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NOTE: I wrote this back in 2010 for the Stella Kupferberg Memorial Short Story contest. Originally titled Coffee Shop Blues I just this morning changed the title. Probably would have won with this more compelling artsy-fartsy moniker... right? Now slightly over the 750 maximum word count after recent editing but who's counting?
In case you haven’t noticed it’s a cold world out there.
Right now I’m dealing with Arctic depressions squeezed through the Rockies and sent tumbling down the plains by a determined wind as our little nodule on the map tilts away from an indifferent sun that’s running out of gas. Meanwhile I seek refuge inside this place where it stays warm, agreeably cheerful, and replete with hot coffee – today I indulge in the light roast and prepare to get down to the heavy thinking.
But there’s that shortbread cookie sitting right there that keeps distracting me. I keep picking at it, breaking it apart, making it disappear piece by piece into my mouth so soon I’ll have no excuse at all – just crumbs.
I call myself a writer and I have a deadline to meet but the words come slowly, begrudgingly – if at all. And there’s no local support group for those deprived of the creative impulse.
But I do have my local heroes, one being the notorious Leo Ritchey, a fellow writer who had one of his pieces (something about a calf, a blizzard and the heroic cowhand who saved it while losing three digits) published in a regional periodical of some repute.
In fact it is my understanding that Leo was recently asked to say a few words at my nephew’s school, a somewhat uppity Lutheran-based institution that promises to prepare their pupils for the important demands placed upon them by the country’s elite universities, while in fact most of their clients matriculate into local colleges with tuition that is half of what they paid the Lutheran-based institution; more specifically, my nephew’s honors English Lit class, and being asked while ensnared within a rare moment of agreeable magnanimity (between free drinks I’d reckon) Leo agreed.
As it was just this morning related to me Leo stumbled up to the front of the room, a twitching bag of nerves, apparently unbathed with wild uncombed hair and his unexercised body stuffed into a baby blue glossy sweat suit that was two sizes too small, dismissing with introductions, only clearing his throat with a growl as he spat out the previous night’s accumulation of alcohol-marinated phlegm into the teacher’s coffee cup. Tough way to acquire your flavored latte.
“I was asked to say a few words to you today. Well mother-fuckin’ titty-suckin’ bullshit. There ya go, have a great life.”
And then he clambered away, knocking over a metal waste basket on his way out, and the buffed shiny floors of that institution at long last reflected a man who had said something that would echo within those hallowed halls for the ages.
It occurs to me now that his inspired message was in fact meant for me, because face it, I can’t write a mother-fuckin’ titty-suckin’ thing, I probably won’t even be capable of getting my reader to mutter under their breath where’s the creative impulse?, which would at least imply an infinitesimal amount of thoughtful repose directed toward my effort. Long ago I should have begun my quest for an MFA from one of those directional schools headed by a visionary who at one time accepted a genuine Ritchey manuscript for publication.
You see, it is my only wish to write something that is way big, important, beautiful, something that delivers a real wallop, but I’ve only got 750 words to work with and just one more day.
Hours, really.
Minutes.
Life goes on and I seem to wallow in complete futility.
Outside this coffee shop window a late February snow falls and all is quiet and I just sit back and watch a young woman in a red coat with matching cap and galoshes slowly pushing her way through this glittering landscape while walking her little black dog. Suddenly she spies me gazing at her from inside and although a plaid scarf hides her mouth I can tell from her brightening eyes that she is smiling back at me. It makes me feel that old fuzzy warmth deep down inside and while lost in a peaceful reverie I sit hypnotized by the unfolding scene. Huge floating snowflakes, steamy caffeine up the nose, (fleeting epiphany), dreamy white world and a pretty girl who at this precise moment recognizes my presence in it.
I am rendered touched.
If only I could somehow manage to write something that real, that simple, that magical. If only I could write some thing that might truly touch someone else, then I could save this story, shut down my computer, and venture back out into our beautiful cold world.
In case you haven’t noticed it’s a cold world out there.
Right now I’m dealing with Arctic depressions squeezed through the Rockies and sent tumbling down the plains by a determined wind as our little nodule on the map tilts away from an indifferent sun that’s running out of gas. Meanwhile I seek refuge inside this place where it stays warm, agreeably cheerful, and replete with hot coffee – today I indulge in the light roast and prepare to get down to the heavy thinking.
But there’s that shortbread cookie sitting right there that keeps distracting me. I keep picking at it, breaking it apart, making it disappear piece by piece into my mouth so soon I’ll have no excuse at all – just crumbs.
I call myself a writer and I have a deadline to meet but the words come slowly, begrudgingly – if at all. And there’s no local support group for those deprived of the creative impulse.
But I do have my local heroes, one being the notorious Leo Ritchey, a fellow writer who had one of his pieces (something about a calf, a blizzard and the heroic cowhand who saved it while losing three digits) published in a regional periodical of some repute.
In fact it is my understanding that Leo was recently asked to say a few words at my nephew’s school, a somewhat uppity Lutheran-based institution that promises to prepare their pupils for the important demands placed upon them by the country’s elite universities, while in fact most of their clients matriculate into local colleges with tuition that is half of what they paid the Lutheran-based institution; more specifically, my nephew’s honors English Lit class, and being asked while ensnared within a rare moment of agreeable magnanimity (between free drinks I’d reckon) Leo agreed.
As it was just this morning related to me Leo stumbled up to the front of the room, a twitching bag of nerves, apparently unbathed with wild uncombed hair and his unexercised body stuffed into a baby blue glossy sweat suit that was two sizes too small, dismissing with introductions, only clearing his throat with a growl as he spat out the previous night’s accumulation of alcohol-marinated phlegm into the teacher’s coffee cup. Tough way to acquire your flavored latte.
“I was asked to say a few words to you today. Well mother-fuckin’ titty-suckin’ bullshit. There ya go, have a great life.”
And then he clambered away, knocking over a metal waste basket on his way out, and the buffed shiny floors of that institution at long last reflected a man who had said something that would echo within those hallowed halls for the ages.
It occurs to me now that his inspired message was in fact meant for me, because face it, I can’t write a mother-fuckin’ titty-suckin’ thing, I probably won’t even be capable of getting my reader to mutter under their breath where’s the creative impulse?, which would at least imply an infinitesimal amount of thoughtful repose directed toward my effort. Long ago I should have begun my quest for an MFA from one of those directional schools headed by a visionary who at one time accepted a genuine Ritchey manuscript for publication.
You see, it is my only wish to write something that is way big, important, beautiful, something that delivers a real wallop, but I’ve only got 750 words to work with and just one more day.
Hours, really.
Minutes.
Life goes on and I seem to wallow in complete futility.
Outside this coffee shop window a late February snow falls and all is quiet and I just sit back and watch a young woman in a red coat with matching cap and galoshes slowly pushing her way through this glittering landscape while walking her little black dog. Suddenly she spies me gazing at her from inside and although a plaid scarf hides her mouth I can tell from her brightening eyes that she is smiling back at me. It makes me feel that old fuzzy warmth deep down inside and while lost in a peaceful reverie I sit hypnotized by the unfolding scene. Huge floating snowflakes, steamy caffeine up the nose, (fleeting epiphany), dreamy white world and a pretty girl who at this precise moment recognizes my presence in it.
I am rendered touched.
If only I could somehow manage to write something that real, that simple, that magical. If only I could write some thing that might truly touch someone else, then I could save this story, shut down my computer, and venture back out into our beautiful cold world.
