Some people aren’t meant for this world. Or that is they’re stuck in between this one and another. You can imagine how difficult that would be for anyone.
There was a man on street corner talking to himself the other day, minding his own business. I watched from the safety of a coffee shop as the man sipped his own coffee out of a paper cup. People walking by him gave him room. They didn’t know what to do.
Above the sky was azure, but down here we were only insane. All of us, in some ways. The barista’s behind me made coffee after coffee. Americano. Latte. Doppio. Extra milk. Soy. Americano. And it started around 7 am and would continue until 7 pm. This was an ordinary day. The only man who understood that this was wrong–or perhaps, the only man who felt that this was a waste was the crazy man outside.
I watched as two police officers approached him. I was unsure whether they had been called or if they had just happened by. I suspect the former, but really I couldn’t see what they might do. This man wasn’t breaking the law, and he certainly wasn’t dangerous–or it didn’t look like it. He was just standing on that street corner talk to himself. What he was saying I couldn’t tell.
At my computer I usually use my headphones, but for some reason I took them out that day. I have a difficult time focusing if I hear other people talking. Maybe because they all seem insane to me. Or they are just projections of these things we call self. Though I don’t know why any part me would like an mocha.
“Hey, how are you doing today?” I heard the blonde barista ask. She had a big smile and wasn’t naturally blonde–hardly anyone was around Seattle. I would be if I got more sunlight, but with as much gray in the sky as green on the trees there wasn’t much chance of that.
“Mocha, extra chocolate,” said a man’s voice.
Outside the cops had taken the crazy man across the street and were patting him down by their cruiser.
“Would you like anything else with that?”
The woman next to me ruffled her paper. She was fat and smelled faintly of cats even though the place itself smelled more like coffee–she was gross.
“Take you out for some drinks?” asked the man.
I was determined not to turn around. I waited to hear what she would say.
Just then someone turned on the grinder. The blonde’s words were lost in a violent crushing and shopping of beans.
I didn’t turn around. I sat with the cat smelling lady watching the police cuff the crazy man outside. They had emptied his pockets. There had been nothing in there except lint–it seemed, now they pushed his head down and he ducked into the back of the patrol car. Across the room and behind me the man who had asked the girl for drinks took a seat. He stayed. Maybe because she said yes. But then his coffee was made and he got up and when he left I couldn’t understand what he was feeling.