This Man

I spent the day at a local cafe / gourmet market / coffee shop this week. Aloof hipsters with their bold smears of bright red lipstick and nose piercings and oversized glasses played barista and charcuterie sandwich makers behind the counter. The girl who took my order seemed annoyed, but only insomuch as her coolness would allow. I felt her pain, as I, too, was in it for the long haul, with a work deadline later that day. I set up shop at a table in the corner, plugging in my laptop and giving my coat its own chair without a second thought. There is a certain luxury of space availability here that I have greedily embraced. Is this what happens after living so long in the most densely populated city in America? Yes, indeed it is.

A man, one of only two patrons when I walked in, was seated at one of the tables. A large coffee in front of him, his legs were draped to the side, crossed comfortably as he clumsily tapped his fingers around a messy array of dirty coins. Three colorful plastic lighters sat atop a napkin, as though they deserved special consideration that his pocket change did not. You know the complimentary kind that gas stations used to provide with your pack of smokes? The kind you rarely see any more since smoking has become déclassé? Those. Despite the lid on his cup, coffee had somehow managed to spill. The crumpled napkins littering the space around his lighters were oddly still clean. It was hard to tell when the man had last bathed, but it was clear that his clothes were in bad need of a wash.

Somewhere along the way of these past few years, my sensitivity has begun to surface more readily. Where I once only cried at movies, now, whenever I sense people's need for kindness, a tear escapes. Sometimes, two or three before I realize what's happening. Watching this man stare at his muffin, the tears started up again. He just kept picking at the streusel on top, rolling the little mounds of brown between his fingers, the sugar flatly falling on the table. I occasionally glanced up from my screen to watch him play a solitary game of musical chairs without the music. Every fifteen minutes, he'd pull up a new chair from a different table, test it, and then settle for another ten or fifteen minutes before getting up to do it all over again. He repeated this act for four hours straight. Every few rounds, he would relocate himself to a new table, taking his various sundries along with him. When he landed at the table across from mine, I very deliberately forced myself to keep my butt firmly planted in my seat. It didn't feel right to pack up and leave. What right did I have to sit here that he did not? This much was clear: I had the option of going home or to another cafe, armed with money to pay for whatever time and space I wanted. This man did not. He probably didn't even have a place to sleep that night. Life is unfair, isn't it? And so I willed myself to stay, covering my nose and plucking away at my keyboard until it was time to go.

The girl from behind the counter eventually came over and told the man that he needed to leave if he was finished with his food. I think the dismissal stung me more than it did him.

Here I sit, days later, unable to shake the thought of this man. I want to know his story. I want to know why all of a sudden I feel incredibly privileged to be in my own shoes: my wits about me; my mental faculties intact; people in my life who lend their support; friends who pick up their phones when I call; and the choice to do or not do as I please. My life is good, but why am I sitting like a weirdo in a random cafe tearing up over a man I don't even know?