Stopping in a bohemian cafe he has rarely visited, still wearing a suit and tie, his presence drew attention and perhaps disapproval. Was he an advanced agent of gentrification? A real estate developer scouting to evict little old ladies and the infirm?
At the next table a hipster couple talked to a dreary emo friend. The hipster father dawdled a toddler on his knee, propping her in front of a portable DVD player (or perhaps it was blu ray?) so she could be anesthetized by Finding Nemo. They ate the day's soup, marveling at the bowl-like size of the cup serving. Chipotle pear pomegranate with Gruyere. Side of rustic crust.
He was by far the most overdressed individual within a couple of blocks, but he felt pretty certain the hipster couple probably had satellite radio in their hybrid vehicle. The emo friend probably had a carton of American Spirits. Scent of old bonfire. A reek of vanity. A lot of tousled hair and black natural fibers.
"Well I've got your old I.D., and you look just like The Cure."
Ben Folds
Ben Folds
He supposed he could have taken the tie and the jacket off - just white collared shirt and sharply pressed wool pants. That might have made him look a little too much like an insurance agent from the strip mall plaza on King Street, slumming for a piece of twirler candy, or just lost. No, he decided. He is who he is. Not lost. Not slumming. Crossing the color line, bringing his bright DK Menswear tie into the black natural fiber neighborhood. Game on.
Conversation hushed, or was it his imagination? A grim shaven-headed woman steered a wary course, going wide of his path as they passed in mid floor. He ordered, waited, noting no one made eye contact. He took his drink and sat at a table. To really make a statement he took out his Blackberry. An older man in a stained t-shirt, sporting a frizzy pony tail and gray at his temples approached him after a long stare-down.
"What is it that you do?"
"I ask myself that same question every morning"
His blade flashed in the candlelight. Newly minted.
