The Single Life

I walk into Starbucks and take a seat, setting up my computer near an available outlet. Behind me, a couple sits at a table and ponders the state of their relationship and the slate of medications that they’re currently on. The woman, an attractive Latina in her thirties, tries not to sniffle into her decaf skim macchiato, while her companion, a fortysomething man with wild, graying hair and strongly accented speech, makes excuses for his mental state.

He runs through the litany, one after another, in a cascade of whining so cliched that it seems like a mantra or a roadblock in a bad romantic comedy. He’s not ready, he’s not mature, he likes her a lot and enjoys her company but isn’t ready to “take life serious.” She pleads meekly, barely audibly, to the man from whom she wants something more. She whispers, her pain muting her words. He prattles on, loud enough for us all to hear. I feel kind of bad listening, taking notes on their conflict, but I’m a student in the university of life; when a high-volume lesson comes along, I take notes, no matter where and when.

He soldiers on, “trying not to lie to her” and “trying not to be one of those people,” but that he can’t rise to the level that she wants. “Why can’t you just leave things the way they are? I’m immature. I never grew up. I can’t rise to the level. I won’t do it to you or to anyone else. I’m damaged goods. My parents screwed me up. I had bad parents. I’m bad news, I’m telling you. I don’t have the goods that can make you happy. I like your scarf.”

He recaps what he wants (to not be serious) and what she wants (a relationship) and notes that the two are incompatible. All the while, I eavesdrop on the attempted honesty and feel complicit in the deception. Every time he says “I’m not going to lie to you,” the “honesty” of what comes next seems suspect.

“I enjoy your company,” he says. “Let’s change the subject. Is anything good on TV tonight? ” “CSI,” she says, somewhat weakly. Meantime, I perform my own autopsy, on the conversation itself and on these two pathetic people—one incapable of connection, the other making a poor choice in her heart’s pursuit. They transition from the serious to small talk about stores that have gone bankrupt and closed, despite the fact that they were a great addition to the neighborhood. After some deliberation over that most citycentric of conundra–where the original Original Ray’s Pizza actually is–the two pulled up their conversational roots and took their leave of my living conversational laboratory.

As they walk out the front door and disappear into the throng of Saturday night dates on Broadway, I exhale as I intone, “Wow.” I can’t believe that they had such an intimate, personal, shoulda-been-private conversation in a public arena, at that decibel level. What circumstances could have led to that conversation in that space? I cannot imagine for the life of me making that choice…to reveal my soul to another is a choice I seldom make even when privacy is assured. But to engage in such self-exposition before the eyes and ears of my fellow daters and Saturday night dissertation writers is something I cannot understand. As a writer, I’m glad they were there, granting me an insight into the conversational reality of relationships that is absent from movies and TV dramas and plays.

And that’s why I sit there, representing the writers–plugged into the outlets in the walls and plugged into the relationships of fellow citydwellers, our individual creativity ebbing and flowing in a collective as we look to the human parade before us to distract, inspire and spur us on as we continue to churn out the pages that we hope will–someday, to someone–make a difference.