Expectations precede it

What is it with the coffee shop? Why does Bryce think he can walk in there with a laptop or notebook and think he is a writer?

He always has these expectations for coffee shop writing. Like the atmosphere is going to overload his senses with motivation and ideas for blogs, stories, or books. It never does. He usually walks away with a few pages of ramblings that even with the most meticulous rewording could not be kneaded into a blog, a story, or a book.

There might be a paragraph about the two middle-aged men playing Magic: The Gathering near him. Sentences therein might read something like this: One man, perhaps 45 years-old, is balding, tall, and gangly. He is dressed in casual business attire, but his shoes stand out. They are leathery clogs. His friend is wearing Chacos. He looks granola-ish, and oddly out of place in the Midwest. He wears cutoff jean shorts that are accompanied by a blue tank top. He is topped by a mop of bleached dreadlocks that frame his full beard. A surprisingly pretentious pair of reading glasses rest on a nose that protrudes from his face in a knobby fashion. Green eyes rest in a tanned, weathered face that is twisted in confusion at his opponent’s recent play.

Bryce might dabble in a rant about a barista who is asking everyone if they would like the large for just fifty cents more even though they asked for the medium. He thinks good baristas should shut up and just make the medium as good as a large. He could imagine a conversation with her and write it down.

“Would you like to get the large for just fifty cents more?”

“No! I would not. Do you think I think there is only one size here? I picked the medium for a reason. Do you think that I picked the medium because the fifty cents more for the large is going to put me on food stamps?”

“No I don’t, sir. I’m sorry for the confusion. I was just pointing out…”

“You were just pointing out what? I chose the 16-ounce drink because I wanted the 16-ounce drink.”

Many authors have written books in coffee shops. Or have they? He only remembers reading one author that mentions how he wrote a book in coffee shops and pubs around the Portland area. Why does he think many authors have done the same? Well, this is the place where book lovers go, right? The smell of coffee might do it. He likes it; it reminds him of cracking a fresh book and taking a whiff of the binding. No, he thinks. It must be the music; it’s always there, but it’s always absent in a way. If he doesn’t listen to it, it goes away. If he listens for it, it is there. For these reasons the music is magical, and since the music is in the coffee shop it makes the coffee shop magical. Magical places must inspire, he thinks.

He admires the wood furniture. Aged, scratched, weakened, and creaky, the wood cries out to be made into words. His heart cries out to make the wood into words. A transformation of the coffee shop into words, that is what he wants, but he never gets. The people on the wooden furniture, the purveyors and consumers of the coffee, and the ears listening to the music all distract him from the purity.

Bryce walks away from the coffee shop feeling like it let him down today. He casts a forlorn look into its deep hallows as he drives by and wonders about its potential. Will it ever give him something good? Can it ever give him something good? He wants to return to show that it can be made into words. The chair, the desk, the mug, the wisps of steam, the beans, the walls, the music, the dark, comfy corner…all into words.

*He wrote this at home.