change in voice
That night she made it into the café right around 10:47. The bell above the door chimed with a timbre only she was able to summon, just audible over the Pierre Henry on the world’s last CD player. Ta-ching-ching-chingggg. Rather than the Ta-chang that other, normal patrons triggered. She was no other patron. The 10:47 arrival meant she had left her Jackson Avenue apartment between 10:23 and 10:28. Had the drizzle ceased she may have walked; her strolling across Jackson Ave, underneath the freeway underpass then over the canal’s walking bridge would have been a thing to behold; but the rain had moved in at sunset and continued through until the present, causing most pedestrians to become passengers. She was no normal passenger.
The streets would have benefited from her walk. The leaves obscuring the stop lines and crosswalks would have danced in front of her steps rather than gusting into the storm drains. The porch lights would have brightened at her approach, beckoning her up their steps, hoping that she would ring their bell, entering their residences for some kind of nightcap; rather they remained motion detecting burglar repellents. The parked cars would have looked like silent print ads in a magazine as she walked by, beckoning the would-be consumers to a new magical life. Had she walked to the café taking the most direct route using the underpass, her entrance into the tunnel would have transformed the utilitarian 70 feet of U-shaped gray into Alice’s rabbit hole; those who had the good fortune to pass through with her being whisked along as in a row boat built for two. Perhaps the world on the other side would be like one found in the magazines: The streets reflective with wet footsteps like happy memories; everyone gainfully employed in those cool creatively hip, yet lucrative jobs where they wear suits jackets, retro spectacles and sneakers. Even the café employees are hip in that world.
In this world she continued walking towards her destination. That’s not right. Tonight she hadn’t walked. There wasn’t enough rain on the shoulders of her coat, its belt cinched around her small waist, filled with possibilities. The bus had delivered her. Perhaps she’d graced the other riders with her sincere yet subtle smile. She preferred the latter half of the bus, and those who rode with her behind the reticulation would have been indulged by her a scent of water and French soap cutting through their menial filth and normalcy.
She would have opened her current composition book and read over what she had written – composed – the night before. Earbuds keeping unworthy clamor, conversations and suitors at bay. For the last few weeks the comp books had the Red Versioned Rorschach covers. She kept no pattern to which of these she used, and apparently no preference. Other poets and writers will extoll the virtues of certain pens or qualities of heavy bound paper. They insist on having their writing station “just-so” as though they cannot approach their work without kicking and screaming. Not her. She could write anywhere. No special pens required. No 40 pound paper. No walls covered in cork. Just a comp book delicately on her knee, and whichever pen she was able to coax out of the bottom of her shoulder slung bag. The pen would linger between her fingers as she tucked the one mischievous strand of hair behind her ear. Once coiffed she would begin writing as though no one were watching.
She was not self-conscious. She was not insecure. She didn’t let the people tell her what she could or couldn’t do. She probably understood pain, but she had never experienced it. Emotionally. She did not have “certain events” in her past that she was “working out.” But she was okay with people who did. She meant it when she smiled, even if she didn’t really know you, even if you didn’t deserve it. She would give you a chance if you wanted to risk walking up to her and starting the conversation that had been transpiring in your head ever since she had started coming into the café.
Ever since I had seen her. But this isn’t about that. Not yet it’s not.
