I believe there’s a man like me here. He sits over my shoulder, cornered into seclusion and deep observation. We differ in appearance, for I cannot maintain a five-o’clock shadow every hour of every day of my life, nor can I sport an askew cap indoors–I have too much respect for my age and meal to use a sideways brim to hide my hair and shade my ear. Unless, of course, he’s balding, then I understand because I am receding.
He scans the room, fingers cupping his chin, but I’m on to him. Perhaps, though, is it he who is on to me? I could be currently recorded in his open journal as well.
How delightful we are.
An Asian girl–confused enough to be a transplant, but confident enough to not be a tourist–sports a Nirvana tee. She is much too young to be Gen X or Y, or even to have been born before Kurt took his life. Is her fashion a representation of the self-loathing grunge era, or a statement on what is hip?
The pain and attitude is one she shouldn’t strive to reciprocate, but her search for an explanation of the times is welcomed. She is digging, and her fresh print of an old squiggly smile links a main interest that can be shared from generation to generation: music.
I sit in the midst of a trendy addiction trying to shade my writing and self from the sun and gossip.
A group of young fashionistas gather to express their opinions about subjects beyond their knowledge, but always revert to the safety of what they know best: judgment of others who have their backs turned.
A son with aspirations to travel, not to be cultured but rather sound hip, sits across from his mother who boasts her own experiences, holding onto her youth with pigtails that aren’t fooling pigs.
A man strolls by with a fedora and a strapless black acoustic ax resting on his shoulder–the body is too pristine for any proven talent, and an excuse is always in the holster if asked to perform a ballad.
The only normal ones among this popular mid-morning crowd are the two dark young canines that continue to pant, drool, and show interest in a man with a journal, maybe hoping for stray scraps to fall.
He has nothing to offer.
Thick clear frames, thin lenses if any, and tight red pants. She’s a younger girl, just old enough to drink and not realize she’s susceptible to weight gain. She will always assume her image to be desirable though it repels many.
She has potential to be attractive, but would rather follow trends to appease an unfulfilled few, and all of those unmotivated burnouts would lazily take advantage of an easy opportunity. A circle of unwarranted vindication.
An aging man, long ponytail with a receding hair line, sits at a table with a craft beer and a younger couple. He isn’t old enough to be their father, but rather a desperate friend. He wears shorts in January, but his heavy jacket doesn’t match.
Perhaps he enjoys younger people; maybe younger lovers; maybe a little too close from ending up on a certain shunned list. Or maybe he can’t let go of the youth that let him down.
A punk girl, perhaps wishing she were Goth, strutted in a golden pullover, short velvet skirt, and high black boots with crossing laces crawling above her shin. Her legs were pale and soft, but marked with scattered colors of promiscuous rebellion. She teased with eye liner that curled upward, let her pitch black hair flow, and had an obsession with cats and chains.
She was a tired stranger.
He was a short Italian punk, but hopefully the latter label has been dropped. He had beautiful blue eyes, piercing and hypnotizing, and dark thick eyebrows and a goatee to match. Each feature looked to be manicured by the Devil.
As maturity is supposed to come with age, so are physical struggles, and if he wasn’t careful, his appearance could soon become softer. However, other men wouldn’t mind his downfall. He did have one vulnerable quirk, though, that could either be seen as confidence or disrespect: he had the strange habit of bringing his own meal to large gatherings.
A boy of specific tastes, and a college dropout. His family owns a landscaping business that could very well be a front that he and is petite blonde bombshell shall soon inherit. Some have all the luck; it makes one wonder if balance exists.
I only caught a glimpse of this woman; she moved with haste, but shouldn’t have been allowed to with the amount of confident grace in her stride. She was difficult to miss; large and tall enough for a professional athlete to court and handle, and she flaunted the fact.
Her long braided brown hair bounced off the middle of her back as she sported a blueish green dress meant for a 19th century southern belle–or two. She strutted away and I wondered if brothels were once again popular.
This fellow was an interesting man; he fidgeted in his small space, hogging the only clear view of the scenic land rising. He was a smoker–his staleness was nauseating–and a drinker, taking advantage of a nice gesture to continue a needed conversation for one, and an unwelcome one for the other.
He was tall, lanky, and dressed too young and ghetto for so many wrinkles and such little hair. I later discovered his thick accent was Cuban as he vividly spilled his escape from the grasps of Castro nearly three decades before. With that in mind, he was excited at the opportunity to return with hopes of progression in tow, and only dreamed of warm weather until he fled back. Yet, he remained in the Northeast, twitching from the stress and explained with bitterness that it was due to his children’s love for snow.
I feel he was constantly searching for another escape, and then again, and again.
He had black curly hair, thick hipster frames to match with thin lenses, and a nervous twitch as if a bass drum needed to be boomed. He had an Asian lover; perhaps he aspired to be like Lennon. His fashion was khaki-based, surely for comfort and not image.
He wrote like me, deep in thought most of the time with only a break to sip or nap. His journal contained drawings of shapes that accompanied his words. The man was a puzzle–or at least he pretended to be.