When I saw this picture of the 61C
coffee shop, that was taken by Stephanie Strasburg of the Post-Gazette, it stopped me cold
in my tracks. Suddenly, I was having what felt like a panic attack
while I was chained to my desk at work and powerless to do anything
about it other than let it hit me full on.
Even though I had driven past it a few days before I saw the photo, long forgotten memories from decades
ago came screaming out of the back of my mind. The what ifs and
paths diverging in woods of my youth were pounding on my frontal
lobe, trying to escape. Realizing that there was nothing I could do
about any of it, since what is done is done and the poor, gutless
decisions had already been made, I had no choice other than to ride
out the shakes and sweats. Along with a great desire to sweep the
contents of my desk to the floor, yell “Fuck It!!!” and walk out
the door. Constantly having to remind myself that food and shelter
are some of life's necessary evils so a day job does serve its
purposes.
My shadow used to darken the door of
the 61C on a somewhat regular basis. That is where I would obtain
post show coffee, if I was on that end of town and too wired to head
home yet. And back when I wasn't a poet but didn't know it, the 61C
was where I would go for a change of scenery to tirelessly drill away
into a notebook while listening to my Discman. The other coffee
places that I used to frequent were the Kiva Han on S. Craig St. or
either of the Beehives. This was in a time before there was a
soulless Starbucks on every other corner so each of these places used
to have their own character and didn't try to sell me a Dave Matthews CD when I cashed out.
If it wasn't a Friday or Saturday, I
would start at the South Side Beehive but if it seemed too crowded I
would keep heading east until I found one of the spots lacking the
youths of America that I didn't want to be and would go to great
lengths to avoid. During the school year, the 61C always had the
smallest crowd or at least a crowd that knew how to act when they
left their houses.
More often than not for some reason,
it would be raining when I left the 61C so the rain passing through
the light given off by the streetlight and the people huddled under
the umbrella, in the photo, really landed on me. Always without an
umbrella and too stubborn to pay for parking close by, I'd always get
back to my car thoroughly soaked and wondering why I didn't park
closer or spring for an umbrella. I never said I was smart.
So many nights and cigarettes were
spent scrawling ink across paper in an attempt to form sentences that
certainly have not held up over time. Trying to find where I might
fit in to my own life, thinking that I was pondering and tackling the
big questions that I still haven't found the answers to all these
years later. Attempting to figure out what was wrong with everyone
else and why they didn't see the world the way that I did.
Life became much easier when I
realized that I would never fit in so I stopped trying altogether and
normally head in the opposite direction of humanity whenever
possible. Pretty soon, only the 61C will remain after all these
years but not much else has changed. I have dropped the steady
stream of cigarettes from my diet but the sentences are still shaky,
I still park too far away from where I'm actually going and I refuse
to switch to decaf.
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