He escaped the sprawl of suburbia, those walled-off faux-resplendent stuccoed cul-de-sacs with high, noble names such as Stonybrook and Glenmarsh and Something-Oak and Laurel-Whatever, nature words designed to trick the mind into accepting the abundance of fake brick and stone and wood. He escaped with his family to trade speedy six-lane roads and barren sidewalks and strip-mall monuments for…what, exactly?
Crumbling bricks and drafty floorboards? Check.
Stolen bikes and wary glances from unwashed drifters? Check.
Mature plants giving much-needed shade and beauty in exchange for rich, sandy soil in this marshland-turned-metro? Well-used sidewalks with ancient memories of walkers and bike riders and barely holding down large tree roots? A diversity of peoples and incomes and housing, with no property the same and each chronicling a long history in its dusty bones?
Life? Creativity? Possibility? Togetherness? Appreciation for all things old and genuine and unique and natural? Moving to the city center, he found that he could tentatively check these all off, and that he could scarce be convinced to move anywhere else in town from that time onward.
After parking his car and retrieving his laptop from the trunk on a certain mid-April morning, he noticed that a cool breeze, fresh after a mild rain, played with the cigarette smoke curling into the air from the smoker’s patio attached to the corner coffee shop. The rancid aroma of incinerated tobacco danced intimately with the savoriness of freshly-ground coffee beans, and it flirted with the slight olfactory evidence of someone smoking a hidden joint of weed around the corner. Rainwater, now resting on the ground, had cleared the air of the ever-present smog in this typically dry valley town; it made temporary room for the sweet scent of the blooming trees nearby, and of grass, and of a reminder to look up and revere the oft-hidden mountains surrounding the city in the distance. The sun played peek-a-boo between clear blue sky and gray clouds that were ringed in silver-white. This orgy of the senses produced an offspring of organic thought in him: This is earth, and we are of the earth, and we ingest the earth, and we create the earth.
The coffee shop served as an eclectic collective of people and roles. Business was conducted. Old friends were caught up. New friends were made. Religious devotees hoped that their prayers and studies of their sacred texts, conducted in the open public, would bear good witness to all the unconverted heathens. Musicians hoped that their connections would lead to the next big thing. Artists hoped for their next commission, their next full tank of gas, as they stared intently at the incomplete shading of their paper creation – perhaps they should use a darker pencil for this part of the calf muscle…maybe a 7B?
Coffee baristas concentrated on uplifting the plain existence of hot water poured through the tortured remains of small tropical berries or plant leaves, like priests and priestesses performing a holy rite with the barest of earthly ingredients. They concentrated, yes, but they were not concerned with the art. No, they were concerned with their next car payment or with their son’s toothache or with their mother’s recent health scare. They were concerned about the belligerent druggie who would always come in for free water and leave a mess in the bathroom. They were concerned about the stabbing that happened last night up the street. They were concerned about what they were going to fix for dinner with the few staples in their kitchen. They were concerned about how many reactions their latest social media post received, and about trying to stave off the anxiety and depression that hounded so many of their fellow humans in the modern digital realities of hyper-connectivity and high-speed insecurity.
He entered the coffee shop and breathed in the familiarity. His second office, his second home. There, behind the counter, toiled his friends. All around, his family consumed and lived and created. And he joined the ritual, trading credits for caffeine, to sit alone yet not alone at a wobbly table in order to conduct his own business and keep the economic machinery lubed and running.
After a few hours, he had to pack his things away and put his mind toward the client that needed help on-location. He drove away from the city center, the center of his life, and proceeded over the bridge spanning the always-dry riverbed. Out of habit, he glanced to the right to take in the sight of the bare riverbed leading up to the eastern foothills and the now-clear mountains beyond. But today, he was witness to the very rare sight of water cutting a shallow path. He turned his head to the left and confirmed the happy circumstance. He smiled inside himself, and he thought: There is water in the river, and today is a good day.
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