Sonder
I sit silently, languidly sipping my lukewarm cup of coffee. Before me lies a laptop with an empty word document, the line waiting for text to enter the page flickers; on...off...on...off.
A notebook balances on the edge of my small and over-crowded table, its frayed off-white edges bring that much more attention to the dark stain of the wood. The page currently displayed is filled with half-assed ideas, abandoned after frustrated lines were used to scribble out already written text.
Crammed into the margins lay comments like What the hell is that supposed to mean? and Why...just why? are scrawled out in angry bold letters, and ironically enough are the only completed phrases to grace the page. The lack of inspiration became more evident when one focused on the raised indentations from previous pages. Angry and red like the aftermath of a fresh tattoo, and most definitely one that you regret enough to cover up with more ink.
My editor is gonna kill me, I thought with a resigned sigh. It was amazing that I was surrounded by stories but I couldn't think of a damned thing to write.
The inside of the coffee mug reminded me of a tree, rings of brown liquid stained in different intervals almost as if the cup itself was keeping time. Encouraging the frustrated writer along, or mocking the writer at the lack of substance on both her paper and in her mug. That was still to be decided.
My table was nestled in the back corner of the coffee shop, with a floor to ceiling window pushed up against my right side. I was reminded of its presence every time my elbow struck it accidentally, which jarred my thoughts further in my caffeine addled state. A few feet to my left was the edge of the coffee counter, where people were periodically notified of their drinks arrival. It was a noisy place to sit, and probably not the best choice for a struggling writer to focus, but it had the best view of the entire store. Not much effort was required to swivel my head and observe the other patrons waiting for their coffee.
You could tell a lot about a person based off of their choice of beverage. For instance, there are those individuals that purchase12oz sugar-free coconut milk pumpkin spice lattes with precisely two pumps of cinnamon syrup and extra whip cream, because it has to be just right. This compared to the fellow that orders a plain cup of coffee with no cream or sugar. Usually, this is because they can't wrap their head around "froo-frooey" drinks like caramel macchiato's, and result in comments like, "what the heck is an expresso?"
Finally, there are those odd individuals that come to coffee shops and order tea. Tea. Who orders tea from a coffee shop? What did coffee ever do to you? Now I have no confirmation for this theory, but I'm almost positive that these people are closet psychopaths. Ignoring my shaking hands, and palpitating heart from over-caffeinating, I begin to observe the rest of the store rather than continue picking on those dreaded tea drinkers (or do the more logical thing and focus on writing).
The entire store was coated in an assortment of cool colors and odd textures, and I don't mean cool as in cool. I mean cool as in shades of gray and beige which were thrown about to accent the wood grain of the tables and the concrete floors. I can only assume the design was a hopeful attempt at attracting eager millennials with large followings on social media platforms. Because who advertises better than teenagers taking pictures of latte art or aesthetically pleasing backdrops?
Again, pushing past my cynicism, I directed my attention back towards my previous activity of observing the store. In front of me was a bar with four seats facing the window, which was surprisingly barren at the moment. Turning my head slightly to the left I could see the only two four-person tables in the entire store. One was occupied by a group of four women that looked like they were in the midst of a PTA meeting, even though they all appeared to be in their mid-twenties. The other was taken by some asshole who thought he should take up a four-person table by his lonesome.
Directly behind the guy, who I will now only refer to as "The Asshole," were two perfectly good two-person tables. One of which was occupied with what appeared to be a very stressed student. The rest of the seating in the establishment was to be found in the form of lounge chairs and tall uncomfortable tables.
Speaking of uncomfortable, apparently, the idea behind the modern interior design was to make its occupants as uncomfortable as possible. It was comical to watch other customers adjust to find the "most comfortable" position to sit in, which proved to be impossible most of the time. Feet would rest on the chair opposite from them. Chairs would be turned sideways or straddled or removed from the equation altogether. I was struggling with the same predicament, and I can only imagine how that appeared outwardly to those surrounding me.
My eyes began to focus on the occupants of the tables rather than continue to critique the furniture that surrounded them. The table of women caught my attention with a sudden squeal that burst forth from the smallest of the group. Her back was facing me, but even so, I could still make out the fake smile adorning her face. Maybe it was the way she jumped up and down in her seat like a chihuahua on speed. Or perhaps it was the way she clapped her hands, wildly like a trained seal at a SeaWorld performance. Whatever the reason for this display was, there was no question that she was following a script. The title of this play, now unfolding before my eyes, was still lost on me.
You could tell that I was not the only one annoyed by her exuberant performance. The women surrounding her, which were facing me, had hesitant smiles on their faces that didn't quite reach their eyes. Regardless, the hesitation was momentary, and soon all were joining in on the display of false affection. Only one individual looked genuinely excited, which led me to the conclusion that the presumably happy news was hers.
As I continued to observe the body language and facial expressions of the women a kernel of inspiration was planted, and a storyline started to appear in my head. Taking this rare opportunity of inspiration, I began to write.
Lines of nonsensical plot lines formed on the page: The poorly contoured protagonist of our story accepted the praise of her colleagues with a gleeful expression. Her promotion came as a surprise to all, which was evident if one looked at their expressions. Her sudden increase in rank was most definitely uncalled for, but we all knew that Becky had been boning the boss.
I was pulled out of my thoughts suddenly by the sound of breaking glass. My initial guess was that the broken object was most likely a full mug of coffee. Oh, the horror! I silently prayed for my lost companion, dreaming about what could have been. Or really what should have been. I shifted my glance slightly to the left to see the culprit regretfully stare down at the remains of the broken mug. I hoped he was reflecting on his actions and was begging the coffee gods for forgiveness, lest he be cursed to never again pour a decent cup of coffee.
He appeared to be as lost in thought as I, for his gaze lingered on the broken mug too long for it to be considered normal shock. That look piqued my interest. Looking past the cheery barista facade, I noticed the wrinkles assaulting his blue button up underneath his absurdly clean apron. His hair was tousled unbelievably; I honestly didn't know that hair could stick up at those angles. His disheveled appearance matched his downcast expression.
The hollow look in his eyes grew deeper as he continued to stare at the broken mug. Did something of his break recently? Maybe the cup referred to a broken relationship. Again, I began typing: The pieces of porcelain surrounding me reminded me of happy memories that were now just as scattered and broken. The coffee pooling around my feet brought flashbacks of her slipping through my fingers, moving just far enough out of reach. The liquid soaking through my canvas shoes was hot to the touch, like the tears that ran down her face.
I was shocked out of the sad baristas story when The Asshole that had been occupying the four-person table pushed back his metal chair forcefully. The chair legs scraping loudly against the concrete floors, startling most individuals out of their conversations. Like I mentioned earlier, this dude is an asshole. If I read between the lines, his forceful chair pushing and his closed-off posture probably held more significant meaning. The only problem is that I don’t want to read between the lines. I would much rather skip over the complexities of his character and obstinately refer to him as an asshole.
Ignoring The Asshole now exiting the building, I closed my eyes momentarily taking in the clashing of sounds that surrounded me. The hum of the espresso machine, and the hiss of the steam wand. Keyboards being attacked by hands, filling the air with the pleasant sound of productivity. I could hear snippets of conversations that probably should not have been voiced in a public setting. I could hear feet tapping along to a beat that could only make sense if you were wearing the headphones. Pens tapped and clicked and clacked.
As if on cue, the gaggle of women to my left began to pack up noisily. I opened my eyes slowly watching them with intense interest. The dramatic movements made it look like they were performing one of the great tragedies. Though I'm sure, their play would be titled something more interesting than Romeo and Juliet or Hamlet. At that moment, the title hit me in a stroke of genius, "When we said our goodbyes to Becky who banged the boss." I giggled to myself a little too loudly earning a couple of judgmental sideways glances from the very group I was observing.
One of the glances belonged to the smallest woman in the group; the Chihuahua lady, who reminded me of a Stacy. So, when Stacy turned, I was surprised to find out that ironically enough she did indeed look like a chihuahua. With her small and pinched features that gave off the vibe of an individual who would be more than happy to yap your ear off.
The performance ended with a touching display of awkward side hugs and terse smiles. When finally, all of the talent was called off to exit stage left.
I looked down at my word document, and there was a full page of words. Amazing! Were they good words that formed incoherent sentences that might pass as something other than hate mail for Becky and the asshole? Not so much. It was better than nothing though.
The bell above the door clanged loudly, signaling the entrance of yet another character. A young man entered with stress riddling his lanky features. His hands writhed nervously at his sides with the occasional wipe of invisible trails of sweat off his palms and onto his blue jeans. As if sensing my inquisitive gaze, he tugged on his collar. He walked cautiously to the counter ordering his drink as quickly as he could in his overly anxious state. Words tumbled out, his tongue tripping him up every step of the way. The exchange ended with a five-dollar bill, and a small nod, which I'm sure meant something like "keep the change." The young man exhaled, and tension left along with the excess carbon dioxide.
His story had not yet ended though because instead of waiting for his drink and leaving, he took up residence at a two-person table on the far wall. He folded himself up nicely, though his lanky limbs and the tiny table did not match up well. His feet tapped nervously as he thrummed out a beat on his table. He tried to rest his elbows on the table, but the unbalanced table legs sent the top half of his body flying forward. The whole ordeal involved a lot of flailing limbs and more than a little shock, judging from the look on his face.
His concentration was broken when his order was announced for pick-up, and what pray tell did this young man order? Tea. He ordered tea. My sympathy for him turned to scrutiny almost instantaneously.
He returned to his seat, none the wiser of my glares being sent in his direction. The young man looked like a Ted. Amidst his nervous fit, Ted remained sitting with his back straight and made sure to periodically smooth out the nonexistent wrinkles on his shirt. His unwrinkled blue and white striped polo made me assume that Ted was waiting for someone, and it was someone important. For no man, I know wears a polo without a good reason to do so.
He checked his phone just as frequently as he tapped his foot. Pressing the home button like it was a life alert, and from the flush in his cheeks, he had fallen. The question was, could he get up?
Ted's Story: I kept tapping my foot in anticipation, the flush on my cheeks intensifying as the minutes passed. My face was on fire, and I knew it wasn't just my imagination when I felt a bead of sweat roll down my cheek. Time slowed to a crawl. My heart leaped out of my chest when my phone vibrated on the table. She was coming. She was here.
Somehow Ted managed to stand when the young woman entered. No emergency services were to be called today, or at least not right at this moment. Ted's face had gone from a rosy pink to a fire truck red in less than two seconds, and at that moment I felt compelled to dial 9-1-1 just in case he fainted from overheating.
I was currently on my fifth cup of coffee, and it was drained about halfway. So, I had been here for approximately six and a half hours. My back was killing me. At this point in the day, I figured I might as well pack up and leave. Shadows now replaced what had once been sunlight. The noise in the store had died down to a lull, but one sound stood out. I could hear the intense clicking and clacking of keys being pounded on from across the store. The presumably stressed out student was still here.
I looked at him seriously for the first time since I began this mad hunt for inspiration. He was hunched over his notebook writing faster than his pen could accommodate. When he lifted up his hand to shake some life back into it, I noticed how the edge was covered in black ink. He must have been writing for some time.
This made me do a little self-reflection. I had been sitting in this seat for six and a half hours observing other people's body language and facial expressions. Watching and waiting for something to pop out at me. For inspiration to strike. I may not have been lucky in the inspiration department today, but maybe somebody else had been? Lucky that is.
Maybe this "stressed out student" wasn't a student at all. He had a backpack, but his table was devoid of textbooks, which was the tell-tale sign of a struggling student. What if the person I had assumed was a student was a writer like myself? It was an interesting thought I felt I had to entertain.
If this person had been writing about me, I assume it went a little something like this: The young woman sat in the back corner of the coffee shop trying, but failing, to look disinterested by her surroundings. Her eyes gave her away. She would stare openly with crazed bloodshot eyes at those surrounding her, as if she was searching for something hidden deep beneath the surface.
Her eyes landed on a group of girls sitting not far from me. She typed for a few minutes with a devilish smirk adorning her face, but stopped abruptly when the barista shattered a mug full of tea (which I could see clearly from my vantage point). The look of pure horror that slowly spread across her face was comical to say the least. This girl must really love tea, I thought to myself.
This cycle of her spotting someone, typing a short blurb, and getting distracted repeated throughout the day. She reminded me of an overexcited puppy who kept getting distracted by the proverbial "shiny toy."
She shifted in her seat constantly. Her feet started off on the ground but would then move to rest on the chair across from her. Never once though did I see her sit entirely still, which might have been the result of too much coffee. Coffee cups were emptied and refilled periodically, and each new cup received was handled with the utmost care. Sighs of relief were released with the first sip as if breathing life back into the tired writer. That's when I started to get worried about this girl's sanity, or the apparent lack thereof.
Her hands were shaking and eyes glazed over with an equal amount of exhaustion and over-caffeination. This girl needs to lay off the caffeine. Reclining in her uncomfortable chair while staring blankly at empty pages that no doubt stared back. Pen tapping, clicking and clacking against her notebook. Hair messily piled on her head as she giggles to herself, probably chuffed at her literary genius.
I continued to watch her curiously throughout the day. I watched as she watched. Observing the girl who was observing others, and thankfully not once did she look my way. Because who wants to be observed by a girl who looked more unstable than the table she sat at…
I looked at my page once more. What was once an empty page, was now a page filled with nonsense. Snippets of Bad Becky and her clique of unenthused friends, and many sentences comparing the small woman to animals. The sad barista was too depressed to write about, and the asshole made a small but essential cameo. My remaining paragraphs were filled with young Ted and his spectacularly awkward date. I was proud of Ted, mostly because he didn't end up needing an ambulance.
I tapped my feet nervously as I pondered my next move, and before I could regret it, I did the unthinkable. I highlighted all of my notes, half-assed sentences, and unfinished plot lines and I pressed backspace. I let my head slowly fall into my hands as I inwardly berated myself for being an idiot. Lifting my head from hands, I looked at my empty computer screen. I pulled myself out of self-pity and forced my hands to rest on the keys.
My hands begin moving as I mutter to myself, "I sit silently, languidly sipping my lukewarm cup of coffee."
sonder
n. the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own—populated with their own ambitions, friends, routines, worries and inherited craziness—an epic story that continues invisibly around you like an anthill sprawling deep underground, with elaborate passageways to thousands of other lives that you’ll never know existed, in which you might appear only once, as an extra sipping coffee in the background, as a blur of traffic passing on the highway, as a lighted window at dusk.