Wonderings at the Belfast Coop

I take a seat at the local coffee shop. It is a coop. The sign outside reads, “All Are Welcome.” It is true as inside there is an assortment of people, some looking as earthy as the organic vegetables being transferred from boxes to display, some are mothers steering their children with gestures, grab items from shelves with their cell phone nestled between ear and shoulder, and some are older men perhaps retired but seemingly wealthy as they are dressed nicely.

A young man sits at a table in the corner. Instinct says immediately that he is an odd sort of fellow, something not quite right but there is goodness about him too, a kind of gentility. He sits with Columbia black sandals, a more expensive brand I think. His pants, soft cotton green are rolled up to mid-calf. His shirt is grey and long sleeved. Although it looks good as an outfit, he doesn’t seem to be the type that spent awhile purposely creating a nonchalant look. On his face is a blonde beard, two small brown eyes, and his blonde hair is cut short. It is odd I think that he has no one to talk to or anything to read. He just sits with his arms at his side looking around the room, sometimes staring in the distance. The coffee cup remains on the table, occasionally he sips from it.

Intuition says he is not of this world. He is authentic in his oddity. He seems deeply in tune with the things around him that the other customers are not aware of. He is comfortable with being solitary. Apparently he is a writer too as he has just pulled out a notebook. He seems observant but easily embarrassed, aware if people are watching him. Discovering that one back door had a sign that said broken and the other said emergency exit, he commented about it on his way past my table, as if he had to explain why he appeared so confused. He wants me to know he is a smart guy, probably noticed me looking at him occasionally.

I imagine he has no girlfriend, he seems too shy and it is as if the universe is waiting to have his intended soul mate turn up. I can picture his apartment: fairly organized, no clothes or dirty dishes but cluttered with books, artwork, and his writings. The books have long outgrown the shelves and are stacked in piles all over his small one bedroom place; they even go up the stairs to his loft. There is no television or sofa, just big comfy chairs with stacked books used as coffee tables. Artwork covers the walls. The kitchen is bare of blenders, food processors, and mixers. A lone coffeemaker sits on the counter surrounded by bags of organic seeds, nuts, and granola. He devotes much time to writing for newspapers or magazines. If that is not his full time job than he works for some sort of environmental agency or non-profit group. But, he is responsible and sensible, not frivolous with his earnings.