Coffee Shop Crying

It was the walker that did it.

I went to a coffee shop with a notebook and a good pen, and I ordered a decaf, as always. I like the energy in a coffee shop, but I also like to be able to sink inside and think while I write. I don’t like to turn my back on everybody, because that is kind of rude. Also, I like to spend some time just noticing, practicing putting what I see into words, and for that I have to be able to see something besides the art on the walls. So, as you can see, I try to choose my seat carefully for the optimum solo coffee shop experience.

I got there early, just after they opened, so I had my pick of the place. I meandered around the edge, admired the framed prints of small town life, and chose a table set diagonally to the door and the counter. Just as my Americano was ready, a small stream of elderly folks started coming in the door. This is the perfect dynamic for observing/descriptive writing: they usually talk loudly since they can’t hear well, which means eavesdropping is effortless. Seniors tend to be pretty sure of themselves, and wise. They drop gems such as “I didn’t feel like going out, but if I don’t go anywhere, I’ll turn into a raisin.” And all the rest laugh and agree. I can spin out great tales just from snippets of these conversations.

So there I was, sipping my Americano and writing fast when another older gentleman came in late, carefully lifting his feet at the thresh hold. “Rudy! You made it!” they all cheered as he shuffled toward the group table. One of them held a chair for Rudy so that it wouldn’t betray him when he bent his knees and sat down heavily. He was wearing a nice coat and a dapper hat on his silvery head. Rudy did not appear to be especially old, but he had something going on that was costing him his dignity and robbing him of strength. I know, because he had one of those walkers with wheels and a seat like my dad used when his legs felt weak and unsteady in the last year of his life, one of those walkers that roll along and have brakes, with storage under the seat.

I felt the pricking sensation behind my eyeballs that signaled damp weather coming, and I knew at that moment that I should have sat with my back to the baristas and the other people after all. If anybody at all had asked me if I was okay right then, I would have broken down completely. I wiped my tears on the scratchy napkin and tried to compose myself.

I was completely undone by that walker, remembering how it was to see my dad, who was always so smart and capable, reduced to a shuffle behind a walker with wheels. I thought about how much effort it took for him to pull himself together and go out to be with people, the courage he had to joke about his situation so that we wouldn’t pity him.

I had the strangest compulsion to go over to that table full of seniors and tell them that I appreciated them just for being jolly and present for the people who love them. I wanted to tell them about my dad, but the tears kept dripping out, so I gave it up, packed up, and went out into the street.