Old Man in the Coffee Shop Writing in his Journal (I Forget)
By: Peter J. Stavros
Tags: Short Fiction, Fiction, Faith and Life

He was there, like he was always there, every morning when I came in for my coffee, black, sugar, and a muffin, apple crisp if they had it and if not banana, never bran, and just to be up and out, out of the house, after Elizabeth, several months now, give or take as I was losing track of the days, and maybe that was a good thing, but I still wasn’t who I used to be, I could tell. There he was, at the same table — and how early did he have to show up for that prime real estate at this prime time — apart from the madding crowd of nine-to-fivers and wannabe hipsters and middle managers making last minute revisions to presentations and sales pitches and groggy new parents who had been up all night with colicky babies and too cool teenagers on their way to school and hangers-on and ne’er-do-wells with nothing better to do and nowhere to go and everyone else caught up in the coordinated chaos, all clamoring for their daily fix. He was there, always at the same table, off to the side and in the middle, against the window, sequestered from the line that snaked past the counter, sometimes extending out the door, which caused a real cluster, more than usual. I was lucky if I managed to nab a rickety stool beside the railing or maybe squeeze into one of the sunken couches in the corner next to some liberal arts major hunched over a battered laptop with a peeling Fugazi sticker taking advantage of the free Wi-Fi to check e-mails, or job boards, or Craigslist. Me in my dark business suit and black wingtips, balancing my coffee and muffin as I tried to read the paper, a living, breathing anachronism for reading the paper rather than scrolling through the headlines on a smartphone, feeling tragically dull and inapt.

It was still better than being alone, at home. I spent too much time alone at home as it was, after Elizabeth, after she left, but it was the morning that seemed the worst, the loneliest, the most empty, the least promising, without the satisfying ruckus I had grown accustomed to during the seven years we were together, seven years in all, of Elizabeth upstairs, scrambling to ready for work as she had such difficulty starting herself, while I sat in my easy chair, in front of the TV, reading the paper and drinking my coffee from that oversized mug Elizabeth had brought back from one of her business trips, the trip to Seattle with her boss who I thought was just her boss and stupid me for thinking that once I realized and then it was too late but how was I to know. Elizabeth giggled whenever she barreled downstairs, harried and hurried, searching for something she needed in her preparation process, and caught me sipping from that gargantuan, exaggerated bowl of a coffee mug that was supposed to be a joke because she knew how much I loved my coffee but I used it anyway because I liked it. She would dart up to the bathroom, and I would hear the hairdryer zoom on with a flicker of the lights, and the random crash or thud of a brush or a bottle or whatnot into the sink or onto the white porcelain tiled floor, Elizabeth muttering “goddammit” as she tramped and stomped around, every sound amplified in the creaky old Cape Cod that seemed so alive then, the most alive then, during those mornings with Elizabeth, so alive then that it now seemed impossibly quiet, and stifling, and suffocating, and I could not stand to be there, especially in the morning, which was why I got up and dressed as quickly as I could, and out, and away, to this little coffee shop down the street, where I always saw him, at the same table, off to the side and in the middle, against the window, for as long as I had been coming in, several months, something like that.

I didn’t know him, some old man, and I didn’t try to get to know him, figured why bother, and maybe he wouldn’t want to get to know me either. But I was intrigued by him, something about him. His poise in the midst of the frenetic atmosphere, people shouting out their names and their coffee orders, playing musical chairs with the lack of seating. He remained reticent in the wake of that commotion, his thinning white hair slicked perfectly straight back over his head not a strand out of place, his beard full but not unkempt, trimmed enough to show he cared yet not overly-so like the baristas who looked as if they had their beards sprayed on at some trendy beard salon, a button-down shirt and pleated pants, and as the seasons changed, summer into fall, a flannel jacket in a checkerboard pattern of arbor green and deep mahogany draped over the back of his chair. In front of him were a Styrofoam cup of coffee, without his name scribbled on it in black Sharpie like the rest of us — I had checked, for some clue, as if his first name would reveal anything — and a small plate with scattered crumbs of what he had eaten, probably a scone because he seemed like a scone person, perhaps pumpkin in October, lemon otherwise.

It was the old man I more and more found myself drawn to in this manic coffee shop during the morning rush, for his stillness, his quiet, his obvious indifference to the chaos that surrounded him. I could not turn away, no matter where I sat. He was there, always there, at the same table, with the same setup, and writing, constantly writing in this worn brown leather-bound journal, never looking up, never looking around, no matter what, no matter the shouting of peoples’ names and coffee orders and sundry other distractions, the clanking of silverware or the rearranging of tables and chairs or the whistling of the steamer that heated the milk into a frothy topping. He kept singularly centered on his writing, only pausing to take a sip of coffee, or to adjust his wire-rimmed glasses, or to maybe scratch behind his ear or rub a hand over his face, his mouth, his chin, every so often changing out pens after the ink had run dry in the one he was using. But that was it, and nothing more, and other than that, all he did was sit there, by himself, and write.

I wasn’t sure how long he stayed. It could have been all day, until the last coffee bean was ground and brewed and the milk steamer shut down for the evening and all the chairs upturned onto all the tables, or it could have been five minutes after me. I always had to leave before him, to get to my job, to maintain my routine, to not squander my caffeine high. It was off to the office to sell my time in six-minute increments, reviewing documents, drafting pleadings, placating impatient clients, anything it took to hold my tenuous place on the partnership track, all while trying not to think of Elizabeth. The busier I was the easier it was to stay focused, struggling to free myself from this rut, and to move on, to become myself again because I wasn’t myself anymore and I could tell and so could others. My friends urged me to start dating. My therapist said I needed a hobby. My mom wanted me to return to church but I no longer believed in that, didn’t see how I could, after this, and everything else. So I just plodded along. Despite my efforts, the idle moments did seep in, those moments when my mind wandered, when my mind would not permit me to release what I knew I needed to release. Yet instead of tumbling into the typical melancholy, grieving the loss of my romanticized vision of Elizabeth, blaming me, hating me, I had begun to think about the old man in the coffee shop writing in his journal, turning to him intermittently throughout the day, particularly during those instances when my emotions flipped like a switch at some subconscious cue, a sort of involuntary defense mechanism.

My obsession swiftly blossomed, my speculation ran rampant, my head crammed full with these far-fetched scenarios. Who was he, and what was he writing? It became this grand mystery to me, one I had to solve. Maybe he was a famous author, drafting the Great American Novel, and I would be able to tell everyone that I was there basking in his creative process. Or he could have been a brilliant mathematician, or physicist, some kind of scientist, a genius, devising equations and calculations and hypotheses to solve the mysteries of the universe, to explain creation, how it was we were here, our purpose, why shit happened. What if he was a spy, hiding in plain sight, casing out the place, taking copious notes on everyone who drifted through — but what could he be spying on, and for whom, and why this coffee shop?

I couldn’t sleep, still, but not because I was pining for Elizabeth. I was instead awash with conjecture and supposition, tossing and turning as I envisaged various plots playing out. I arose eager to dash to the coffee shop, not so much, as it had been, to flee my house, but to observe the old man, to study him tuned out to the world, detached from everything except whatever it was he was meticulously putting down on the pages of his journal. What was so important for him to write about day in and day out? As I persisted with this idée fixe, the heaviness that had weighed upon me lifted, and the foreboding and dread vanished. I was excited. I was engaged. I was enthused, about something, anything. Even after I departed the coffee shop, confined to my tiny desk in my small office with the singular sliver of opaque window and wilted potted plant of unknown origin, my spirits remained high, my resilience unbroken, the old man and his journal having pulled me from the depths of my despair. I could think only of him, ruminating on what the novel was about, what the hypothesis solved, who had sent him to spy. This compulsion squeezed out my other compulsions, the ghost of Elizabeth exorcised, and enabled me to open to new people and to new opportunities. I wondered if I needed the coffee shop at all anymore, but could not give it up, not entirely, not until I learned what the old man was writing. I felt I owed it to myself, that I deserved it.

One morning, like the other mornings, or I thought, my opportunity arose. The old man stood from his table, and simply walked off, disappearing down a narrow corridor toward the back. Just like that, he was gone. I was in disbelief, a bit panicked. What was happening? He had up and left his table, the same table, and his journal, the worn brown leather-bound journal, unguarded and unattended. I glanced around, confused, to see if anyone else had noticed, surely someone else had noticed, surely someone else cared, but no one, only me. My pulse quickened, and a nervous energy flickered from my core to the tips of my fingers and toes. I realized my moment had arrived. I finally had my chance. Yet I could not move, not the slightest shifting of position. I was affixed to the rickety stool, dense against the railing, forced to contemplate if I really wanted to do this. Did I really want to find out? Was it that important to me, was it something I needed to know? I questioned if it would be better not to know, to continue to leave it to my imagination, my overactive, crazed imagination. I caught a glimpse of the antique wall clock behind the bustling counter, the second hand racing. I was painfully aware, with a tightness in my chest, a lump in my throat, that if I was going to do something, I had better do it. I leaned sideways, stared at the darkened corridor. No sign of life. I decided I would do this.

I forced myself from the stool, took my coffee cup and empty plate, hands wobbly, and headed to the trash station, overflowing can and dirty dish bin, feigning to casually pass by the old man’s table, cautiously, carefully, stiff-legged and tense, convinced that all eyes were on me, people shouting out their names and coffee orders over the din of steaming milk. As I neared the table, my heart beating in my temples, I noticed that the journal was lying face-up and open, the pen wedged into the spine. There was no turning back. I bent into read what was there, to see what the old man had been writing, all this time. I strained to focus, stunned by what I saw, nothing I had expected, for all my musings and reflections and deliberations, daydreaming my afternoons away, sleepless nights, consumed by the reverie. There it was, just one phrase, the same phrase, over and over and over, in perfect, precise penmanship, letters straight, crisp, bold, uniform, a single statement duplicated end-to-end on every line, and as a sudden boldness overtook me and I flipped through the journal, on each page, all of the pages, front and back, filling in every empty space. It was just one phrase: Jesus loves you.

“If I don’t write it down I forget.”

I pivoted, startled, my cup and plate escaping my grip and dropping with a smack and a clatter. Before me was the old man, his face more weathered than I saw from afar, deep lines dug in, weary and worn, bags under his eyes, his eyes a pale blue, dimmed by a certain sadness, I could tell, one I recognized. I heard myself gasp, caught tiny flickering stars in my periphery, my knees buckled. I knew, feared, that I fully deserved it if the old man lit into me, indeed, caught in the act like that, I expected it, half-flinching in anticipation of what was undoubtedly to follow. But he just shrugged, sheepishly, and repeated, slower, softer, resigned, “I forget.”

I never returned to the coffee shop after that, after apologizing profusely to the old man, a rambling, stuttering, nonsensical apology about how I had mistaken his journal for something, or I was looking for something, or I had the wrong table, something, just something that sounded absurd as I said it but I had to say something, then hustling off, leaving behind my mess, on the floor broken ceramic and a puddle of black coffee, for one of the spray-beard baristas who was reluctantly approaching with a mop, surging through the line and stumbling out onto the sidewalk, tripping over my feet, scurrying, scampering, straight ahead and gone. I couldn’t return, how could I? How could I face the old man, or worse, what if he was no longer there, what if my actions, my stupid, selfish actions, had driven him off?

After a while I found another coffee shop, several blocks away, just as crowded, just as hectic, but it was not the same. The months passed, and the seasons changed, and life went on, the way it always did, the way it always had. In due course I became who I used to be, before Elizabeth, as I carried with me those words the old man wrote unceasingly in his journal, words I needed even when I thought I didn’t, when I had stopped trusting in them, words I would carry with me through every other inevitable rut and misstep and catastrophe and calamity, through all the bad, and the good, three simple words, and that remembrance of how I rediscovered them, I vowed to carry with me evermore.

***

(This short story was originally featured on the podcast Second Hand Stories)