A Toast to the Little Things

Something in the way these fabrics are arranged haphazardly in the filthy storefront windows lulls me into a state of sudden tranquility. The colors pass, flash through my eyes and distract me from whatever mission i was on. Its like a long lost REM cycle that i had once as a child, swirls of dancing polka dots waltz briskly with the strips and solids. Sleepwalking through this city is easy, my feet hit autopilot and coast to no destination in particular. I start to wonder how cities divvy themselves up - could it be in a smoky saloon, late nights spent with city officials in wrinkled buttondowns and loosened ties, all shouting and pounding half full beer mugs on the table as darts are thrown at a pinned up aged monopoly board? Or maybe its done over a glass of chardonnay in a private jet, two capitalist profiteers joking and laughing and drinking from a birds eye view. Sporadically, and whenever they see it fit, one will press a large red button which drops whatsoever industry they please from their elevated height, maybe a mexican restaurant or a grungy cafe, and like a cherry pit spit out by an on-the-go-snacker, it takes root and forms an enclave of varying cuisines. Half lucid, i start to take note of my environment, disappointed in my legs for carrying the rest of me deep into what must be the city's textile district. My goal was simple enough, once upon an attention span. A cafe, a restaurant, perhaps a couch and the low vibrations of a spanish guitar, dimmer lighting and people scattered throughout the tables, all as alone and perfectly satisfied as i am. The beauty is in those details, but i'd settle for any cafe. I pop the clutch on my flinstone-mobile and downshift into third with a renewed sense of purpose.

I think back to freshman year, LJ and i meandering the salted streets of ann arbor, hopelessly searching for any place suited to fit our complaints and demands. Like a cartoon from the 90s, we turn out our pockets to find a collective 27 cents, a button and a piece of string - hardly enough to haggle for a cup of coffee. So we wander, nomadic in mind and soul, broke and exhausted and indecisive as ever before. Something fate-like carried us back to the linoleum halls of east quad's basement, and without hesitation we begin to test doorhandle after doorhandle in hopes of finding our personal Narnia. Finally, an unmarked door swings open exposing a line of lockers, a couch, and what appears to be a men's bathroom, and with no sense of dignity whatsoever, we sit down under the cracking fluorescent lights and breathe in the stale airfreshener as if this was our home. Now, face to face with that same desperate search, i tune in to my abounding solitude. If the saying is true, and two heads are in fact better than one, well readers, i'm fucked. My terrifying destiny of ending up along in a junkyard or atop a sacrificial alter surrounded by clocked middle aged men or anywhere else terrifically inappropriate grabs me by the ear and pulls me forward. Eagle eyes spot outdoor seating in the distance, 4 or 5 blocks and to my left, so i weave in and out of pedestrian traffic, never checking my rear view mirror or blind spots and occasionally knocking the more cautious sidewalkers off balance. Now i sit, listening to the mellowed tunes of some acoustic spanish soft rock with notebook out and mate in hand, i feel my first real sense of accomplishment here. Is this what growth is like? Is this how maturity overcomes? Does the bitter taste of this earthy tea represent fulfilled goals, tribulations skirted, and independence granted? I look at my watch wagging its finger at me, "you still have an hour to kill" it nags, "take it easy on the yerba baby". I pour and gulp without hesitation, i earned this drink.