Wanted: Bistro Table and a Latte

A Cafe Voyeur waits for his theater to re-open

A writer casts for characters in the melee of a modern cafe.

Every writer’s toolbox should include a bistro table and a latte. It may not be the sexiest power tool available when compared to a butterfly keyboard or the most current version of Scrivener, but similar to a seldom used ball peen hammer—impactful when needed.

As most writers nod in agreement, a few will wonder at the banality of such a statement, but in anticipation of cafe’s reopening, I invite you to take a seat and appreciate the return of this unique theater.

The 2020 pandemic rewrote the playbill, and postponed these performances. 

The urban cafe is a fertile ground to cast for characters. I’ve been missing the melee of emotional tangles, the portfolio of character studies without subtitles, and the knowledge gained through a gentle eavesdrop into a conversation.

I am reminded of a scene that became important to my writing pre-Covid-19. 

On this particular day I was looking for attributes of a new character for my novel. Before I cast my thoughts inwards, I looked up to survey the room. My chai, always in a mug, was still too hot to drink. 

Just beyond the window, an elderly man leaned heavily on a malacca crook cane. The curved top of the walking stick scratched, the patina of a clash between the wood and the thick silver ring that spun on his emaciated finger. His knee-length coat hangs open, it’s missing a button, and a brown tweed flat cap curtails thin white hair.

Each shuffled step towards the entry ends with a full stop.  The curve of his spine, almost doubled over, is interrupted by the upward tilt of his head. Eager for physical dignity, the man’s neck bends proudly to lift his chin. Each step an accomplishment. He smiles, unconcerned that he has no audience or does he sense I am watching? His perfect white Chiclet teeth push against thin lips.

A young woman in skin-tight black Lululemon pants holds the door for him. She looks upon him kindly, but his smile falters. It requires a choice between making eye contact and concentrating on his feet to cross the threshold. 

Or do his eyes linger on her shapely legs and the curve of her near perfect ass? In his day, this would have been a scandalous outfit. Not the kind of girl you would take home. He may not have been that kind of boy either. I reflect for a moment on the fashions that he must have seen in his eighty or more years.

He declines her offer to enter and steps back to let her pass. He often believes he’s in the way.

If he were to focus on his reflection in the window, it might disappoint him to see that he is not standing erect. 

The cane steadies him as his right hand slides into the slit pocket of his wool dress pants. There is a flash of silver as his fingers wrap around an object.

I wistfully wish I had a camera to capture this anachronism playing out in front of me. A wizened old man in nostalgic clothing about to make a call. 

I watch as he raises a thin silver cell phone. I imagine an even greater photo if he lifted it with his thumbs splayed in the symbolic mudra of a person texting. Even if he were to just make a cell phone call, the image would bridge eras and generations. Add the shapely young girl and the message of aging would be universal.

He doesn’t glance down; the contours of the phone are familiar to his hand. Its flat profile suggests an older model, but not an iPhone.  

The tendon between his thumb and forefinger tightens to raise a clasp as the silver case falls open. It isn’t a phone. Instead of a screen and keyboard, pale white tissue paper cylinders line up in rows, a cigarette case. My anachronism is now just a man from another time.

I look, wondering if they are hand rolled, the pride of a lifetime smoker, but then I catch sight of tightly pressed filter tips. Angled about 45 degrees, the modern cigarettes don’t fit. This illuminates character as he still uses it. I can visualize the dexterity required of his arthritic fingers to load the case. Unnecessary, but he cannot abandon it just because it is old; it is fundamental to his routine.

With his left hand, he places a cigarette against his lips, the cane rocking on his wrist. A careful choreography follows as he returns the case to his pocket, transfers the cane to the other hand, before reaching into a vest pocket to produce a silver lighter. I can’t see it, but I know there is a callus on his thumb from pressing the coarse wheel that grinds against the flint.

With a deep inhale, his cheeks sink under the angular bones that cradle shadowed eye sockets, and the tip of the cigarette flares.

Blue gray smoke rises slowly around him.  A few people look up, the tobacco catching their senses. The looks of reproach soften as they identify the old man. It is the ‘Grandfather Clause’ in its most personal form. No one would deny his right to inhabit this space. 

His pursed lips hold the cigarette; he wheezes slightly like an engine warming up and begins his slow shuffle down the sidewalk and out of the frame of my imaginary snap-shot but onto the page of my manuscript. 

My chai latte was then cool enough to sip.

Soon, patrons and passers-by will inspire the imagination and influence the characters that populate writing projects. How they speak, their mannerisms, a person’s affect, all in the wings, awaiting their cue to prompt a writer to script their untold story. 

As cafes reopen, and it is it safe to do so, I send out a plea support the independent coffee houses that have struggled these last few months.