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No Title Yet.
I walked into the bar, and off the bat, I counted five people wearing red shirts. I don’t know why, but for as long as I can remember, I have counted things. I have always been pretty observant, and tonight was no different. Since I just recently moved to the city, and I am still acquainting myself with various people and places. I like to lurk in the shadows and take in everything that is going on around me. Tonight is no different. The patrons of this particular bar are of an interesting breed, decked out in their presumed attire.
Being in a new city is interesting because you can stay invisible for a while until you figure out where you want to belong. I make it my job to seek out intriguing points of interest in my pursuit of belonging. So coming here, to this bar, is just the same as any other free night. It’s just what I do. On the surface, the people that hang out in this crowd are fairly pretentious. They seem to be self-important, and they interact with each other in a way that they believe reflects positively on their characters. At the same time though, they look like they are having a blast.
They always have something interesting to talk about - which makes my eavesdropping much more amusing. I often hear the names of obscure bands, to the point where I can actually rattle off the names myself. There is talk of literature and politics, which are my two favorite things to listen to. These people are very opinionated, and they are often found active in the neighborhood community. Their activism is impressive, as is their welcoming attitude to all races. This group is the most integrated that I have sen so far. They are much different than the superficial Barbie Dolls that I saw in the yuppie neighborhood last weekend.
Although this group is eclectic, there are still certain aesthetics that are required of the regular attendants of these bars. The guys are always wearing clothes that seem to be just a little too worn in, probably purchased from either thrift stores or trendy, overpriced clothing stores. You can always tell who is trying too hard by the way that their clothes fit. The females always wear long vintage skirts; their overall appearance is simple and classic with an edge, which is usually found in their accessories. Most everybody has a cheap beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other - social crutches.
My social crutch in these situations is my chapstick. I must have my chapstick at all times. I don’t know what it is, but whenever I’m alone in a group of people who seem to know each other, who are somehow connected, I take out my chapstick and just apply. I guess that it’s soothing or something. I haven’t fully analyzed that aspect of myself yet.
The best feature that I have noticed about this group is the way that they dance. It’s terrible, but somehow they make it look good. I think it has something to do with the entire group being so obscurely homogenous. If an outsider saw this dancing out of context, it would be somewhat embarrassing for both parties.
I am intrigued by this group. Perhaps I could find a way to fit in and look the part. I need a group of friends, and these people are particularly appealing. They would definitely make for interesting times, considering the way that they interact with eachother. I am not quite ready to fit in with this crowd. I want to stay invisible for a while, until I have exhausted my options. It is only then that I will truly find what I’m looking for.
I finish my observations and leave, mixed in with the crowd. Overall, my time in the shadows was well spent.
I hop on the train, another invisible face in the crowd. I purposely sit next to a guy from the bar. Every time I board the train, I can rely on the fact that I will find people from all walks of life. The most obvious are the homeless, who sit on the train because it offers protection from the outside; to them, this is home. Across from my seat is a homeless man, probably a drifter. He’s sleeping with his face on the bag that is resting on his lap. He looks awful - his threadbare clothes are filthy with the dirt of the city. I can smell that he hasn’t been able to bathe in a while.
Before I moved to the city, I was used to living in my suburban bubble. Eight years ago, when I began high school, I would have never imagined that I would actually leave the burbs to live here; it seemed too dangerous back then. Now, I wouldn’t trade this for the world. It’s so rewarding to be free from the prearranged life that I was stuck in. Here I am, sitting next to a stranger who interests me, across from a homeless man with a story that probably trumps every story that I’ve ever heard.
The man wakes up and immediately looks at us - me and my stranger - as if he knew that we were thinking about him. He slowly drifts back to bed. I decide that the man’s glance is a good way to initiate an interaction with the guy next to me. We look at each other and nervously look away, half smiling. For some reason, strangers rarely talk when on public transportation - that is reserved for the scammers, who are always looking for an easy handout.
During the week that I moved into my apartment, I saw a female scammer who had a brain problem one day and five hungry children the next. She always dressed the part. I gave her a buck when she explained her brain troubles; I was naïve. After our second encounter, I became skeptical of those who talk to me on the train.
I glance back at the stranger. He is picking at the dirt under his nails. I decide to follow him off the train to explore his neighborhood. When we get off, I decide not to follow him. He walks right, I walk left. The bank clock reads 1:30.
I enjoy walking around at night, especially on nights like this one - crisp air that requires a light jacket. I like having the cold on my cheeks - I can feel that I am alive. I always notice the strangers walking down the street as they pass me, adjusting their coats tolook busy while passing. This is a way to avoid uncomfortable eye contact, especially during the darkness of the night.
I pass two couples and three lonely strangers. After five minutes of walking. I come across 24 hour diner and decide to walk in. The diner, which smells of aged syrup, is almost completely deserted. There is a girl around my age sitting at the counter and a waitress behind the counter wiping something with a soiled white rag. Two bus boys are in a booth off to the side playing cards. An oldies station is softly playing from a small, black radio behind the counter. I sit down in a booth close behind the girl at the counter. When the waitress eventually notices me, I order coffee and a bagel.
I notice that the girl ordered coffee and a bagel, and I find it strange that we both want the exact same thing.
“Nice choice,” I tell her, holding up my mug to toast her decision.
Whenever I notice similarities like this - coincides - I always acknowledge them.
“You too.”
I can tell that she is surprised that I’m talking to her. I motion to her
“Come sit over here. I’m Anna.” I always try to be inviting and polite.
She doesn’t move. Instead, she introduces herself.
“I’m Celeste.”
She opens her purse and locates her cigarettes, an excuse to turn back to the privacy of her plate.
I find my chapstick at the bottom of my bag.
“So what brings you to the White Palace on a night like tonight?”
“Boredom.” She says in a monotone voice as she spreads raspberry jam on her cold, toasted bagel. The smoke from her cigarette is circling above her face.
“There are so many things to be doing right now. We live in a city, what do you mean, boredom?” I am raising my voice as I speak to her; she is getting annoyed.
“Nothing has struck my interest. And hey, if there’s so much to be doing, why the hell are you here alone at a 24 hour diner?”
I can tell that she doesn’t want to talk, but I persist.
“Entertainment.”
She turns around and looks at me like I’m crazy.
“Alone at a diner for entertainment? What do you find so damn entertaining!”
I try to defend myself. To her, I probably look similar to one of those scammers that I am always so skeptical about.
“I just left a bar and now I am exploring someone else’s neighborhood.”
“I’m not so sure about all that. You saw what I ordered and you got the same thing so you could strike up a conversation. I don’t know where you’re from, but people here in ‘the city’ don’t go out of their way to talk to each other.”
She is tapping her cigarette box against her hand, packing her cigarettes, probably a nervous habit. She can tell that I am not a native of the city, which bothers me because, to her, I don’t blend in.
“Just trying to be polite. You were alone and I noticed that you didn’t look like the happiest of people, so I decided to say something. Sorry, go back to whatever it was that you were thinking about.”
She takes a drag and turns around
“I’m Celeste.”
She picks up her food and walks to the booth next to mine and sits down. My guess is that this is the closest that Celeste will come all night.
Celeste is a skeptic. She has long, wavy, dark hair. I think that she tries to hide behind her hair, like a blanket from the things that make her feel uncomfortable - sort of like the security that a cigarette provides. She’s wearing a form-fitting black t-shirt and a pair of frayed jeans. She looks like she’s a classic rock chick. I can’t put my finger on it, but I’m pretty sure that she likes to sit in a beer garden with a cover band playing the classics.