It’s a mild change of scenery.
Not quite what you seemed.
He stands there before the empty little flat with his chipped door keys in hand.
There’s no Bay.
Not a single soul stands out.
You can’t see the fog, or the skyscrapers, the cargo ships sweeping the gusty harbors.
There’s nothing no more, but Her and here.
Here was all She ever wanted.
Joan was at work when Sam came by.
“I’ve brought you flowers,” he spoke kindly into her cluttered cubicle.
“How sweet, could you put them over there?”
She was pointing at the trash can.
The things you notice about her,
She hangs around her neck the most peculiar charms that bedazzle in all colors of the spectrum
Brass Owl, four rings through a chain, a single topaz
Clanging, dancing freely and hovering over the marble table off in the corner of that neon twenty-four hour, sixteen-year-old coffeeshop.
The songs she listens to, on that headphone of hers,
You don’t know what they are,
But she looks the type for Morrissey, Oasis, The Kooks,
And Elliott Smith,
You bet your life she has those nights in which she puts his “Twilight” on repeat and sits on the bedroom floor, crying or laughing
In fact it is a BeeGee’s tune on which she finishes.
Now she stands up and puts her special red ceramic mug in her shoulder bag having disposed of her mocha,
She is little, small, but rest assured, Miss Madeline Susan is none of these things at all.
Young Dan didn’t know her name, he knew she was lonely.
She looked lonely.
She wasn’t the type that brought a book to read in the diner, or her obnoxious Macbook placed on the tabletop with work or such nonsense. She was apt for the big booth that seated six, never two. Did she suppose to be meeting others?
She stared at Dan behind the counter sometimes, usually at nothing. Space. Inward. No talk, just thought. Fingers carelessly fidgeting at the napkins and unpolished silverware.
Dan thought she was lonely.
Richard was in town for a few days, all he brought with him was talk of Santa Barbara sun and his crazy nights. He was never lonely.
Dan asked Richard to stop by his diner, stop in to make a pretty little thing happy. Dan pointed Richard to Her.
Richard walked past and sat before her with his crooked smile and inviting words. “Am I on time?”
Her name was Claire, she warmly said to the stranger.
Leaving her dull blue sweater was the sweetest act she could do for Harry.
She’d forgotten it, of course. In that hazy rush to her early shift.
He laid it out neatly on his darkwood bed, laced at the fringed collar with a new string of silvery pearls that he’d bought that following afternoon before Lisa came back for dinner.
They were always what that cute damned thing was missing.
I want to tell you something.
I think you’re wonderful.
You take the bus from the intersection of Telegraph and that boulevard that appears nameless as foliage covers the sign. Sometimes you don’t have the change for fare. The days when Fred is driving the route, thank God. He lets you on for free.
Don’t see you all the time, but when it’s occasion your face peers through Jamba Juice’s brightly-clad windows, the cracked crosswalks, in repose on the outskirts of Cal’s lawns. You read once in Shakespeare & Co. Books.
You’re alone. I don’t see your tangled old terrier anymore, that frightens me. Now you talk to others at the bus stations— you for comfort, they for politeness. Rarely from these insignificant commuters you peddle some change.
I tell you this because I won’t ever see you again. Getting on that bus that went into San Francisco.
My parting gift to you was a cup of Peet’s coffee on me.
I don’t know whatever daily wars you fight, but you’re one hell of a soldier.
He’s feeling the need for coffee, he’s gone wrong enough with the Patron.
He never wants to see a Redbull can again.
Barely making it to the front door of the second-story drab of a place he wouldn’t quite call home— as if there is no where else— Joyce kisses him on the cheek and seems to dance down the hazily-lit street, this he sees from his bedroom window.
He puts some Bravery on blast and replays Joyce in his head. He should have invited her in. She would make him happy.
The songs still play, the neighbors are pissed— he’s taking it easy in the armchair. The windows are open and the hot summer night lures him to loosen that herring-bone tie. San Jose’s skies loom in dark, the downtown still dances and glows in and out below.
He seems to not notice these things, the burning coffee on the stove, the music— the only lasting party is in his head.
Joyce is dancing down the street, regretfully.
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It’s very comforting and warm, dimly-lit as the fog swirls about the winding streets outside.
Louis Armstrong music’s on repeat, and no one’s complaining.
Drizza’s happy. She’s nabbed a seat off in the corner, her own little place so she can smooth her hair and get back to Sean’s missed call.
It’s getting crowded, it doesn’t worry the four baristas working smoothly behind the counters; Natalie and Smitt get the orders, Joey’s just left to clean off the empty tables and chairs— even if people are sitting there.
Sally’s got to help the artist Ramone hang his bright Brazilian works on the shabby back wall. He’s thrilled. He’s worked on those for nearly eight years.
It’s mostly students passing through from the college up the block along the intersection of Masonic— almost a back street specialty where these youngsters keep a hush pride about the cafe and never speak of it, they just go.
Kevin’s one of these students. His little sister Annie goes to school in the opposite direction. They always stop here to get her hot cider and he his coffee, and Kevin readily walks Annie to her school. He’s always late to his morning class. He couldn’t give a damn.
There’s two bins Smitt thoughtfully placed by the cream and sugars. Neither is garbage. The recycling is closer, the compost behind it. People always fail to throw out their stirrers or ripped sugar packets rightfully into the compost, always recycle.
Only the old man’s sleepy Spaniel, sitting near the counter, notices this. But she’s a dog, she couldn’t give a damn— she still loved people.
Curse the late hours of San Franciscan Thursdays.
He’d always walk down Stockton Street, through the crowded back streets of a bustling Chinatown. Worn small faces, lots of open-air produce, Cantonese, Mandarin— he really couldn’t tell the differences, it all meant the same place. Taking Muni was…
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He’s feeling the need for coffee, he’s gone wrong enough with the Patron.
He never wants to see a Redbull can again.
Barely making it to the front door of the second-story drab of a place he wouldn’t quite call home— as if there is nowhere else— Joyce kisses him on the cheek and seems to dance…
