Turtles All the Way Down
The Sunday Starbucks crowd is different from the one that congregates there during the week. Three older women sit next to me, discussing nameless and boring things. I wonder why they came here to meet at all since they obviously have nothing to say. They move effortlessly from local politics to flaky travel conversation. I try to remain uninvolved, though they smile encouragingly at me every once in a while. They could be triplets with their graying hair cropped closely to their skulls. They wear flannels and work boots and ripped up jeans--not pre-ripped from Old Navy, but ripped from hours spent in the sun on tractors, ripped from working the land or tearing up the concrete on the highway. They smoke Marlboro Lights, all of them.
This is not how I know they are lesbians.
I know they are lesbians because in between the talk of dieting and vet bills, they throw in a reference to P-town and their old girlfriends. They watch the young women walk by in short skirts and comment. I want to comment too, but I refrain.
Next to them sits a lone motorcycle rider. He’s nice and quiet and sips on bottled tea. He is watching me over the lesbians’ chatter much like I am watching him. He is lost in his thoughts, and I like that. His boots and kerchief do not match his serene personality. They are gaudy and undesirable. The biker is going bald and his hair is cut conservatively. Were it not for the Harley-gear, he would say instead, ‘I am an investment banker waiting for retirement.’
He smiles his wistful smile at me before he puts on his ostentatious biker glasses. I intrigue him, in my oversized sweatshirt and red pants and flip flops--the way I sit and write and watch people, the way I take up two chairs because I can, and perhaps the fact that I’m obviously unwashed from the smell of last night’s bar. We are kindred spirits, biker-banker and I.
He and the lesbians and I share our patio with ‘unhappy business guy.’ Unhappy business guy is quiet too, but he is too busy or scared to venture into his own thoughts, opting instead to play with his phone. He wears glasses and Adidas and jeans because it’s the weekend. But he still tucks in his shirt. I suppose it’s hard to break the habit. He reads the paper until he’s bored, and then simply throws it out. He works on his laptop and leaves his blackberry on the wobbly tabletop. His sneakers are brand new. He gets up and walks away with the same frazzled urgency he had while sitting.
We are all here for the same reason. We are real and disappointed in our realness and in ourselves. We sit here outside; smoking and drinking overpriced coffees because it gives us location. At home we would be lonely, boring and confused people. Here we are lonely but not alone. We are confused, but we don’t have to think about it.
If we are at the Starbucks, we are being somewhere, which is very close to doing something, which almost means we are not wasting our lives. We never have to admit that it's all just turtles all the way down.
This is not how I know they are lesbians.
I know they are lesbians because in between the talk of dieting and vet bills, they throw in a reference to P-town and their old girlfriends. They watch the young women walk by in short skirts and comment. I want to comment too, but I refrain.
Next to them sits a lone motorcycle rider. He’s nice and quiet and sips on bottled tea. He is watching me over the lesbians’ chatter much like I am watching him. He is lost in his thoughts, and I like that. His boots and kerchief do not match his serene personality. They are gaudy and undesirable. The biker is going bald and his hair is cut conservatively. Were it not for the Harley-gear, he would say instead, ‘I am an investment banker waiting for retirement.’
He smiles his wistful smile at me before he puts on his ostentatious biker glasses. I intrigue him, in my oversized sweatshirt and red pants and flip flops--the way I sit and write and watch people, the way I take up two chairs because I can, and perhaps the fact that I’m obviously unwashed from the smell of last night’s bar. We are kindred spirits, biker-banker and I.
He and the lesbians and I share our patio with ‘unhappy business guy.’ Unhappy business guy is quiet too, but he is too busy or scared to venture into his own thoughts, opting instead to play with his phone. He wears glasses and Adidas and jeans because it’s the weekend. But he still tucks in his shirt. I suppose it’s hard to break the habit. He reads the paper until he’s bored, and then simply throws it out. He works on his laptop and leaves his blackberry on the wobbly tabletop. His sneakers are brand new. He gets up and walks away with the same frazzled urgency he had while sitting.
We are all here for the same reason. We are real and disappointed in our realness and in ourselves. We sit here outside; smoking and drinking overpriced coffees because it gives us location. At home we would be lonely, boring and confused people. Here we are lonely but not alone. We are confused, but we don’t have to think about it.
If we are at the Starbucks, we are being somewhere, which is very close to doing something, which almost means we are not wasting our lives. We never have to admit that it's all just turtles all the way down.