I took a walk in Buffalo today. In loo of subculture I opted for above-board culture.
Finding myself completely surrounded by courthouses and firms and... very tall banks.

I popped into one of those coffee shops you find attached to an office building.
The menu board gave very few options and the generic wall hangings unapologetically transmissioned that this was a place of necessity.
As I ordered my drink I could tell the cashier girl perked up at my tattoos. I was somehow in some tiny way, giving her the coffee shop she had wanted to work at.
There were two tiny tables placed outside on what was more of a sidewalk than a patio.
Which put me right next to the old man with flaky skin and a beat up Yankee's hat.
I knew what I was doing.
As I moved towards the table he came to life like those fortune teller machines at Disney Land.
"Hi!"
"Hello. Nice day today."
"Yes it is."
I pulled out my book, not fully committed. Realizing he was bound to break in at any point.
And yes, I could see in my periphery that he was still looking at me expectantly.

"Didn't you bring a book with you, or something?" I asked with casual friendliness.

"No. No... I have a bunch of magazines at home. A lot. But the catch is you've gotta read them."
I nodded my head as though I completely understood his drift.
He turned back to his statuesque study of the cross traffic, and I read a bit more.
Moments later, I noticed that the guy who had been lingering behind the creamers had come out for a cigarette.
I kept my head down. I wanted to be friendly. It's on the list.
But I also wanted to read, and I gave myself permission.
Above my brow I caught his form dancing about.
Posing, and fidgeting and purposeful.
He settled on the James Dean.
Standing on one leg with the other bent to lean on the wall.
I laughed on the inside. A kind of melancholy laugh.
Wondering,
How much longer will this last?
How much longer will my youth and femininity make me a spectacle in a small town?
Ten years?
A bee popped in front of my face and I shood it away with my book. Looking up briefly to watch it go.
The coffee shop guy took his chance.

"How's your coffee?"

(yup)

"It's tea, actually."
"Oh. What kind of tea?"

I paused to decide.
Should I say English Breakfast, or will that fuel the conversation?

"Black."
"Is it good?"
"Yes," I said as I returned to my book.

When he went back inside, I realized I wasn't really reading anymore.
And there was no use.
I decided to watch the cross traffic with the old man next to me.
He said,
"Some times I just like to sit here and people watch. More than anything."

"Yeah," I said sincerely.

I tried to imagine how I'd feel right then if he were young and beautiful. How intently I'd search the crowd to find his heart.

When he left, he said goodbye, and I said take care.
Something I've been doing lately, a phrase pregnant with finality.

Soon after he'd gone, I dog eared my theory of randomness book.
That I had found on the plane.
There were no pre-existing dog ears, and I apologized to whatever stranger took such care as to use a book mark.

Back at the hotel I made conversation with the piano singer in the lobby.
Jackie.
He sang,
"Come flyyyyy with me! Come fly with... What's your name? Come fly with Rachel at 15,000 feet!"

(I'll let that inaccuracy go.)

"She's the best attendant to me.
You'll agree!"

Jackie.
Oh, Jackie...

What ever that is you started spraying on your head when your hair fell out?
You haven't washed it off ever, have you?
It's kind of hard to look at.

But thank you much for the song.
And for the made up story about meeting Richard Nixon at an empty bar in Newport Beach.


Understandably, the flight back to JFK wasn't nearly as memorable as my day in Buffalo.
One minor exception made for the passenger who came back to chat with me about his ideas.
His plans to build ice castles and water falls in the desert.
When he got around to asking me if I had been to Burning Man, I quickly excused myself to collect trash.

Tomorrow,
Brooklyn.