Traveling Strangers

I walk into a cafe in Freeport, Maine and begin my scan for a place to sit and write. I am drawn to a seat by a window. Writers need windows, places to stare off into, to rest their eyes in between words. There is an adjacent table, where a man with a white beard, a green hat and rainboots sits. I contemplate sitting facing the window instead of the man to eliminate the inherent risk of small talk. I glance over again, his eyes gentle, his mouth almost in the form of a smile. I decide I wouldn’t mind a conversation this morning and set up on the table directly across from him.

I place my backpack on the brown leather-ish chair and walk over to the counter. There is a large black speaker in the corner playing music. I wonder why coffee shops insist on music when I need quiet to write. In the kitchen, the pots and pans clatter and there is a busy chatter of conversation. I order my breakfast sandwich and attempt to order a latte. The woman behind the counter informs me that unfortunately, they don’t do lattes just regular coffee. I decide regular coffee will do.

I walk over to the coffee dispenser and press down on the handle. The canister makes a gurgle, the kind that is not accompanied by a splash of coffee. I look over at the woman behind the register, she is chatting away with another employee. I wait, she keeps talking. I take my cup and walk over to my table and set it down. A brown-haired employee peers over the counter and asks “Tim, would you like some garlic aioli on your sandwich?” The man across from me nods a yes and the employee explains that the sandwich is just “better with the aioli.” Later, the breakfast sandwich arrives and Tim places his hands over it, closes his eyes, and smiles sitting like that for a while. A simple gesture that reinforces my seat choice for the morning.

The woman from behind the counter comes up to me and delivers the breakfast sandwich. I let her know that they are out of coffee and she looks at me with an inquisitive and confused look. For a moment, I question myself, “What if they aren’t out of coffee?” Later, I notice the brown-haired employee fiddling with the canisters. He is joined by two customers- one of them a hearty blond bearded man in his 30s who tries to help. I look down at my sandwich and decide it’s best not to wait for coffee. 

I approach the counter again and the employee is still fiddling with the canister. He explains that all three canisters broke at once but he will find a way to get me a coffee. He walks into the kitchen and leans over the counter to grab a soup ladle. He returns and pours the coffee into a rectangular steel pan as small splashes of dark colored liquid spill unto him and the counter. He then takes the laddle and scoops the coffee into my cup.  “Well, this is an unconventional way to get your coffee” he proclaims and adds that “this is the last cup of the day”.  I thank him and tell him I’d like to purchase an orange juice. He explains that he feels bad about the coffee situation and says the orange juice is on the house. 

I sit back down, smiling again- after all, the universe just gave me the last coffee of the day and a free orange juice. Across from me, the old man is now on speaker phone. I wonder how I will get anything done. I mentally remind myself to stop fighting what is. I open my computer and scan the work I meant to do. My train of thought is interrupted by the words, “the first time I took this workshop it was 10 pounds of information in a 5 pound bag.” I pause and admire his word choice. He continues, “The second time, 10 pounds of information in a 7 pound bag.” He adds, “This time, 10 pounds of information in a 10 pound bag.”  I attempt to hide a smile.

The conversation shifts, he begins to describe his mother being from Hawaii. He explains, “Maine is the only place where the people remind me of the locals in Hawaii.” My mind draws a map from Maine all the way to shores of California and then dares to reach beyond trying to piece together the sentence. He continues, “At first, people here are friendly to you but at a bit of a distance, but once they get to know you, you are family.”  Deep inside me, something becomes more solid, a sense of recognition- a truth being spoken.

I pretend to look diligently at my screen, I don’t want to be intrusive, but I love a good story.  Despite the use of a speaker phone, I can’t quite grasp the words of the voice on the other side of the line. I gather she is a woman, her name is Lauren. In between the telling of his story, they talk about writing. I hear the part where she tells him that 25 minutes is the ideal amount of time to write. He tells her that he read somewhere that people who walk after working at their computers are healthier.

The conversation ebbs and flows between writing and his move to Maine. “I met a lady on a trip and for a while we had a long-distance relationship. Then, I moved to Maine and she split off from me. I stayed in Maine for 37 years. Years later, she tracked me down and by then I was married. I asked my wife if it was okay if I talked to her. She told me, I might as well- so I did. When I met up with her, I couldn’t figure out what I saw in her. But she apologized to me! It turns out the whole time I was talking to her, she was seeing someone else. We still keep in touch, we are friends now. I have no interest in dating her, as I said I don’t know what I saw in her.” 

The conversation moves to his second wife. He explains that “Nina knew people she went to Kindergarten with. That was so exotic for me because I traveled somewhere new every two years.” He is now talking about taking the train from Maine all the way to California saying it will give him plenty of time to write.  Outside my window, the world spins on, unaware of the interesting man sitting across from me. The Coca-Cola truck makes a delivery, people walk the streets and sit outside shops, and cars drive by maneuvering their way around the red truck.

Tim ends his call and a part of me feels guilty for listening and now for the act of finding it interesting enough to write down.  Yet, I can’t help it- the whole thing sang to me like a siren call.  Something tells me he wouldn’t mind- that there is a part of him that wanted his conversation heard. Maybe it’s the same part that unbashfully chooses to use speakerphone. He struggles to get up, pushing his hand into the table, it takes a few tries. He walks away, to the bathroom I presume, leaving his coat behind. I sit back and fight the urge to selfishly offer to drive him wherever he is going next to spend the next few hours learning the rest of the story.

In the meantime, a family comes in and crowds around the glass case covering croissants, muffins and large cookies.  The father is looking up at the menu with his young daughter beside him. Tim returns from the bathroom. The father is telling his daughter about the options explaining that “there is a nutella fluffernutter, I don’t know what a fluffernutter is- but you could have one if you’d like.” His voice is sweet, and it bounces up and down with excitement at the word fluffernutter. As he says the word,  my eyes meet Tim’s- we both smile, his eyes sparkle, and across from each other we both begin to laugh. He walks over and explains what a fluffernutter is- a peanut butter marshmallow fluff sandwich, this one with nutella!

He tells me he moved to Maine 37 years ago because he met a woman. I nod excitedly and pretend I don’t already know. I tell him I’m here writing too. He asks me what I write. He tells me he thinks scientists are just trying to write poetry- by observing and being precise. I ask him what he writes, he says he is writing a memoir of his life. He explains that he was just on the phone with his creativity coach. He was having a hard time getting started- so he hired one. Confirmation- this man wants his story told. Something tells me, he may never finish that memoir- nor will he ever know about the stranger in the cafe who wrote it down anyways. Now, this invisible string holds us together. 

At times, writing requires that we hole ourselves up somewhere, fingertips tapping away at the heartbeat of a story. Yet, at others, writing demands that we open ourselves up wide to it- and we let the world fill us up so much that we have no choice but to let it come pouring out again. When we let go of labels: old/young, quiet/loud and just let the world sit with us as it is, it turns out the stranger is much more of a friend than we realized. We learn there are times when the safety of quiet isn’t as necessary as ripping off the doors of the heart and diving in.