Looking for a distraction...

I awoke early this morning to the patter of rain and the hollow roar of water passing through a culvert beyond my porch. With my housemate still asleep i took a pillow into the kitchen and suffocated the coffee grinder as it tore apart the morning's coffee beans. I spent the morning mellow with coffee and a letter. After breakfast i grabbed my shoes and shorts and headed to the gym.

This weekend i joined a rec basketball team made up of fishermen with big bellies and smiles. Surprisingly we've remained in the winner's bracket with two wins. Last night we hung on to beat the High Flyers composed of scrappy men in black, each with a unique rat of a mustache upon their face. Full-press, hacking and 360 bullshit layups that make everyone look bad. Then this morning we played the Tlingit Reign stacked with giant Tlingit natives built like cement walls and about as athletic. I matched up with #34, a quiet native man outweighing me by 75lbs and a few inches higher into the atmosphere. He reminded me of Chief... i know it's in poor taste, but i kept imagining him beneath the hoop and Nickolson screaming, "C'mon Chief put that fuckin' ball in the hoop!" We're heading towards the semifinals tonight and into Sunday.

As i ran on the court for the first time this morning i noticed a familiar face in the crowd. This stunning young woman always with a smile, hair like the raven's feather and eyes constantly following the ball from hand to hand and then up toward the hoop. I see her time and again at the recreation center either shooting hoops or watching the men's pickup game on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Her presence made me think of a story i once wrote... we became characters, her involuntarily and dreamy me. If people only knew where my mind wandered...

A DAY IN MARCH

I remember it was a day in early March. There were no clouds to be seen and the sun was gleaming from ninety-three million miles away. It left a cold upon the land, upon the streets. The sun had been shining for a month unchallenged. The old banks of snow on the sidewalks were petrified from the persistent cold, fossils from another season.

I was walking across town with my bare face hidden in the neck of my jacket. I worked on the other end of town in a small restaurant that only served regulars. Not by choice, it just worked out that way. New customers were rare and curious. They made us feel uncomfortable. I remember one time when a new couple walked in hungry and in love. Their clothes spoke for themselves and their accents rung of the big city. All conversation ceased with their entrance. Coffee mugs were gently returned to the countertops; the old stools squeaked as they spun. Everyone turned to look, to study the newcomers. I quickly grabbed two menus and slid from behind the counter. I wanted to save them from this silent interrogation. I wanted to rescue them from the eye of an enormous microscope.

They took a seat by the window and everything returned to normal. The same stories told, the same cups refilled, and watching the same clock spin on point. I’ll never forget that day though. It reminded me of a scene from some old western film. A dusty, spurred Clint Eastwood pushing aside the swinging saloon doors. Somehow that guy always got a lot of attention at the bar. He was a troublemaker. Other cowboys had a way of shutting up whenever he came around.

Sometimes my imagination led to the neglect of customers. I imagined their reaction if Clint, the baddest gunfighter in history, entered the diner and found a seat at the counter. What stories would he tell as he insouciantly cleaned his six-shooter? Maybe he wouldn’t talk at all and just sit there chewing on his cigar. But if he did tell a story, it would be succinct and gripping; he wouldn’t waste words. I had no doubt his stories would beat the ones I heard every day.

“Hey buddy!” The image disappeared. The voice belonged to a truck of a man on the other side of the counter. “How about some of that coffee in my cup,” he said, pushing the mug toward me.
*
That day in March I was heading to work. I didn’t have to be there for an hour, but I liked being early. I’d serve myself a cup of coffee, sit at the counter and read the paper. It was a good way to start the day.

I was walking through the arts district, with its many galleries and cafes where two bucks will buy a cup of coffee. I was peering inside the shop windows, occasionally watching my reflection. That’s when I saw her. I was actually looking at myself when the sun’s glare escaped the glass. I found myself eye to eye with a woman seated at the window. She was sitting with a hot bowl of noodles and a man who was already busily eating. His head was bent over his bowl in hungry concentration. Could have been her husband or boyfriend. Maybe her brother. I only saw the top of his head.

The woman was looking at me. It seems strange to think of it now, but I stopped. Right there in the middle of the sidewalk. An old lady following close ran into my back. She nearly dropped her bag of groceries, but I barely noticed. I heard her curse a few times before she was gone.

The woman in the noodle shop was striking. Hair, dark as a crow, fell passed her chin, covering the sides of her face. She had these small, round ears that stuck out, reminding me of a mouse. Her skin was very pale. I don’t know how long I stood there. I remember our eyes were locked and this little hint of a smile was playing on her lips. Meanwhile, the steam from her bowl of noodles was brushing the window. It eventually covered the entire pane. I found myself once again facing my own reflection.

*
This town isn’t very big; still, I never saw her again. Sometimes I wonder if I’m crazy or at least have the potential. I kept walking that day and by the time I arrived at work, I’d forgotten about her. But in those first two blocks I would’ve stopped everything. I would have bet it all on that stranger with a bowl of noodles.