The corner table
FICTION

The sounds of the city are still here, but the straight-down steady rainfall muted, cleanses them. The buses, the horns, the squealing brakes less annoying through the hum of water hitting the sidewalk, the trash bins, the newsstand, the coffee shop canopy.

Rain now, but stormy weather is predicted to start soon and continue through the night. The thunder will come and as this Saturday morning moves to nighttime, street life will quiet its concert and even the commotion of the city will subside behind the weather.

I’m in my customary spot for a Saturday morning. Hah, but the day doesn’t matter. Since I’ve retired you may find me here any morning. Or afternoon or evening. Before I left my job counseling high school kids for college, this corner table and eclectic, hard and uncomfortable chair, was my vantage point on Saturdays. Now I can, and do, park myself here any time I wish.

I like this place, the owners, Meg and Bea. I like the coffee, the people, the atmosphere. It all agrees with me. And I like to people-watch. I’d say most of the people here are regulars, but Meg and Bea see a lot of new and passerby custom.

Meg and Bea are masters at instantly remembering patrons names. They just as quickly learn their usual orders. I’ve picked up a few names from my corner eavesdropping post. But even without names, I observe, craft make-believe life stories for those passing through. Stories based on the facts I overhear, mixed with my own whimsy.

My interest is piqued when former students come through M&B’s Bean House doors. In many ways my career was filled with the frustration of unfinished business. Around the 10th grade I’d start to get to know students and two years later they’d be on their way. They’d follow or not a plan and path that we’d put together. But more often than not I felt like a parent, but not quite so, sending a young adult into the world, without knowing how it turned out. Did they get that degree in electrical engineering and find a job in San Francisco? Did trade school and apprenticeship work out and lead to a plumbing business of their own? Did they marry, have kids? Did they leave the city? I rarely know.

But here, when I see a former student, even if I don’t remember their name or particulars, the loop is closed. I hear their idle conversation, their coffee order and I get some closure. They’ve made it this far at least. They’re succeeding, or trying.

Sometimes one of us will strike up conversation and I get the real details. We catch up on the intervening years. I’m proud.

It’s coming up on noon and my first cup of coffee has been nursed away. Road traffic is settling down and more people are making their way on foot. The bell over the door is dinging more frequently as folks take the impulse to warm up and dry off inside.

I think I hear the first distant thunder.

Raj catches my eye from behind the counter, mimes pouring coffee. I nod. He brings the pot out front and refills my cup, says he’s got a break coming and will be right back.

Raj is a kid from the neighborhood and has been working here a couple of years. He started in high school and now I guess he’s about 20. He has moved out of his parents and with a roommate rents a place a few blocks off this street. We talk often about his plans for the future.

“Hey, Mister-A, nice day out there, huh?” Raj jokes while pulling out his chair on the other side of my corner table.

“I actually like rainy and stormy weather. As long as I don’t have to be out in it, ha, ha.”

Raj grins and looks outside, takes a draw on his chai.

“I went by the Dev Studio last night.” Raj says, still looking out the window.

“And?” I ask.

“It’s, you know, it’s a lot to learn. The people there are so smart.”

“Did you talk to someone about the financing or classes?” I ask.

“Yes, they gave me a tour and I saw some classes. It’s very intense. They tell me I can do it, but I don’t know. They want my money after all.” Raj says, ever doubting himself, lacking confidence.

“That’s true.” I say. “They’re wanting to make a profit. But remember, we did some research, read stories in the paper and checked reviews online. Students say good things – the training is good and they get jobs. Reputable. I think we can say they’re reputable. The rest would be you – your study.”

“Yeah. Yeah. It’s a lot of money.” Raj says.

“It is. But it’s less than a college degree and for web design, it looks like having specific skills for a job is what gets you in the door. And without that foot in the door, you won’t be able to do what you want.” I try to encourage him.

I want to tell him what to do. It’s the urge I always had to suppress. My job, when I was working, was to, if not make a decision their idea alone, help them walk up to and shake hands with it on their own. So often I think I see the obvious way ahead for a student, but for it to be a success, it has to come from them.

“I think I’m going to sign up for the session-after-next. I’ll sign up. I’ll be in the class. But this will give me a couple of months to get my mind behind it.” He says.

I think he should start right away. I think the very next session starts in a week. But this is progress, so I leave it.

“That’s great, Raj! Do it – you’re moving forward!” I say with real enthusiasm. I raise my cup in toast. His smile is bigger now.

A customer has come in and has asked Raj about an order of ground beans. Raj says goodbye and returns to the counter.

There are usually more people about with their dogs. Especially on a Saturday. Stretching for the humans and the pups. The weather discourages that this day. Never having had a dog I wonder about all of those dogs and their “business.” Do they hold it for good weather or must their owners rush out into the flood and beg and cajole until the dog has relieved itself beside a muddied puddle? I enjoy the dogs, miss them today, but glad they’re not my worry.

The thunder is bigger now. I think thunder is made by lightning, I’m not sure of this. But I see no sparks in the sky. Dark clouds have given the sense that the clock is more advanced than it is. More thunder rattles dishes behind the counter, but no flashes. The intensity of rain has let up…still coming down, a little bit of wind, but not so much water.

Meg and Bea keep the place pretty simple and basic to coffee, tea and some baked things. They do sell beans, mugs, artwork. Bea said they don’t make any money on those other things, but they want to support local artists and give folks something to keep them busy if they’re waiting in line or for their order.

I fear the only time the artwork, and there are some very interesting paintings on display now, get no viewing except when the place is busy. And then the views are harried and impatient. When it’s slow I appreciate them. I should buy something.

It’s starting to feel a little hot in here. Close. The place has filled up. I get up and prop open the door. The substantial awning, normally offering shade to those who use the few sidewalk tables, keeps the rain from menacing us inside.

The cool rush of air is welcome.

As I kick into place the stone used to prop open the door I feel a tiny bit the proprietor. Several appreciative looks angle in my direction.

I re-take my seat, consider another cup of coffee.

The seat is uncomfortable. I wiggle around often to give my slight and bony frame fresh points to rest upon. Very few furnishings in here match. Some chairs are quite comfortable, but they aren’t at my table. I’ll take it upon myself to open a door, but don’t feel the authority to mess with the décor.

I will straighten a piece of artwork, however. I’ve been known to rearrange the mugs display after someone has made a purchase. Perhaps I’m too much busy-body for my friends Meg and Bea.

Two sweetheart teens come in now. They’re holding hands and talking to each other. At the same time. They stand just inside the door and shake like dogs to get the water off. I’ve not seen them before.

They study the chalkboard wall. They point, talk, shake their heads. Shortly, consensus reached, they head over to make their order: two mochas and they’ll share a peanut butter cookie.

I’ve suggested to Meg and Bea on several occasions that they need live music. Strings, maybe.

In the back there’s a corner that would work. They’d lose two tables, but a small platform could be put in.

Room for a guitarist or two. Or maybe someone playing keyboard.

The piped-in music is fine. It varies from okay to good. But live music would be a draw. There are many music students around who would crave the exposure.

Meg suggests the idea could work, but can they afford it: the lost tables and the fee?

Bea thinks perhaps they don’t need to pay, but just offer a tip jar.

I bite my tongue. Artists should be appreciated and respected. Even with a small stipend.

In moments they come to the same idea. I’m pleased.

But they’re not yet convinced. They’d have to audition people. Come up with rules for the style of music that would suit. And they don’t want it to prevent conversation in the shop. It can’t be too loud.

For not the first time, the idea has been discussed, but tabled. I hold out hope.

It’s become late afternoon and the rain has all but stopped. The clouds continue to be angry and thunder booms.

I watch through the front window to see a squirrel scamper from the leaves of a tree to snatch some dropped morsel of food. He quickly inspects what looks like popcorn in his long-clawed fingers before darting back to the tree and his home.

Taking advantage of the lull, in persons and rain, I stand, place my cup and plate in the collection area, give a goodbye nod to those working behind the counter, and take myself home.