"No vacillating or uncertain interest can produce a unity."
On Thursday I got a lead. An honest lead from a man I suspect has midgets for parents, but wishes to keep it secret. It was a lead so obvious to me that I couldn't believe I hadn't thought of it before: Starbucks. Lakewood.
A man, rather professional. Glasses. He's there all the time. The perfect sized little man.
Today is Monday and Labor Day. My weekend houseguest has just left, and I am readjusting to being alone again. So, it occurs to me to head out for some coffee, and maybe...just maybe.
And here I am.
And holy shit there he is.
And I am speechless.
He drinks tea. He carries a paper back Merriam Webster that is falling apart and bound together by a rubber band.
His back is lopsided; bulky on the right and weak on the left.
There is no better table for me to position myself at, and even this one is not good.
My anxiety starts acting up and I cannot catch my breath. I yawn to fill my lungs up and calm myself down. A handsome man beside me yawns loudly too and distracts me from my notebook to say that I should stop it, it's contagious...but that it shouldn't be on account of all the coffee.
I have no tongue, but smile like a cat.
The midget stirs.
Obviously, this man must shut up, and I must find my voice. Perhaps my breath will be found sitting beside it.
My fingers tap the table as I try to think of a segway. The handsome man mimics my taping with a clicking. It is an old sales trick he picked up somewhere, and guess what somewhere I've heard it too.
Small man can sit quiet and still for such a long time, while the salesguy shimmies to burst god damn him.
"One cannot finish a thing lest one begins it."
My subject has a very bad haircut, or rather, he does not get it cut very often. He has a red zit on his neck.
He closes his plastic covered book around a bookmarker.
He is leaving...
no, he is relieving...
and comes back again.
He is reading Wayne Dyers Wisdom of the Ages, and he has nearly finished it.
I am reading the art spirit. I am on page 29.
"The later type of worker generally manifests a mental activity of much higher order than his apparently safe and secure confrere. He must know and he must know that he knows before the model is snatched away from him. He studies for information."
I know that I don't know what confrere means.
Eureka, I know an old tattered lady named Merriam who sits close by, and I know that she does.
Main Entry: con·frere Variant(s): also con·frère: COLLEAGUE, COMRADEA cold exchange. Worthless. One: may I?. One: yes. One: thank you. One: welcome.
The salesman clicks and softly moans in caffeine-induced frustration.
Mine.