I saw an image of myself the other day, a portly older gent sitting alone at the front table, nodding to Monk, content with some French roast and a baguette, some rumor about an outside world filters in.
I don’t think that’s me. Neither am I the guy impressing (or not) the wanna-be fashion model at the next table.
Now the fellow in the booth with the poems in his back pocket spouting a line about which chakras to massage first – he strikes me as familiar.
I guess I could be the kid with the duffel bag under the table, waiting for the girl on the telephone who might be crying, or even the lummox with the plate full of food and the woman staring into space. Why doesn’t she come out with whatever she’s thinking? Does she think it will interrupt his eating? Shouldn’t that be a good thing?
But that’s not me either. Hell, maybe I’m the guy working the dumpster out back for 40 cents in aluminum and some questionable pants.
But isn’t the street kind of lonely?
Hey, maybe they need a dishwasher here, that could be me, really be me: little hole-in-the-wall apartment, getting the dishes really clean, a really sweet girl that comes over on her day off, or mine, and pretends my stories astound her – lets me dance her down the hall and back again, wonders aloud about the dignity that a certain age brings out in men.
Yes, that’s me. Snap the picture.