Open Writing

Several times a week the elderly gentleman sat in the corner at his local Starbuck’s and wrote stories. The staff all knew him, he was no trouble at all, and they kept him topped up with coffee until his inspiration ran out. Or, presumably, the story was finished.

He had been coming for so long that he knew them all by name, though it would have been very unlikely that he would tell them his: life-long employees of Her Majesty’s Government would never do anything so rash.

The itinerant coffee makers and table wipers and flapjack makers had come from various corners of the world, and although they were not aware of it, they found their way down curious byways into ‘the stories’.

Because he often sat there for hours at a stretch, conversations with members of staff would bubble up from time to time. It was only a little Starbuck’s and they weren't always busy. Without realising it, the Pole, the Russian, the Phillipino would sketch an outline of themselves onto the author’s imagination. And, like a fly caught in amber, each one of them would be held in suspended animation, for ever in a story.

One day the manager was told that the little Starbuck’s was not profitable enough to survive in that location, so in the interests of big business, it was to be closed. No big deal. It happens all the time. The staff, if they hadn’t decided to relocate themselves, were to be relocated within the company. The regulars would be informed, and they would doubtless transfer their loyalty somewhere else.

The elderly man hadn’t been in for a few days. No-one gave it any thought, of course. He was only a customer after all. By the time he did reappear, the manager had put a ‘Closing Down’ notice on the door, but it was raining hard and the man didn’t even see it. The rush was just to get inside and be warm and dry.

He ordered his coffee and carrot cake and was about ten minutes into story-writing when one of the girls behind the counter decided to tell him about the closure.

“Hello,” she said. She had a puzzling lilt in her voice. East European, perhaps. “Did you see we have to close soon? Where will you go to write your stories then?”

She smiled brightly at him. It wasn’t going to bother her at all because she was going to work at Costa over the road.

“You’re closing?” he said. “When? How soon? I didn’t know about that. You can’t. I like it here. What am I going to do?” And then: “When was this decided?”

The other customers turned and stared at the man with anger in his voice.

His face was grey with disbelief. For a moment, the friendly, smiling, comfortable look had been wiped away and been replaced by one of loss and insecurity.

“What am I going to do?” he said again. “I always write my stories here.”

Years of training in reclaiming his aplomb came to his rescue.

“Ah, well,” he said. “Where’s the next Starbuck’s then? I shall just have to go there and find a warm corner. Will you all be there, too?”

Voices mumbled “Yes, yes, of course.'' They had been taken aback by his sudden distress and were surprised at how much it seemed to matter.

They were too young to know how much it does matter to the elderly if a routine is suddenly displaced.

He had another sudden thought.

“What’s going to happen here?'' he said “Will it be another coffee shop?”

There was a little burst of laughter from behind the slabs of carrot cake and neatly piled muffins.

“It’s going to be a sushi bar,” said someone. “How about that? Do you like sushi?”

The man pulled a face and began to chuckle. The mood was lifted again.

“I do not,” he said. “Right, that settles it. I shall just have to migrate.”

He took a swallow of coffee, picked up his pen, and began to write again. The rain had stopped, and a gleam of sunlight shone through the window.

“Oh, look !” said an old lady to her friend. “What a lovely rainbow! It’s right behind the church. Don’t forget to make a wish. You know what they say.”