An Evening at Travonna

It was a cold, cold night in Columbus, Ohio. Clem sat in his usual corner of Travonna, his favorite coffee shop. They were open twenty-four seven, so it wasn't strange to see him there at any hour of the day or night. He worked odd hours, and was temporarily homeless, sometimes even taking a quick cat-nap on the couch, depending on who happened to be working. Normally, he would wear headphones and listen to music while studying or working on personal projects, but tonight he wanted to listen. He wanted to hear the rhythm of this particular Thursday evening.

He had spent quite awhile attempting to appear as though he wasn't listening to a couple that had sat a couple tables away from him earlier that evening. Granted, they had been pretty loud, but still, best to appear as polite as possible. Their evening had started fairly benignly, grabbing a coffee, and planning what was left of their night. Things had escalated quickly, and before anyone (the oh so recently happy couple included) had realized, they were in the midst of a knock-down, drag-out fight. After, the woman had left in tears, and the man had sat in a daze, sipping his coffee. There had been allegations of infidelity, latent homosexuality, “failure to perform”, and more than a little name calling.

Clem had been fascinated by the exchange. He considered his life to have been fairly boring, and he'd never been much of a hit with the ladies. Perhaps he was too picky. Perhaps he had a crippling form of social anxiety that prevented him from approaching them. Regardless, he was quite fascinated with a voyeurs view of relationship drama. He was almost certainly jealous that he had never managed to be so close with another human being that it would necessitate and inflame such a confrontation. Cold logic and rationality had always been the centerpiece of his existence, precluding much thought for attachment.

The main thrust of the stories he attempted to write came from such events. Or sometimes even smaller ones. One day, while in the checkout line of a drugstore by his former residence, he had seen a birthday card that had been hastily abandoned on a random shelf near the exit. He hadn't been able to help himself but to imagine what had led to the abandonment of said card. Had the carrier received sudden bad news? Had they purchased anything else? So many questions to be answered by a folded piece of cardboard that lacked the ability to communicate with humans, other than through the almost certainly generic thoughts printed on it's glossy skin.

Careful observations had always been a large part of Clem's life. Knowing what to say, and when. What hand to put his money on in a game of cards. When to run and when to stay. Like Kenny Rogers so famously said, when to hold 'em and when to fold 'em....

The sound of the door opening brought Clem crashing back to his current reality. He watched a clearly homeless man, carrying a backpack and wearing a face mask drag himself into the room. Clem knew just how cold it was out that night. Hell, he'd probably be sleeping out in it himself at some point that night. Or perhaps not. He had taken an adderall earlier, and he was pretty sure he'd sit awake at the coffee shop all night. This thought didn't bother him. He would listen to the stories of whoever else happened to stumble through the doors. Several folks who had already been cutoff at nearby bars had stumbled through, hoping that some coffee would allow them to continue their evenings of revelry, and debauchery(Ohio State had beat Michigan earlier that evening. If you're from Ohio, you understand the importance of such an event). Clem mostly just wanted to stay warm and cozy, and he had the best seat in the house.

Now, his mind began to wander again. How had things come to this? He had always been a promising(if lazy) student. His peers in school had always respected his intellect, if not his work ethic. Up until a month or so ago, everything had looked perfectly secure, and stable. He had been making decent money, he had had a fairly decent place to stay (for the east side), and nothing had looked like it could upset the proverbial apple cart. Oh, how things had changed.

Tanya, his roommate, had lost her job. This, coupled with him needing to take a step back at work for some school projects had left them unable to make rent and their long-suffering Egyptian landlord out of patience. A simmering discontent with the head of his department at OSU had led him to quit school altogether at approximately the same time. And now he had nothing to his name but some books, clothes, a beat-up guitar, and an even more beat-up Ford Taurus.

But he refused to let his circumstances bring him too far down. He had played enough poker to know that all he needed was one good hand to bring things back around. He was down, but he refused to be out. And hearing the stories of the myriad folks who passed through the coffee shop. It was a prime location, only a few doors down from a major intersection, and several primary bus routes through the city. They wove a wonderful tapestry, all of the various strange individuals who passed through those doors. The workers themselves lent plenty of variety to the atmosphere. Cole, the barista on duty this night barley cared what happened in these doors. Since he was the only person the owner had been able to persuade to work nights, he could get away with murdered, and half of the time he wouldn't have been too bothered about one in the shop. Minus any paperwork he would have to fill out. When Clem had arrived, he had been very graphically describing his experience “ass-spelunking” the previous evening with a gay man he had met.

It was slow going, because Clem wasn't exactly sure how to start or end a story, because stories have no true endings or beginnings. They have a point where we enter, and where we exit. The players on the stage continue on, regardless of whether we view them or not. Not matter how we try to follow up on the rest of a certain characters story, there will always be holes in there backstory, and we will never truly know what they're thinking. All we can do is witness, and be present for our own lives and experiences, and let the rest roll on. A satisfying conclusion? Probably not. Alas.