her cigarette is circling above her face.
“Why the hell are you here, alone at a 24 hour diner talking to strangers?”
She doesn’t want to talk, but I persist because I’m curious - why would she be asking me questions?
“Entertainment.”
She turns around and looks at me like I’m crazy.
“Alone at a diner for entertainment? What do you find so damn entertaining!”
I try to defend myself. To her, I probably look like to one of those scammers that I am always so skeptical of.
“I just left a bar and now I am exploring the neighborhood.”
“I’m not so sure about all that. You saw what I ordered and you got the same thing so you could strike up a conversation. I don’t know where you’re from, but people here in ‘the city’ don’t go out of their way to talk to each other.”
She is tapping her cigarette box against her hand, packing her cigarettes, probably a nervous habit. She can tell that I am not a native of the city, which bothers me because, to her, I don’t blend in. I want to blend in until I am finished searching. She taps her box eight times and then stops, cueing me to speak.
“Just trying to be polite. You were alone and I noticed that you didn’t look like the happiest of people, so I decided to say something. Sorry, go back to whatever it was that you were thinking about.”
She takes a drag and turns around
“I’m Celeste.”
She picks up her food and walks to the booth next to mine and sits down. This is the closest that Celeste will come all night.
Celeste is a skeptic. She has long, wavy, dark hair. I think that she tries to hide behind her hair, like a blanket from the things that make her feel uncomfortable - sort of like the security that a cigarette (or chapstick) provides. She’s wearing a form-fitting black T-shirt and a pair of frayed jeans. She looks like she’s a classic rock chick. I can’t put my finger on it, but I’m pretty sure that she likes to sit in a beer garden with a cover band playing the classics.
We sit in silence. The oldies keep playing, the bus boys keep laughing, the waitress minds her business behind the counter, Celeste eats and I decide to stay quiet until she makes a move.
I pull Trent’s flyer out of my bag. It spent the whole night in his pocket before it met my hands. It’s light blue and somewhat crinkled up. There’s an image of an old record player in the background of the print. The flyer reads:
Come one come all! This Monday at 8:00 pm, I am reading at Roscoe’s cafe on the corner of Roscoe and Oakley (across from the co-op). Sip on a caffeinated beverage and listen to my thoughts.
This Friday, By the Lake (my new band with Adam) will play at 10 pm at the same location.
Please come to either.
I finish my coffee and bagel and decide to leave. I put my chapstick away, stuff the flyer in my pocket and pay the check. I walk back to my booth, throw two dollars and the leftover change on the table. I say goodbye to Celeste, not anticipating a response. To my surprise, I hear a soft goodbye as I exit the door.
I take the train back to my neighborhood and walk home. I try to walk as fast as I can so that I don’t have any more interaction for the evening. My adventures are over tonight - too much excitement. I reach my apartment building, unlock the door, and walk to the third floor. As I enter my tiny studio apartment, warmth escapes past - it’s calming. I close the door and lock the heat back inside, where it belongs. My apartment is covered in art that I’ve done over the years - a portrait of my sister and a landscape of my house from high school, five abstract paintings that feature varying tones of purple from college, and three unfinished pencil sketches of that I haven’t gotten around to since I moved in.
Before pulling down my Murphy bed, I decide to practice my dance moves. I go to my record collection which is in the corner next to my desk. It’s alphabetically ordered, missing albums under Q, X and Z. I choose my latest purchase, Le Tigre’s self-titled album, and play the first track. I dance in the full-length mirror, trying to mimic what I saw this evening. I stop halfway through the song - I can’t dance like this alone; I feel stupid dancing alone. I need someone to dance with. I unpack my bag and pile three magazines on the TV stand as I let the song finish. Getting ready for bed, I wonder what the strangers are doing right now, particularly the homeless man.
Today, I will scope out Roscoe’s, but I need some time to relax before I start another adventure. I begin my Sunday with a cup of coffee and a crossword puzzle. I have always been excited about the Sunday crossword because, as far as I can tell, it’s the only one that matters.
After a day of doing nothing, I’m able to go to Roscoe’s and check out the scene - I want to know what to expect. When I hop off the train, it’s about 5:00, the street lights are on and I find myself in a quite, old neighborhood. I quickly walk to the coffee shop. I approach Roscoe’s and I notice that the hours are painted on the door:
Monday - Friday: 5am - 11 pm
Saturday - Sunday: 9am - 11pm
As I enter, the enticing scent of fresh brewed coffee hits me like a ton of bricks. I immediately walk to the counter and order a cup of the house coffee with extra cream and two spoonfuls of sugar. While I wait, I look around to notice the miss-matched furniture. Each of the twelve tables has its own, unique, lamp. What I find interesting is that each lamp has the same shade. This brings the chaos of the furniture together, making it more inviting than intimidating. Although there are three overhead lights, most of the light comes exclusively from these individual lamps, creating a comfortable, dimly lit atmosphere.
I sit down, Indian style, in one of the green, overstuffed easy chairs in the corner - there is one of easy chair in each corner - and sip my coffee. The heat from my mug takes the edge off of my red cheeks. For the most part, the patrons of this café seem to be on their own, reading, writing or working on their laptops. I am left to believe that the Sunday crowd is here to get out of the house and work in a new environment. As I apply my chapstick, I look around and notice that there’s a raised platform in the corner that could serve as a stage. Right now, there’s a table on it, but tomorrow the platform will be ready for Trent as he reads.
As I finish my coffee I read a free, very liberal, newspaper. These independent cafés always have liberal undertones - there’s always a piece of free press or an indie magazine floating around the shop, up for grabs. Perhaps I’ll write something and purposely forget it on a table one of these days. I finish reading, and I leave Roscoe’s at 7:30 PM feeling prepared for tomorrow.
After a slow day at the gallery, I take the train straight to Roscoe’s. I end up arriving around 6:30 PM, so I order a coffee and go to sit in my easy chair in the corner. Right when I leave the counter, I see Celeste. She sits right in my chair and picks up my magazine. I walk to the opposite side of the room and lean against the wall - I don’t want to see Celeste tonight.
The crowd is much more energetic tonight - there are circles of people all over I notice Trent in the middle of a group of six in the center of the room, near one of the larger tables. He spots me and motions for me to come over. I’m reluctant to make myself visible, but Trent has already pointed to me, so I grab my purse, and I slowly walk over.
He meets me half way.
“Hey, Anna. I’m glad you could make it. I didn’t think you’d come.”
“Yeah this place is close to work, so I decided to stop by and check it out. Nice set up they have here.”
I start to feel a little more comfortable as we talk. The tone of my voice is much more inviting than the last time we were together.
“Yeah it’s a cool place. My buddy’s girlfriend is a waitress here, so she got me the reading gig.”
“Have you done this before, or is this your first time?”
“I’ve been doing this for a while now. It’s my first time here at Roscoe’s though. That’s why all of these people are here. Let me introduce you.”
I reluctantly follow Trent. I’m not sure why he decided to take me under his wing and make me his friend, but it feels sort of nice.
“Guys, this is Anna. Anna this is Adam, Maura, Jeanne, Clint, Travis and Sean.”
I am trying to make a good impression, so only Adam’s (sideburns) and Maura’s (Adam’s girlfriend) names sink in. I smile and shake their hands.
“Hey, nice to meet you.”
All of a sudden, I notice a girl walking toward our group. It’s Celeste. She pushes Trent in the back so that he turns around.
“Celeste! Glad you could make it! How’ve you been?”
“Been stressed. Busy as usual.”
Celeste notices me, and Trent feels the need to introduce us.
“Oh, Celeste, this is Anna.”
I’m not sure how to react, so I’m just polite.
“Hi, Celeste.”
“Yeah, we’ve met. You were the girl at the White Palace.”
I reach in my bag for my chapstick, but I can’t find it.
“Yeah, that’s me.”
“Wow how’d you two meet? Small world.”
I feel pretty embarrassed, but I play it off like everything is a funny coincidence. I twist my silver ring while we talk - try to forget about my missing chapstick.
“I ordered the same thing as Celeste, and I struck up a conversation, that’s all. Weird, huh?”
I notice Maura walking over. She taps Trent.
“Trent, you about ready?”
“Yeah. I’ll talk to you guys after I’m done.”
He walks away with a smile.
I decide to sit at a small table off to the side. Celeste talks to Maura, then walks towards me. I look in my bag for my chapstick and try to look busy so I don’t have to meet Celeste’s eyes. I see two pens, but no chapstick.
“Can I sit here?”
“Sure why not. Hey look, I’m sorry I was weird the other night. It’s been a crazy month. I just moved to a new neighborhood, and I haven’t established a solid routine yet. I’m just sort of wandering around, checking out the scene.” I have to make things better between us - I feel very uncomfortable with Celeste.
“Oh don’t worry about it. I’ve been going through an ordeal of my own - Trent and I broke up a few weeks ago. We’re still trying to find a happy medium since we have mutual friends. It’s not easy, but it has got to work out.”
Before I can say anything, the overhead lights slowly dim off. I smile at Celeste, trying to give her some sort of comfort. Adam introduces Trent as he walks onto the platform. I don’t think I could ever find the courage to get up in front of a room full of people and display my thoughts for everyone to see. For him, it is liberating. For me, it would be completely nerve-racking.
Trent’s words reflect his conversation with Adam. Somehow he simplifies the complexity of his situation. He’s up there for about a half hour, spilling his guts, and then he stops reading. After about a minute, he walks out of the light and goes to the counter.
All of Trent’s friends go to congratulate him - give him a pat on the back for doing what they know they could never do. Celeste and I walk over and are the last to talk to him. Celeste gives him a hug. They hug like they are trying.
“You certainly do have a way with words, Trent.”
“I’m just stating the obvious, get off it.”
I jump into the conversation to object.
“No, she’s right. What you said up there is real. I’m actually on the road myself - since I’m new to the city, I’m passing through a crossroads of my own.” Trent blushes as I quote some of his words
For a person who is so outgoing, Trent is certainly modest.
“Come sit over here. Let me buy you ladies something to drink.”
We sit around a small round table and talk about nothing in particular. Tonight’s the first time in a long time that I feel welcome. Trent and Celeste are making things work. I feel like I am a bridge between them, making things just a little bit easier. I can see myself being part of this crowd. Before we leave, I give both Trent and Celeste my number. Now, my belonging is in their hands.