Coffee Shop Wandering, Irrelevant to Class Duscussions

I’ve been haunted for weeks. I see photographs and strangers, and his image jolts my brain. His image is not quiet. Not sneakily haunting. It presents itself hurriedly and with such urgency. I let my eyes tear up as they must, not because I am ready to be taken in by sadness, but because I feel I can get no relief. It is either cry here or become numb. Cry here or I lose any warm attributes that my heart has left. I cry.

He walked into my store. He didn’t notice me especially. He just walked around pleased. He didn’t hurry like the thousands of other men, doctors and lawyers who rush in hours before their planes leave for Aspen. He walked slowly. No one thing catching his eye more than another, just general pleasantness. The children with him laugh while running in circles around him. Picking things up they yell, ‘I want this!’ ‘Look at this one!’ ‘Papaw can I get it?’ If he responded to them, I didn’t hear. Maybe his silence is something given to him by my haunted mind’s own recollection. It does make him more noble, and mysterious.

He didn’t limp when he walked; his walk was more a drag. Each movement seemed horrifically agonizing, like he spoke to each muscle encouraging them to one last pull. His skin was black and wet and stretched beyond its limits to cover each bone and joint. When I remember what he wore I imagine tan coveralls with short sleeves, unzipped showing a white undershirt the way my father wore them. Next I remember blue work pants, high wasted with a black belt and black orthopedic shoes, the kind my grandfather wears.

Stirring these memories brings more tears. I’d like to release the thought from my mind so that I don’t cry on spontaneous occasions. I’d like to rid myself this haunting so that at least I can complete my transaction, ‘I’ll have an extra large sugar free vanilla latte with 2% milk, please. And I’ll have a toasted whole wheat bagel with garden vegetable cream cheese. Could I get a glass of ice water as well? That’s great, thank you.’

I wanted him to look at me. I wanted him to take particular notice of the way that I smiled at him. The way I approved of him with my eyes. I also wanted him to look at me with his yellow eyes.

He never did look at me; still those yellow eyes burned images into my mind. They were offensive, loudly offensive. He was offensive, loudly offensive. His thin body pointed a finger at my extra pounds. His skull shaped head nodded disapproval at my pay-check’s worth hair cut. The lines of his smile drew a gasp from my own.

In front of everyone I approved of him and yet he accused me. I smiled and nodded and searched for eye contact, but he was content without it. I tried to tell him that it was fine for him to look around if he wanted and that I was happy to answer questions...

I approved of him so I am not guilty. It’s not my generation’s fault. I didn’t callous your hands. I didn’t pick the meat off your bones and leave your skin out to dry. I didn’t yellow your eyes or lower your head. I never disapproved.