Song of Myself: Observations in a Coffee Shop

I sit down at a table across from a couple having a very serious conversation. The girl is young, probably 20 or so, dark with an accent, very beautiful, very vulnerable. The guy is handsome, well dressed, incredibly confident, an air of insincerity about him. They whisper to each other, sitting very closely, her hand on his knee. I can hear her telling him how she has a hard time trusting men; too many have used her. At one point he says, “I am an awkward person,” to which she replies, “so am I,” and I think, “everyone is an awkward person.”

They talk for about an hour, holding hands, tears in her eyes, indifference in his. He gets up to leave. She sits there for a few minutes then says to me, “can I tell you what just happened?”

She begins to recount the history of their relationship. They have been dating for a month and she just found out from his roommate that he has been seeing other girls while dating her. And though I realize the irrationality of her wanting him to be devoted to her after just one month, I understand where she is coming from. There have been too many guys who I’ve wished would devote themselves to me after a short amount of time, thinking if only they would spend more time with me they would see how great I am, how great we could be for each other. So many relationships that could have been, if only.

I listen to her vent, shake my head, tell her I understand. She keeps saying, “I am an idiot. I feel so stupid,” to which I reply, “I have been there before. You are not stupid.” After a few moments of silence she gets up to leave and I smile and wish her luck.

A man comes in and sits a few feet in front of me at a couch near the door. He sits down with his Mac Book; he has long hair and a beard, is wearing dirty jeans and grungy t-shirt, looking purposefully homeless. I notice him look over at me. I look up. He looks over and smiles. Looks over and smiles. Looks over and smiles. Finally he asks me if I have any rolling paper. When I tell him I don’t he says he is not surprised, laughs, and commences typing.

A girl comes in with long blond dreads and greets the man, leans into him, obviously interested in his attention. He acts indifferent, tells her he is here, as usual, to write. She senses his indifference and goes to order a coffee. 

The man working the counter has longer blond hair, a little heavier set, very jolly. He wears baggy clothes and sandals, whistles theatrically along with the Motown playing on the stereo. In walks in some ridiculous looking kids. They look like they have spent hours making themselves appear as dirty and outlandish as possible. I don’t understand. In the name of self-expression, it seems like too much work to me, and they are trying so hard to be different they are no different at all. They are just like all the others who are trying to be different. We are all trying so hard to be different, trying so hard to be unique, trying so hard to “find” ourselves. Why don’t we just let ourselves be?

And though I find this a bit absurd, I think, “these people are my people.” We are all each other’s.