It was a little after 2pm in the high-ceilinged cafe. A man walked in, black jeans, black work boots, too many top layers for the unseasonably warm day. He favored his right leg, not quite a limp. His Jacket was that neon yellow-green with wide, silvery reflective stripes, the kind you see worn on airport tarmacs and sanitation workers. I was a fucking cliche. The writer in a European-styled cafe. Cross legged and leaning back in my chair, I sipped coffee, and scribbled in my notebook creased in half from carrying it in my back pocket. The world outside was misty and grey. The cobblestone walk, lampposts, and all the colors of Main Street were washed out by rain and winter light.
He sat at one of the small marble topped bistro tables, his legs splayed out, his forehead resting in his left palm. His brow furrowed as he looked at each section of the job application, the pen moving down the page as he searched for where to even start. After a few minutes, when the frustration became too heavy, he put his head down on the table. The cooling sensation of marble on skin. Full of presumption and privilege, I wanted to ask him if he needed help. I wanted to give him a job. I wanted to sneak over to the counter and offer to pay for them to hire him.
Refocusing his concentration, he lifted his head to a close hover above the paper. He mouthed the words as he read and then paused to drum along to the scratchy big band tune playing in the background. He held his pen with a drummer’s grip, maybe a musician in a past life. He looked hard at the paper, his eyes grew heavy and closed. The jazzy tune above and distant with horns that weren’t too aggressive hung in the air, rose up through the ceiling, floated out through vents in to the Memphis afternoon – lost. I thought about his connection to the music, wondered if that’s how he might be healed or if that was his demise. I dreamed the newest social program, because that’s what people in my position do. An orchestra of vagabonds. It feels like there’s a redemption to be had.
He put his head back in his hand. His brow, now four or five lines deep. I could see his fingernails, thick and slightly discolored. He snapped a rubber band that he wore around his wrist, scribbled on the paper here and there. He can’t remember the answers to these questions. The song had switched. Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong. “The way your smile just beams / the way you sing off key / the way you haunt my dreams…” He fidgeted with the pen. Broke it. Went back to the counter with a lowered head bow and borrowed another pen. He raised the broken piece to show the staff that he was just borrowing another pen. They were cautious in their observations. Maybe he’s been here before. Maybe this was just a way to get out of the rain.
When he finished, he lingered a bit. He shuffled outside to a bike with a milk crate strapped to the front, a few belongings inside the crate. He came back in, spoke in low and humble tones to the man who had taken his application. Left again. He came back in two more times, not sure of his comings or goings. How many times would he do this today? How many times would he question his qualifications or try to remember his last place of employment. The last sentence I wrote was “I love the way we disappoint… replacing hope with hope” I had moved on. Returned to my preoccupations. So had he.