The Master Of Small Talk
Good thing he's not teaching that class.
He was tired of writing in the Glencoe Starbucks. He was also tired of making small talk with baristas. He never considered that they, too, were tired of making small talk with him. So one bright afternoon, he walked right past Starbucks, past what was once Parkway Drugs, crossed the street, and decamped to the coffee house at the corner.
He immediately liked the ambience. Coziness. Just four tables, two sofas, two love seats and a coffee table separating the sofas. He sat himself at the end of the sofa next to the window, which afforded a clear view of the passersby. He stretched his legs out, resting his shoes on the coffee table, opened his laptop and thought, “This will do nicely.”
He had another thought, which for him was quite profound. The folks who worked behind the counter. This time he wasn’t going to make small talk. Not even a smidgen. Nor was he going to allow them to chat him up. He would spurn them.
That’s what he did. They didn’t learn his name nor did he learn theirs. Sure, they knew his order and would tell him what it was before he could even say. He decided this was allowable. He liked this arrangement very much. This was quite a departure for the man who fancied himself “the master of small talk.”
As time went on, he luxuriated in not having to talk to anyone. He often thought back on his days at Starbucks. What a burden all that small talk had become. How did he ever find the strength to write? Did he even write? He couldn’t remember. No matter. Here, he was writing. Writing well.
So, imagine his surprise on that lazy hot summer Sunday afternoon when he stopped by to get an iced latte to go. Business, not surprisingly, was slow. Just a man sitting in his spot reading The Chicago Tribune. He did wonder, if he was going to stay, would he politely ask the man to move? After some thought, he decided probably not.
The café owner was the only one behind the counter. He guessed she was in her late 50s. By her accent, he was confident she was Eastern European. How nice not to know her name. How nice the silence was between them. He watched her make his coffee.
As always he was enthralled by the coffee making process; manipulating levers , scooping grinds, steaming milk. With such efficiency. He doubted he could do that. He was fine with that because he didn’t want to do that. She put a lid on the coffee. Placed it in front of him and rang him up. They transacted business in silence.
After she gave him his change, he did something that even he didn’t know he was going to do. He extended his right hand and introduced himself by telling her his name. She looked slightly bewildered. She then met his hand with a firm grip and said, “Yes, I know. It’s the third time you’ve told me.”
Was it? No way! Why didn’t he remember? He loved her response. He thought, “This is a great story.” As soon as he got in the car, he called W. She thought it was hilarious. That week he told it many more times. The same response. Though a few friends did good-naturedly ask if he was starting to lose his memory.
No, of course, not. He was sharp as a tack. In that moment, he had immediately recognized that life can be wondrously inexplicably absurd. And, really, who doesn’t want a good laugh? To piece all that together in a nanosecond was not a sign of early onset dementia. Just the opposite. A demonstration of high powered clarity of thought. Maybe superpowerish.
For years he’s been telling this story. Never has it failed to delight. If he were to teach a course on “How To Be A Master Of Small Talk,” he would most definitely encourage his students to carry stories like this one in their back pockets. If he were to be asked, ”How do you come across stories like that?” He would want his answer to sound smart. “Dumb luck” is the best he has so far. Good thing he’s not teaching that class.
What he has never considered in all the years of telling the story was that the coffee shop owner really didn’t know his name and was just fucking with him.
Do You Know This Man?: An Irreverent Memoir, is an ongoing exploration of the one character who eludes, confounds and mystifies. Me. Right now, it’s available for free, including being able to listen to some of my plays and dive into the best of Sportscape Magazine.
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