Ideas

Ideas

William J Emmons

He trudged down the sidewalk, feet heavy with thought. His mood matched the gloomy clouds overhead. The air was heavy with moisture and had that scent that air has when it’s about to break open with rain. He adjusted his hat. It felt strangely uncomfortable on his head this morning. He could feel a block forming again and was dreading the following weeks of turmoil, staring at the blank page folding out of his Olivetti. Like a tongue sticking out at him in contempt.
A mother pushed past him in a rush, her pram rattling over the rough pavement. The infant inside, eyes wide in wonder at the tree tops flying past.
“So sorry. Please, can you move out of the way? I’m terribly late,” she shouted as she passed.
He stumbled off the footpath onto the grass as she stormed by. He hadn’t even time to excuse himself or apologize before she was gone.
But it didn’t matter too much to him in the end. He had a much bigger issue rising around him, like wild vines through the warm season.
He knelt and straightened up the daisy that was growing through a crack in the concrete. The hurried woman had smashed it with her foot. He tried to flatten a couple of the petals that were all scrunched up. And he bent the stem straight again.
“There you go, little fella,” he said to the sad little flower. He let it go, and it fell over. Hopeless.
A commotion from across the street stole his attention. A family was standing in front of a cafe taking a photo and laughing. The older couple, whom he assumed were the grandparents, were hugging two young children. A little boy with ashen hair and a pretty girl with pigtails and a pink dress with ruffles. Each of them reached out and cheerfully took the lolly pops handed to them by Nana and Papa. The children's mother looked slightly disgruntled at the offering, slowly shaking her head, but their father patted them on the head. Then he kissed his mother and father goodbye on their cheeks.
Thunder rolled across the sky. He turned back and started walking again, picking up his pace to a trot. The cafe wasn’t too far. If he hurried, he could duck out of the impending weather in the very nick. Although, he would most likely spend the afternoon just staring at the blank page of his notepad, sipping his coffee; glum.
He turned right on 5th, passing Tony's Pizza on the corner. It wasn’t open yet, but he could hear Tony yelling at Maria, his wife, from the kitchen about something. He headed up to Main. There, he turned left, passing Morton's department store where Gina worked. The pretty assistant who worked in menswear and always flirted with him whenever he went in to buy socks or some other unnecessary item he could think of as an excuse to see her. He reminded himself as soon as he got his novel published, he’d ask her out.
He made a quick right onto Petty Lane. Halfway down the cobblestone alley, he could see the six iron-framed tables with ivory tops and matching iron-framed chairs, two at each table, guarding the front door. He entered under the beige, crescent-shaped canopy with Petty Lane Café written on the front.
The place was humming with energy. It was always busy here, though you couldn’t tell from the street. Especially on a stormy morning like this. No one was game to sit outside.
Immediately the aroma of freshly baked bread and brewed coffee slapped his nostrils. And bacon. And something else, something he couldn’t put his finger on. Possibly melted cheese?
"Good morning Raymond,” said Terrence.
Terrence loved his cafe. Loved being a restaurateur. Loved knowing all sorts of people. Hearing their stories. Being the curator of their secrets. He loved creating an atmosphere for the making of memories. And, too, he loved sitting with people at their tables, sipping his brandy, and being part of those memories. And his customers loved him back.
“Have I got a story for you!” he added as he passed by with two plates of food, pausing for a brief moment. Steam rising from the eggs on toast.
“Sure, Terry. Can I get a coffee with cream? And maybe a danish? What have you got today?”
“I got cream cheese, peach, ham and cheese, and iced.”
“I’ll take a peach.”
Terrence moved on with a nod.
Raymond ignored Terrence’s comment about the story. He always had a story, and they could be so exhausting. And besides, once the place slowed for the morning, Terrence would come over and get in his ear anyway. And he had to write before that, or the day would be a total loss.
He moved through the crowded bistro toward his favorite table. Unfortunately, it was occupied by two men who appeared to be in the throes of a serious conversation.
So Raymond took a seat at the communal table across from the two. Hopefully, they would need to get back to the office soon and Raymond could reclaim his usual spot. The perfect spot; ideally set at the rear of the establishment, within earshot of the kitchen, with a view of the ally, the other tables, and the front door.
He sat down, opened his satchel, and pulled out his notebook. Juan, the busboy, brought a jug of water and a glass.
“Solo un vaso, Sinior Raymond?”
“Si, Juan, one glass. Always one glass. Gracias.”
Juan poured the water, then brought over a napkin, knife, and fork. Then he headed off into the clamor.
Raymond sipped his water. He could feel the thickness growing in his mind. A thick grayness of nothing. Could almost see the wall forming between himself and all the great ideas.
He took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then let it out slowly. From his right, through the large ficus plant that separated him from the table next to him, he could hear the conversation of two ladies.
“Why do I even bother Lucy? Why?”
“Well, I just don’t know, Sarah. If it was me, I’d have left him by now- or had him run out of town.”
“But he’s a good man, down deep. I mean, he can be something despicable, but inside there’s goodness. I’ve seen it.”
“A cow that..." Her voice lowered here "...shits every day, but only gives milk once a year is best fit for steak.”
“Oh Lucy! I don’t think that’s even a saying.”
“Well, it should be, Sarah.”
“But what about the little ones?”
Just then, the two men at his usual table began talking louder.
“Just what do you want from your business, Don?”
“Well, I—”
“What I mean is, if your marketing goes ahead as intended, what do you hope to get out of it?”
“Well, I would think a higher influx of customers leading to a higher turn over—”
“Yes, yes. That’s all well and good. But it’s predictable. Now what I’m suggesting, what I’m offering from my company, is a new market. A whole new customer base.”
Raymond looked at the two men. They were dressed in nice suits. Expensive suits. He could tell by the way they draped and fit at the waist. The way the ankles were cuffed. And the material; evenly woven. Not like the suits at Morton's. Those off-the-rack pieces of garbage. One of the men had a waistcoat of the same cloth. The other wore a light blue silk handkerchief in his breast pocket. These were the suits he would wear when he asked Gina out. And he’d get a new hat, too.
Just then, a woman yelped, and a glass crashed on the floor. Juan raced past with a dustpan and shovel, and a rag slung over his shoulder. And then a large man with broad shoulders, thick hands, and a heavy beard came walking by. He eyed Raymond as he strode purposefully past.
“Don’t you even think about it…” said one of the women.
“Frank! Ouch, that smarts.”
Raymond looked at the men at his usual table. They were watching the commotion on the other side of the ficus. Then a rustling and a quick scratch of metal legs on a wooden floor. Suddenly the large man marched past with his giant claw gripped around one of the woman’s delicate arms.
“Let her go you brut!” yelled the other woman.
The large man didn’t turn. He simply replied from the side of his mouth, “She’ll be at home with the children where the hell she belongs if you want to see her.”
And with that, the bell over the front door clanged, and silence fell over the entire place for a few stilted moments. Then, as if cued by a conductor, the conversations started up again, and everything continued.
The other woman from the table stood and slowly walked past Raymond and out the door.
Raymond rubbed his eyes. Juan brought his coffee, a carafe of creme, and his peach danish.
“Dios mío, qué vergüenza,” said Juan.
“Yes, I suppose it was a bit uncomfortable. But it’s all done now. Back to our problems,” replied Raymond, and he smiled, slightly defeated.
“Podrían see tan graves tus problems?”
“Si, Juan. They could be as bad.”
“Qué podría ser tan horrible?”
Raymond ripped his danish in half purposefully, then took a bite. As he chewed, he looked back to Juan.
“I’m blocked, Juan. Clear out of ideas.”
“Qué?”
“What could be worse than a writer whose run out of ideas?”
“Dios mío!” answered Juan, and he walked away slowly shaking his head.
Raymond brought the coffee to his lips and blew on it. As he sat staring out the window at the rain pummeling the cobblestones, a white boxer bounded past. In his mouth was a fish. Well, not a whole fish. Just the head, black eyes staring at nothing. Raymond thought he could see a mischievous grin on the pup's mouth. Then he was gone.
Moments later, a young boy ran by yelling, "Stop Rufus! Get back here, boy."
After the boy, a heavy man ran past wearing an apron. In his hands was the other half of the fish; the tail bouncing with each footfall. Behind the fishmonger, a slight woman wearing a light blue dress, saturated by the deluge; water splashing from each step of her laced, brown boots. Her hair was pulled into a bun and her glasses were slipping down the bridge of her nose from the rain. She pushed them back into place as she ran out of sight. Finally, a policeman ran past, blowing his whistle.
Raymond sipped his coffee as he glanced around the bistro. No one seemed to have noticed any of what had just happened outside. He took another sip and set the cup in the saucer, picked up his notebook and pen.
He sighed as he stared at the blank page. Come on. Just one idea.