Echo. My voice is an echo.
Of places I don’t know, in stories that have been told.
Echo. We are all connected.
A lighthouse of voyage, for histories saved.

- The Hush Sound

About Nothing
Being a smoker once myself, I’m surprised to be annoyed by the cloud of suffocating stench that I’m enveloped in right now. Only I, and one other stand to be nicotine-free, and we happen to be sitting back to back fending for ourselves. Currently he’s absorbed into a paper that he has written himself, possibly about nuclear fission and his plan to take over the world. Top secret stuff that causes him to keep his nose a millimeter apart from the paper. Red Xs, dashes, and scribbles march down the page ravaging everything in sight, no “buts” or “ifs” spared. (Ah, he’s German! Maybe I’m onto something.)

I’m melting through my chair, faster than the cubes in my mango iced tea, but I refuse to stay put behind closed doors. It’s probably the dank black cave of Hollister that gives me this adverse effect to the great air-conditioned indoors. Coming out of that store is like a bear awakening from hibernation. Everything is so dim that it has a tranquilizing effect, makes you slow and sleepy. Once I step outside the mall sliding doors, I immediately need to shield my eyes from the sun. Whereas anyone else who works in a decently lit environment is already well adjusted to the normal daylight.

Anyway. Now sitting to the right of me is a metro-ish man so fidgety, I wonder why he even needs coffee. After his third cigarette, he finally calms himself into a trance by staring off into the dizzying maze of sunlit leaves from the tree above. Hehehehehehee. I can’t help but giggle now because his hand has occupied itself with his moustache. With a finger on each side, he’s massaging in small circular movements, I can imagine him shampooing it in this manner. Thus, the giggling from this silly mental picture. (Damn it, he caught me looking.)

I hear the constant flicking of an exhausted lighter. It’s in the hands of an idly awaiting pyromaniac trying to put a plastic cup to its death. This would be one table over to my left from moustache man, with an audience of three others. With the four of them combined, seventeen cigarettes later… topics have ranged from “How gay would it be if Green Day went country” to “Dae~~Oh~. Yes the lion is sleeping, in the jungle. Don’t
forget, it’s the mighty jungle.”. My face started to hurt from being twisted up by confusion. All throughout, the flicking never ceased.

So I’m people watching, maybe they’re watching me. They’re probably wondering what I find so deliciously appetizing about pen caps. I’ve made myself at home sprawled out over two chairs, shaking my legs to “The Hush Sound,” the contents of my “luggage” littering the table: three books, wallet, dental floss, loose papers, and mints among other things. Moustache man and I just exchanged smiles. On this café front, among the eight other smokers with a plethora of lighters, only he has been asked for the use of his, three times in the past 20 minutes. We both recognized this pointless hilarity.

It’s nice to have a shared moment with a complete stranger. You manage to wiggle your way into someone’s life, even if it is to be a brief, soon to be forgotten, memory. There are moments, even seconds, when we mistake randomness for significance, and vice versa. Ever feel an instant electric-like connection between eye contact of someone walking by that you’ve never spoken to in your life? Or you keep seeing the very same car with the stupid hood ornament at the same random joints you go?

Before I made my way to the coffee shop, I stopped by Barnes & Noble to visit my favorite section of the store, children’s books! I only first noticed this one guy because of his extremely orange shirt. He was perusing through the magical world of Narnia right in front of the shelf of my beloved Roald Dahl. He looked like the gamer type that you would see at Fragg’s playing War Craft, or some role-playing game, as if it were a sin not to. We kept running into each other as we circled the displays of Charlie Bone and Captain Underpants. Later I am heading towards the back to the restrooms and he happens to have been called to the same duty as well. We both come out at the same time. We check out at the same time. Then after a quick bike ride to Expresso Royale and 20 minutes of reading, the only other non-smoker sitting behind me, working on his paper to take over the world? That’s right. Extreme Orange.
ß
There are subtle signs and connections everywhere, whether they mean anything we’ll never know, but we make it out to mean as much as we want it to mean. I couldn’t help but think that Extreme Orange and I had a purpose for our constant run-ins. Through the three hours at the café, words were never exchanged. Oh well, the mystery was fun while it lasted.

But sometimes, one word, smile, or small gesture, may start something completely unexpected. Like the day in Chicago at Central Station… I met Conlay Johnson.

-tbc-