Into the Snow
I sit in a coffee shop waiting for dad to pick me up. My dentist appointment across the street ended quickly and I now find myself musing over a cup of hot chocolate, wondering when the novocaine will wear off and taste will return to the left side of my mouth.
Two men sit at a table and talk lowly, their voices murmuring and echoing in the nearly empty room. A woman in a red shirt is pushing at a tall, steaming, Styrofoam cup in front of her while glancing at the other patrons. Music floats from the radio in the corner while a miniature Christmas tree, decorated with tiny coffee mugs, sits on a low table nearby. Hanging from the ceiling is a single-person canoe and pictures from the Advanced Drawing class at my High School adorn a whole wall. No one is behind the counter right now, and it seems that everyone is trying to gather their courage to go back out into the cold.
The two men stand with a scrape of their chairs and a rustle of their coats, preparing to exit the warm sanctuary of the café. Cold air blows into the room as they disappear into the snow which is falling thickly from the cloudy, gray sky above; coating everything a fluffy, sparkling white.
Across Bloomington, two boys play in the window of Hilda's Hair Hut. Two guys who work in the coffee house go out to shovel snow off the sidewalk while an overhead fan causes the newspapers on a nearby table to rustle softly, I watch and sip from my hot chocolate which has cooled to a more palatable temperature.
Looking up I notice an elderly man with short gray hair, kind ice-blue eyes a prominent nose and long fingered hands sitting at a seat, a table across from me. He's wearing a red shirt, a gray cardigan and loose tan pants. Making himself ready to leave, he politely throws away the left over bottle from the mountain dew he had been drinking and pushes in the chair he sat on. Grunting he pulls on a nice looking red and black jacket, a brown hat with black fur trim and old yellow work gloves. He picks up his black briefcase where he stored the New York Times he had been previously reading. All in all looking very respectable.
"Happy Holidays," I say to him as he walks by.
He stops startled and looks down at me, he is rather tall and must be at least six-foot. "What?" he questions politely, he has a deep nice voice with a pale accent.
"Happy Holidays," I repeat trying to smile and not be shy.
He grins broadly at me and pats my elbow in a friendly fashion, "Why thank you, you too dear, you too." He leaves the coffee house walking out into the small blizzard. He crosses Bloomington and disappears down 42nd street.
I go back to taking small gulps of my hot chocolate, it is getting cold. Shivering as a draft of cold air is let in--the guys who went out to shovel snow have come back inside, I snuggle deeper into my coat and continue to sip away at my drink. Dad pounds on the window from outside, he's here to pick me up. I cap my pen, shut my notebook and take my turn walking off into the snow.
December 28, 2000