I Spy: a Scene From Goodpasture

The buzzing of the refrigerator and dishwasher behind the back counter washes out the sounds of water splashing over plates and silverware. There is a slight hint of onions in the air mixed with wheat.

“Working like that all the time,” a man says at a nearby table, “all of that comes out of my energy bank. I feel so tired.” A large size coffee accompanies him. Sitting across from him is a women smacking away on her gum giving courtesy “uh-hu” responses.

Out of peripheral vision, there is a man sitting by the window. His silhouette is a distinct shape of a fedora perched on his messy hair. He slurps his soup and looks up at the television on the wall. Sports Center is on. He doesn’t look like a sports guy. He looks like a musician lost his way in need of warm soup. He is silent and focused and alone.

“I don’t understand, insurance. Its either taking all of your parents assets or signing your life away on some mortgage,” says a lady with a stack of spiral bound books in front of her. She looks overworked, but somehow found the time to slather some burgundy lipstick on. Her houndstooth blazer and black chiffon scarf reflects a women who is successful, and may have struck it rich. She was probably an insurance agent of some sort, and now she is giving advice to her friend sitting across from her. “Tons of families put up to $5,000 dollars in the market, and just hope for something good to come.” Her friend nods her head slowly.

There is a large cork board to the left of them. Pictures of employees are scattered around a Blue Man Group poster. Below the cork board is an array of napkins and little tubs of creme stacked in trays.

“It is so beautiful out,” says the cashier. She is recognizable from the pictures. “It is just so cold.” The man she is talking to proceeded to sit down at the closest table he could find and opens The Register Guard.

The shallow wrinkles around his eyes get deeper and deeper as his concentrates on the fine print. A father in an electric blue coat walks in front of the man, and his attention is somewhat drawn to him. His eyes follow the father and son to the table where the lost musician once sat.

The son, a little over 5 years old, chomps away at his bagel and cream cheese. The father is busy talking business on his cell phone. He boy’s eyes match his father’s blue coat. His eyes wonder out the window and into the sky. “Daddy, the bird is flying around, look!”

The dad is still on his phone chatting away “Okay, alright. I will see you this afternoon. Bye.” He looks at his blonde haired son. “Looks like you are enjoying your bagel.” The boy flashed his teeth and took a big bite. Cream cheese cakes on his fat little cheeks.

About stephanieessin

Currently in pursuit of my Master's of Multimedia Journalism at the University of Oregon. 23, Media enthusiast.
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