Tag Archives: coffee

Soft Sod

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5

It was such a lovely warm day out that I decided to go for a walk in city centre and bathe in the sun while it is still hanging around.  I walked and enjoyed the warmth for a while with my backpack in tow.  I stopped at the local caffeine watering hole and got a double latte as usual.  I sat down at a wee table and started going back through my lovely friend, Susan Abraham’s, new book, Call the Ships of Dar-es-Salaam.. 

As I looked up to have a sip of the steamy and luscious coffee, I noticed a blonde in her mid twenties sit down across from me with several books in tow as well.  I sat there, occasionally darting my eyes over to her, to see if she was doing the same.  She happened to glance up as I did, so we exchanged pleasantries.  She asked what I was reading.  I told her about Susan’s delightful book.  We started talking about our favourite authors.  She asked me about Susan’s book and I even let her read a few poems in it.  She was so enthralled by some of the poems like Lipstick Fish that she wrote down the ISBN so as to order it herself.

One thing led to another and she sat down at my table.  We discussed everything from poetry to the weather.  I spoke of my own poetry and my love of photography and all the arts.  I was more than impressed by her intellect, not to mention the complete package.  That’s when everything went horribly wrong. 

She threw her hair back, smiled, and asked me a question that made me feel like barfing.  “So, do you have a boyfriend?”

“What?”  I demanded as a mountain of anger and confusion erupted from my brow.

She put her hand on top of mine, and said, “Oh, it’s okay now days.  Don’t be ashamed of who you are.”

“I’m not gay”, I exclaimed whilst jerking my hand back.

Shock gripped her face, as she queried, “You’re not”.

“I’m not gay now, nor have I ever been gay, nor do I have plans to be gay in the future",  I answered, as my heart and pride splattered to the floor in a pool of humiliation.  (I mean that figuratively)

“I’m…I’m…I’m sorry…I just thought with the poetry and your kind demeanour that..you were…ya know.”  Her countenance red with embarrassment and pity.

“Can a man not scribe sonnets of a beauteous nature and be soft spoken without being labelled as gay?”

“Again, I’m sorry…I just misread you, I guess.”

“You Guess?!”

“Yeah, most guys are more obvious in their pursuits.”

“The desire to procreate is a powerful one.  I’m just like every other guy out there, except for the fact that I’m a lot smarter in my pursuits.”

“Well, let me apologize by buying you a refill.”

“I’m sorry, my dear, but I have to go and I don’t take pity drinks from women that have eradicated my self esteem, accidentally or not.”

“Aww..”

“Read the book and you might learn a thing or two about people”, I stated whilst grabbing my backpack and heading towards the exit of the caffeine watering hole. 

Looking back at the entire situation makes me almost laugh and yell at the same time.  I’m more confused that she would think such a thing.  I don’t dress in any sort of flamboyant manner.  I don’t speak with a high voice.  I don’t flail my hands in the air while talking.  I don’t get it. 

As I said, I’m not gay, I’ve never been gay, I’ve never thought about being gay, and I’m never going to be gay.  I don’t have anything against gay people.  In fact, I’d fight for their right to be gay.  I may not always agree with the way some people live their lives, but it is their lives, so I pass no judgement on them nor do I have the right to do so. 

So ladies, just because a man may be in his thirties, clean cut, soft spoken, a clean freak, and kind does not, for the love all that is Holy, mean that he is gay!  Believe me, I can be tough when necessary.  I’ve taken more than my share of blows to the head and upper body.  I’ve delivered quite a few too.  If a man would have asked me that, I would have knocked him on his backside right then.  :)

P.S.:  Susan, I’ll have that review by the end of the week.  Your splendid musings and poetry give me hope for my own writing future. 

Mushroom Envelope

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Bright and early Thursday morning I sped off to see a new doctor.  His office is almost an hour away but well worth the drive.  It’s a lovely drive down the Appalachian mountains to the plains of the south.  There’s everything from winding hills to old water sheds and decrepit cotton mills.  The ginormous interstate is much faster but I enjoy the scenery.

I got to the office early, so I nipped in a local eatery and had a cup of coffee and an omelette.  When I returned, they were ready for me to fill out two Poplar trees worth of paperwork.  I finished the stack of nondescript forms and waited along with several other people.  I picked up a year old magazine and pretended to read an article about Obama.

What is with that anyway?  Most folks, unless they are just desperate for attention, will pretend to be busy doing something while waiting for a doctor.  Are we afraid to talk to one another? 

One fellow wasn’t shy or spry.  He went into detail about what was wrong with him, and what type of medicine he was on.  He proceeded to tell me what was wrong with his wife, who was sitting next to him, grunting throughout the lengthy exchange.  I was entertained by this unidirectional discourse, so I asked where he and his wife were from.  His wife sighed and shifted in her seat as he rambled on.  I smiled.

After a long scowl faded from the wife’s face, I was ushered to the back.  I was met in the hallway by a damsel adorning a white lab coat.  At this point, I figured I had died of boredom and levitated to a heavenly angel with bright hazel eyes and flowing chestnut hair pulled into a ponytail. 

With a clipboard and a smile, she lead me back to a mocha coloured room with ochre painted trim.  We talked of my medical history for twenty minutes.  We discussed subjects that I would normally never discuss with a woman, much less a single woman.

She told me that I had to have an EKG for the doc, so I stripped down to my boxers and laid back in the chair.  As it turns out, I really didn’t need to strip (didn’t need that image in your head, did ya?) but she didn’t mind.  She, I’ll call her Becca, started putting frigid and sticky sensors on me chest, as I asked her where she went to school. 

The sensation was a bit ticklish, so I busted into laughter.  She tried to retain her composure yet fell under the spell of hilarity.  Every time Becca hooked a wire to a sensor, I busted into laughter followed by her.  I was finally able to stay calm long enough for her to take a reading. 

A smile overtook her face, as she ripped the sensors and half the hair off of my chest.  She gathered her things, and said, “The doctor will be with you in a few moments”.

“When can we do this again?”  I pleaded whilst redressing.

“You are one of a kind, Jefferson”, she uttered whilst chortling.

“Well, I know that, but when can you rip some more sensors off my chest?”

“We’ll see”, she laughingly muttered whilst leaving the room.

While awaiting the doctor, I tapped out a rhythmic beat on a brown envelope I brought with me.

He arrived and we talked about the same medical history that I had discussed with Becca.  I brought up football teams in his homeland.  He was very impressed that I knew such things.  He continued asking questions while I fiddled with the envelope.

“What do you have there?”  He pleaded while staring at the envelope.

“It’s my massive medical history crunched down to about fifty pages.”

My life put into numbers and nondescript medical terminology.  It’s odd, really, how scientist can turn one’s entire life into a bunch of numbers.  Of course, we are just binary beings these days, right?

“Can I have a look at it?”

“Yes sir, I brought it so you could make a copy for your own records.  I carry it, when I travel as well.”

“When you go out of state?”

“Yeah, but when I go out of the country as well”, I answered whilst grinning.

He laid down his pen and asked me where I’d been.  He lit up and we talked for a while about our travels.  We talked about all sorts of subjects before finally getting back to business.  After finishing up, I headed back down the hallway to find Becca talking to two nurses.  I offered to let her rip some more hair off my chest.  They laughed and I left on cloud nine. 

I knew there was something funny about those mushrooms in my omelette that morning.  Reckon they were laced with something or just bad?  :)

CoffeeHouse Cara

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9

While sitting in the local coffeehouse this evening drinking a Guinness, I noticed a ravishing brunette at the table next to me.  She was talking to a curly haired blonde across from her about our fair city, when I overheard her say that she was going to Co. Kerry, Ireland for the holidays with the family.

Immediately, I lit up like I always do on the rare occasion that I meet someone from Ireland or the UK. 

“Pardon me, might I ask you a question?”  I asked with a uniquely enthusiastic tone to my voice.

“Ah, go fer it, as long as it’s not to marry me, for I’m already taken, ye see”, she laughingly replied whilst showing off her ring.

“Are you from Ireland?"  I asked, as I moved to the chair closest to them being careful not to spill my Guinness.

“I’m a Charleston girl, but my parents moved over from Ireland in the 50’s.”

“Really?”

“Yep, are you Irish yourself?”  She enquired, while her friend went to the bar to order another drink.

“Ah no, my ancestors are from County Mayo and County Down”, I answered whilst sipping me beer.

“Well you could of fooled me”, she said with amazement.

“Ah well, I have friends in Ireland and I’ve been a few times”, I muttered whilst smiling.

“Your accent is something else boy.  It’s like a cross of a Southern accent and a…ehm…Downpatrick accent”, she enounced, while waiting on her fresh glass of Harp to settle.

“Well, at least it is not a D4 accent”, I laughingly muttered.

Her friend sat curiously silent, while we laughed and went on about D4.

“So, what do you do for a living?”

“Nope, I want to know more about you”, she replied, whilst crossing her arms.

“Okay, I’m a photographer and a wee bit of a poet”, I replied whilst blushing.

“Are you now?”

“Indeed.”

“Well then, I see you’re not wearing a ring, but I’m reckonin’ that ye got a girlfriend, don’t ya?”

“Nope, I haven’t quite gotten over the last one.”

“Well what’s wrong with ya…are ya not good under the covers?”  She whispered whilst giggling.

“I can assure you that isn’t the problem”, I muttered whilst spilling my stout.

“Can you now?”

(I laughed.)  I love banter!

Perfect, I’ve got the perfect gurl for ya”, she said whilst turning to her friend whose cheeks and ears were glowing red.

“I’ve got to get some air”, her friend said, as she got up and walked away.

“Don’t mind her, she’s just bashful.”

“Back to my first question then, what do you do for a living?”

“I teach youngsters how to play the fiddle, along with playing it, of course”, she kindly answered with enthusiastic charm.

“Brilliant, I’ve always wanted to learn how to play the fiddle.  I can play the harmonica and the dulcimer”, I hollered, as my eyes ignited with delight.

“Dulcimer, really?”

“Yep, my grandmother taught me when I was a lad, although I’ve not played in years.”

“Ah the Dulcimer is a delightful instrument born in Appalachia…Tis sad that so few people know how to play it these days”, she said, as we raised our almost empty glasses to it.

“So, where is your family from in Ireland?”

“Yer not marrying me, you’re marryin’ ‘er”, she drunkenly hollered motioning for her friend and winking at me.

Her friend stomped off to the restroom and we chatted for another hour about Ireland, family, and what not.  Her friend got so drunk that she finally didn’t care what was said.  I went on about my family, plans, and future trips.  She told me to come to Charleston, for I would have better chances there.  I frequent that coffee shop quite a bit, but it was the first time that the craic was flowing as well as the beer.