"So, you're selling out. You're buying in to a system that you've fought against for the last ten years. You're... defeated..." he said. "Is that statement designed to make me feel better?" I asked angrily.
We sat together, he and I, for the last time. He took one final draft of his latte, tipping the cup all the way back before setting it down on the counter. I refused to make eye contact with him, and there was now only silence between us. He pushed back the stool he was sitting on, its metal legs shuddering against the tile floor as it moved away from the coffee bar. Turning, he rose to his feet and, as I looked up, he walked out the door, and out of my life.
Michael was an intelligent, affable and educated 27 year-old fellow. A life-long student and the son of a corporate executive, he was well on his way to a master's degree in psychology. His long brown hair tied back into a ponytail, he resembled a bearded Matthew McConaughey. He was married to Danica, a homeopathic practitioner, and together they had two small children, a boy and a girl.
He had started hanging around the bookstore between or after classes, engaging me at first with small talk and later, when he got to know me, long conversations over coffee. I welcomed his companionship, as our talks were interesting, dynamic and animated. I appreciated the similarities of our world views, and looked forward to our meetings. Philosophy, the Arts, politics, deep ecology, no topic was barred, and often customers and friends were included in the discourse.
He and his family fully enjoyed the regular community poetry readings and musical events. He opened up new lines of communication with clients, developed relationships with performers, and helped with set-up and take-down. During one performance, he and his daughter danced to the music of a very appreciative folk singer, charming the audience with their fluid movements.
He did have some trouble with the cash register, regularly making accounting errors that were easy enough to fix. He'd leave me notes on bits of till tape or sheets of paper, outlining the circumstances around a mistake, saying: "Chris: I charged someone a $7000.00 for a book..." adding cheekily, "I don't know if that was done right." As I was paying him cash under the table at the time, he would go on to further admit: "I took $13.50 out of the till on friday for lunch."
Startling admissions to his wife over the telephone would spark misunderstandings between them, leading to a debate and ensuingly a discussion over semantics. I extrapolated later that these disagreements often stemmed from his honesty, and his propensity to find himself in compromising situations with women. In one instance, after having coffee with an acquaintance, he went with her to her apartment. Somehow she managed to get him in the shower, but he was clear in stating to me that he was still fully clothed when this occurred. I struggled with the notion of his predicament, and had trouble feeling sorry for him when Danica found out.
On another occasion, he told me of a chance encounter he had with a woman in a cafe. She approached him while he was paying for his latte, stating how attractive he was, how much he resembled Matthew McConaughey, and that she wanted to make love to him immediately. His stories were entertaining, but always understated, and never boastful.
At one point, circumstances in his family life were changing and I was afforded the opportunity to buy his 1979 VW Westfalia. It was the missing piece of the puzzle for my life and the bookstore. Nothing embodied my lifestyle better than an unreliable accordion on wheels, or "flying shingle", as my Dad called it.
One day, a housemate of mine, Paul, came home cheerfully announcing that he had procured a chunk of hash, and that he and his friend were going downstairs to bake brownies. Hours later, with the house smelling of fresh baked goods, he emerged from the basement suite clutching two baking dishes, one for Lance, our other housemate, and the other for me. I initially refused this generous offer, however, on his insistence, I relented and promised I would find a good home for it. It turned out Michael's home was not the the best place, as their little boy managed to spot it at the back of the fridge where Michael had hidden the package. He came bounding into the room, his face covered in chocolate icing, shouting excitedly "Mommy, mommy, I found cake in the fridge!" adding, "Can I have some?"
I figured out much later that, at the time of our parting and the store closure, Michael was losing something too. My folks thought he was losing his hangout; my wife recently suggested it was possible that Michael had actually never been my friend, but a friend of the store's.
His little boy was just fine the next day.
We sat together, he and I, for the last time. He took one final draft of his latte, tipping the cup all the way back before setting it down on the counter. I refused to make eye contact with him, and there was now only silence between us. He pushed back the stool he was sitting on, its metal legs shuddering against the tile floor as it moved away from the coffee bar. Turning, he rose to his feet and, as I looked up, he walked out the door, and out of my life.
Michael was an intelligent, affable and educated 27 year-old fellow. A life-long student and the son of a corporate executive, he was well on his way to a master's degree in psychology. His long brown hair tied back into a ponytail, he resembled a bearded Matthew McConaughey. He was married to Danica, a homeopathic practitioner, and together they had two small children, a boy and a girl.
He had started hanging around the bookstore between or after classes, engaging me at first with small talk and later, when he got to know me, long conversations over coffee. I welcomed his companionship, as our talks were interesting, dynamic and animated. I appreciated the similarities of our world views, and looked forward to our meetings. Philosophy, the Arts, politics, deep ecology, no topic was barred, and often customers and friends were included in the discourse.
I valued the time I spent with him, and we started meeting casually outside the store at a cafe nearby that offered great middle-eastern cuisine. We became close friends, or so I thought at the time. I'm not sure whether I offered him the job, or if he suggested that he work part-time. In any case, I knew his erudition and friendly demeanor were just the ticket, and I had a renewed sense of optimism for the future. It also gave me a chance to relax a bit, knowing there was someone I trusted looking after things in the shop.
He and his family fully enjoyed the regular community poetry readings and musical events. He opened up new lines of communication with clients, developed relationships with performers, and helped with set-up and take-down. During one performance, he and his daughter danced to the music of a very appreciative folk singer, charming the audience with their fluid movements.
Startling admissions to his wife over the telephone would spark misunderstandings between them, leading to a debate and ensuingly a discussion over semantics. I extrapolated later that these disagreements often stemmed from his honesty, and his propensity to find himself in compromising situations with women. In one instance, after having coffee with an acquaintance, he went with her to her apartment. Somehow she managed to get him in the shower, but he was clear in stating to me that he was still fully clothed when this occurred. I struggled with the notion of his predicament, and had trouble feeling sorry for him when Danica found out.
On another occasion, he told me of a chance encounter he had with a woman in a cafe. She approached him while he was paying for his latte, stating how attractive he was, how much he resembled Matthew McConaughey, and that she wanted to make love to him immediately. His stories were entertaining, but always understated, and never boastful.
At one point, circumstances in his family life were changing and I was afforded the opportunity to buy his 1979 VW Westfalia. It was the missing piece of the puzzle for my life and the bookstore. Nothing embodied my lifestyle better than an unreliable accordion on wheels, or "flying shingle", as my Dad called it.
One day, a housemate of mine, Paul, came home cheerfully announcing that he had procured a chunk of hash, and that he and his friend were going downstairs to bake brownies. Hours later, with the house smelling of fresh baked goods, he emerged from the basement suite clutching two baking dishes, one for Lance, our other housemate, and the other for me. I initially refused this generous offer, however, on his insistence, I relented and promised I would find a good home for it. It turned out Michael's home was not the the best place, as their little boy managed to spot it at the back of the fridge where Michael had hidden the package. He came bounding into the room, his face covered in chocolate icing, shouting excitedly "Mommy, mommy, I found cake in the fridge!" adding, "Can I have some?"
I figured out much later that, at the time of our parting and the store closure, Michael was losing something too. My folks thought he was losing his hangout; my wife recently suggested it was possible that Michael had actually never been my friend, but a friend of the store's.
His little boy was just fine the next day.
