Short Stories

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I was rewarding myself with a trip to Hastings Book. Hastings subscribes to the crazy theory that people will actually donate money for a cup of some exotically named or tea.

I dropped in a quarter and poured a cup of something that smelled really great – but something that I knew, from experience, would taste awful. I took out the book I had selected, leaned back, careful to place the hot Java something on the coffee table, and began to read the pages of John Grisham's latest book.

Because I was reading on the free program, I had to remember where exactly I had left off. I began at chapter eight. Surprisingly, the author wasn't castigating lawyers in this one (at least not by chapter 8 anyway).

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I settled in to the chair and lost myself in the pages. At first I really thought he was looking at someone behind me when he approached. He wore a Merle Haggard cowboy hat, jeans and a leather coat. He was young - maybe 18 - 20. His hair was long and blond and his eyes seemed a crystal shade of blue.

Our eyes met as he began to sit in the chair opposite me. "Oh, no", I complained to myself, "no conversation please. I just want to read in peace." He sat his long lanky self down in spite of me. "How ya doing?" I said, hoping for a limited reply.

"Pretty good — now," he said softly.

I thought, ‘What? Look if you're some nut, please leave me alone.’ He continued, "There was a time when I though the whole world was against me…" His voice trailed off.

Now I knew he was a nut. ‘Look, please just leave John and me alone. There's a story here I want to get back to. He waited - silently - perhaps hoping for some kind of intelligent answer - maybe, and more likely, any answer at all.

None came.

He tried to make eye contact with me. He shifted his weight in the chair. He waited some more and I tried to ignore him and get back into my book. I glued my eyes to the pages before me. ‘Why are you here? Why can't you leave me be’, I mumbled.

Silence.

The next few minutes were painful, awkward, and silent. He realized that I was not going to initiate or engage in conversation. I suppose he decided he’d had enough. Maybe he was bursting inside, but he kept silent. I don't know what he really wanted to say. Shamefully, I didn't seem to care either. He rose – as slowly as he had while sitting down. "Have a good day now," he almost whispered.

‘You too, sir,’ I replied.

He turned, walked beside the Java stand, and disappeared into the book section. I stopped reading, staring now at the now empty chair before me. After a few minutes, I returned to the book in my hands and began to again soothe myself with fictitious people in a make believe world. I started out wanting to be alone with the company of my book, but suddenly and strangely wanted someone to talk to.

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