A middle aged southern woman stands behind the counter.
"Well come on in sugar. Why don't you take off your coat and have a seat."
I sit down in the booth at the end.
"Can I get you anything?"
"Coffee, black. And a slice of apple pie please."
"Alright just you wait here darling." She smiles.
I'm not going anywhere tonight.
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This is 128 Redding St. Residing there a small 50s styled diner with some easy jazz played by a man on a piano on the other side of the restaurant. Artwork by local artists hang on one wall. They're abstract, naked women, turned from the viewer bathed in a sea of lines and skewed shapes, others twisted, still life photos, misconstrued cameras and obtuse pencils. The menu is adorned with a variety of american foods from pies to burgers, and malts to lattes. Items are delivered on confectionary plates according to the size of the food which is placed on a classic white and red checkered tissue paper. There are many people here and almost all the tables are filled with small groups laughing and crying and discovering what it means to live, freely.
John always takes a seat at the counter. Most day's he just sits and mulls over a coffee with the daily news in hand, but today he's depressed. He almost got in a relationship with a beautiful girl. This time around with his best friend's ex -- they had broken up because he was being an asshole to her, and wasn't giving to her what she gave to him -- but they ended up getting back together because the, "sex was good and he deserved another chance". Today John drinks a beer, not because he really likes alcohol, but because it makes him feel better. He drinks and drinks because it helps him realize that he is human, and that he makes mistakes. So here's to another one. His friend, Rich, walks in, all of a sudden; he breaks the placid atmosphere.
Rich, looks bleary eyed, like he just got off the last helicopter out of Iraq, but when he see's his friend his eyes brighten. "John," he says, "It's so good to see you." John is ecstatic. They embrace for a half a minute, out of love, and out of trust. You can tell that they had been through a lot together, and haven't seen each other in a very long time. They release and both walk to the piano in the corner. Wonderful melodies begin to ebb within the room, improvised, created from a raw nothing, simply thin air; and from the booth in front of me a woman begins tapping her foot.
I've seen her before. Danielle comes and orders a ham and cheese omelet accompanied by hot
chocolate with chili powder, she likes the extra spice. She sets up her laptop and begins to write rapidly, her fingers almost playing like that of a pianist. She's writing a novel, a romance about forgotten love, where a couple is rejoined on the streets of Venice after being apart for the last 20 years. Danielle has ambition and as she writes, she taps her foot along with the piano playing. Some would call it strange, but she connects herself with the room, easing into the atmosphere, and uses it to feed her writing. She's never been blocked, never felt like there isn't a place to be going. Her mind takes her down alleyways and into crevices of the past and future. She feels free. Then she stops. I see her look up from her writing, stand, and face a couple on the other end of the restaurant sitting just left of the piano.
I remember these two. Charlotte and Alex, a lesbian couple, looking to move to Illinois for college this next fall. Charlotte was a go getter, always chasing for her dreams, trying to get what she wanted and never letting anyone tell her she wasn't good enough. She was independent, tried to make the most of what she had, and was one of the nicest people I ever knew. Alex, she was different. It was strange, sometimes she could be the most amazing, open person you knew, but other times, she lost the realness that followed her. She was introversive, not to the point of being selfish, but she wanted to be left alone. They met at a community event, some sort of service project for a local homeless shelter. They met, became friends, then lovers, and to the day have been committed to each other like any other couple. They faced life's challenges together.
My food arrived. I ate, alone, and watched people go in and out of the restaurant. At one point in the
evening, Genni and Terrance walked in, the couple I mentioned earlier, the girl that John almost dated. That didn't go over well, and John left in a huff. Shortly after Rich had to leave because his girlfriend was having an anxiety attack. The piano stopped playing, Charlotte and Alex left out of the awkwardness left in the wake of the situation. Then right in the middle of the café Terrance starts yelling at Genni how she's never been faithful and never understood him and never gave enough. Genni started crying and ran out, Terrance ran after her.
evening, Genni and Terrance walked in, the couple I mentioned earlier, the girl that John almost dated. That didn't go over well, and John left in a huff. Shortly after Rich had to leave because his girlfriend was having an anxiety attack. The piano stopped playing, Charlotte and Alex left out of the awkwardness left in the wake of the situation. Then right in the middle of the café Terrance starts yelling at Genni how she's never been faithful and never understood him and never gave enough. Genni started crying and ran out, Terrance ran after her.
Slowly the evening dragged on, my coffee got cold, and the patrons, most whom I knew, left. It was around 11 and all that was left in the place was Danielle and I. She looked up from her computer and smiled at me, but, it wasn't a happy smile, it was more like a determined smile. She knew, and I knew, and that's all that mattered; see, we understood each other. As Danielle and I finish sharing our moment of solitude, Alex rushes in tears falling about her cheeks, glasses on sideways, and hair all knotted up. She tells us that she's just broken up with Charlotte and didn't know how to handle it.
We all knew that their relationship was a bit shaky and that they had their ups and downs, but we felt
like they had it all figured out. Apparently not. It's strange how people surprise you. She sits down across the table from me and just cries, and I felt so bad for her. Danielle comes over and sits next to her, puts her arm over her shoulder and just lets her cry. So we sit, in silence, aside from Alex's sobs, and wait. It rolls close to midnight and the owner tells us he needs to clean up so we have to leave. We all get up, and we just start laughing, hysterically. I mean, I've never laughed this hard in my life. We look at each other, walk out of the café, and part our separate ways.
We all have our own 128 Redding St. They reside within the constructs of our subconscious mind, ebbing and changing daily, hourly, every single minute. Players play their parts on the stage of our lives, but after the show ends they become encore patrons to our minds eye, entering and exiting our diners, changing our character, and influencing our decisions. The members at 128. Redding St. Represent the people who are me. They symbolise who I am inside. The members one the diner are a part of me. They conduct my music, exhilarate my thoughts, recourse my ideologies.
The worst thing is that because of the players, I can never be myself. Instead I'm tiny bits of other people formed into a ball that I call my own. I want to escape 128 Redding St. I may part my ways every night, but each morning I return, order the same item, and with the show play in front of me. Its erratic and eclectic, never the same. I want a constant, I want to be free.
like they had it all figured out. Apparently not. It's strange how people surprise you. She sits down across the table from me and just cries, and I felt so bad for her. Danielle comes over and sits next to her, puts her arm over her shoulder and just lets her cry. So we sit, in silence, aside from Alex's sobs, and wait. It rolls close to midnight and the owner tells us he needs to clean up so we have to leave. We all get up, and we just start laughing, hysterically. I mean, I've never laughed this hard in my life. We look at each other, walk out of the café, and part our separate ways.We all have our own 128 Redding St. They reside within the constructs of our subconscious mind, ebbing and changing daily, hourly, every single minute. Players play their parts on the stage of our lives, but after the show ends they become encore patrons to our minds eye, entering and exiting our diners, changing our character, and influencing our decisions. The members at 128. Redding St. Represent the people who are me. They symbolise who I am inside. The members one the diner are a part of me. They conduct my music, exhilarate my thoughts, recourse my ideologies.
The worst thing is that because of the players, I can never be myself. Instead I'm tiny bits of other people formed into a ball that I call my own. I want to escape 128 Redding St. I may part my ways every night, but each morning I return, order the same item, and with the show play in front of me. Its erratic and eclectic, never the same. I want a constant, I want to be free.
