The Corner

The Corner

of 34th and Vine

Standing in line behind 10 people mentally reviewing their days schedule, I am witness to their grimaces, half smiles, and raised eyebrows, evolving in a rotating environment of sounds and smells, as the word “Smith” echoes about the room of muffled rumors. The same people today as yesterday, and the day before, a choros line of discontent waiting for life’s U turn. The green tiles now a canvas for arriving snow, waiting for its masterpiece to be painted; its various stages of transformation becoming remnants of Everest waiting to be mopped to oblivion.

Each new entrant into this realm of pastries and imported coffee, brings tidings from Atlantis, smuggled discretely from their world into mine. The smell of roasted coffee beans nearly erases the smell of a lilac concoction that is an afront to a winters day, and the aftershave wafting the essence of coconuts and Hawaiian breezes onto the frozen tundra each time the portal to a frozen world is breached, allowing the yesterdays and tomorrows to become today, hardly a suitable supplement to the slush stokes on the floor being impregnated by boot treads, while in the process of becoming what they have always been.

Rivulets of brackish water follow the grout lines in hopes of escaping this limbo of indecision, and making its way to the sea accompanied by the mumbling impatience imbedded in the progress of time, while we busily arrange excuses in our minds should there be a question about our continuing tardiness.

I watch the dance, the shuffling of booted feet, the clasping and unclasping of gloved hands in an effort to convince yourself the wait provides salvation from a wrestles night, as it has so many mornings in the past. I look through the window at the street, a creeping ensemble of vehicles seemingly destined for that one parking spot that remains elusive, knowing someday they will find that vacant oasis, and slide into its open arms and never leave.

The coffee shop is crowded, tempers loom as the blinking fluorescent light brings out the schizophrenic tendencies hiding behind a façade of calm detachment in a world dedicated to progress at any cost. I look about the room, the vagabonds that wait for their name to be summoned, and then released from this place, allowing them to re-enter the majesty of honking horns and Jay walkers intent on avoiding that extra step on their way to the gym. Passersby encased In coats, and hats pulled over their ears, scurry across the frozen concrete in search of the warmth being held captive by brick buildings and a tilting sun.

Waiting, time escaping into the hereafter, my thoughts of yesterday condense into a tomorrow, leaving today standing alone wondering why life goes by so quickly, and coffee lines seem to never end. The steam escaping into the room, harried employees darting about like deranged assessors, searching for that one small thing to place the blame on; everything must be accompanied by blame, or there will be nothing to regret.

I move slowly toward the promise of salvation, one cup of coffee at a time , not remembering having lost the faith, but assured by the tranquility of tea, I can no longer go through life the hostage of a bean from a foreign country where snow is an illusion of heaven as the sweat forms on the coffee man’s brow, the sack he carries anchoring him to the ground or he would assuredly rise into heaven and be lost to himself.

“Smith?”

The voice, the name, it breaks the spell, providing a glimpse into another world where the frosted etchings of a fading Christmas’s past remain a celebration of forgetfulness tattooed on the window glass, and the gift you searched for in vain is now everywhere, and at half price.

“Smith?” “Smithe? “Smitty?”

Again the names reminding me that first names are being manipulated to draw smiles from the underworld of a mundane madness that seeps from the seemingly melting floor, and with each scream for what was to what now, finding itself a naked remembrance of a hill in Columbia where fingers feel their way from the boundaries of exploitation, to the borders of survival.

How is it possible that I desire the idealism of pleasure from the toil of a stranger in a distant land, while I prepare to inform someone that their health coverage has dissolved because of diminishing returns.The sales of jet planes and 200-foot yachts have stagnated due to the inevitability of inflation, and I’ve been told inflation is what makes the world go round. Much as salvation costs have risen, 10-20-50 %, someone said 150%; the costs of luxuries are considered a trivial increase in your ability to buy whatever you wish, and encourage you to pass the trauma onto someone who can afford it emotionally. Afterall they have been conditioned to incremental changes that result in only one less cube of sugar, or dash of cream, that arguably only masquerades the bitterness in life.

“Smith?”

Smith has apparently found his time more valuable than salvation, and has left with no permission, leaving “Robinson” the caretaker of the proverbial “First shall be First, and the last will remain sadly last, prophesy.” I envy the juxtaposition of those lured by the security of booths and table tops covered with lap tops and newspapers, and those standing on Picaso’s inspiration. There are those jogging in place to keep their vision of possibility from following Smith’s, and darting for the door to brave a fate unenhanced by caffeine, chocolate brownies, or the lifesaving indulgence of a bagel smothered in cream cheese.

Watching the devolution of want do battle with need, I find myself an observer of privilege accented by the sight of a man on the street, possibly from Columbia, maybe El Salvador, more likely Venezuela, pushing a cart of hot dog concoctions through the snow toward a watering hole where new age animals gather to discuss the fate of democratic governments that are out to lunch.

“Robinson, Jacobs, Hoskins,” all have secured their prey, and cautiously make their way like three blind mice toward their destinations, not thinking of the hot dog vendor, or the Columbian coffee man, who has turned off his ability to think in favor of dreams.I have two people in front of me who look as if they will continue the dirge, leavin me no choice but to remain steadfast to the idealism behind salvation, or following in Smith’s footsteps and seeking an alternative to a satisfaction, that although fleeting is conditioned to the principles of want, and not the intractable need that is the conveyor of dissatisfaction.

The inevitable question arises concerning the conundrums inherent in satisfying need; warmth and cold, coffee and bagels, hot dogs and wagon tracks, and dozens, if not millions more conundrums joining the windrow of snow at the curb. I can’t help but think of the decisions I make daily, feeling that the consequences matter little, yet they are in fact the foundation for my continued existence. They don’t appear to be, but I know going home to a warm bed is superior to looking for a discarded cardboard box and a grate on which to exist, if only for the one night.

“There, but for fortune,” just words? Or are they the anthem we forget to sing, the pledge we ignore because of its quaintness?“No place to run, no place to hide?” more words piling up along the curb as my name is called. I have to at times consider I am not who I am thought to be, because I often don’t feel like that person. Why should I care, do I care about the hot dog vendor, the coffee man, Smith, Robinson, and Hoskins? I have no idea. I do not believe my parents, although wonderful caring people, ever considered the choices I make daily, as they are my choices and they were tied to their own.Somethings don’t change, but faces and names do. Duties evolve, seasons come and go, but choices, no matter the magnitude remain the same; a gamble that the unforeseen will always happen to someone else.

Is it wrong to have more than others? Is it wrong to choose less? I can’t conceive of a world where equality of opportunity can remain presumptive about the principles of want and need. Need, although universal in nature varies by degrees of acceptance; some need tea, some coffee, some bourbon, some cocaine, all wants are confused by the indifference of need, and need is confused by the peculiarity of want.

I procure my salvation and pass from one world to the next unhindered by the painting on the floor, and the indifference that leaves cart tracks on the street. It has begun to snow again. The dichotomy of probability looms in the future as the light changes to red, and yet the possibility of escaping the detection of tardiness remains a possibility, if it were not for the vendor plodding toward a destiny not envisioned, and the reality of my having possibly to look for another means of employment, I would return to my Picaso world, and never leave.