Padaria Novel Writers

 

Men sit with steaming cups of coffee in their hands. Mostly older men. Sitting 'round knowingly talking ‘bout the world. Immigrants all, they have lived in the world’s four corners. They have lived with passion and drive. Whether they know it or not, all of them are frustrated writers. Some have come with notebooks and pens to this place, to this country specifically to write. These masters of the word are trying to grab into the ether and find today's one true sentence. They have come to find tomorrow’s one true sentence and the true sentences that form each day after. 

Others have become writers simply by being here. They all want to be seen, to be heard. Today these older men craft their chapters in tales of a distant country’s unpaved roads and corrupt or inept government officials recounted over milky coffees. These tales are interrupted by laughter and introductions of new people pulling up to the table. Taking a bit of a chocolate pastry in one hand they detail glorious coastlines and epic human failures they have seen with their own two eyes. Pictures of life’s joys are painted and lingering doubts are expressed. But turn your head in to the left or to the right and you find yourself in a conversation a world apart from what you were just immersed in.

Dummies? Not any. Slow folks don’t end up here. Being an immigrant is kind of like getting admitted to grad school. You fought your wars.  You made your money. You walked the labyrinth of immigration officialdom. You weighed your options and pulled the ripcord. Your words may flow out lazily or in staccato bursts. But you have words aplenty and words to spare and even words in your new language.

At this long table not far from a main thoroughfare the men greet each other, sip their warm beverages, laugh, regale and listen. A generation earlier in another land they would have had cigarettes resting between their fingers. A forty something waitress in a white apron would have been asking, “Hon, do you need a warm up?" But not a single one of them seems to feel regret at being half a world away from that on this beautiful sunny September morning. They are writers of a new narrative where the world isn’t confined to diners along interstate highways. 

Pigeons sit on a bench near the table. They are waiting for any moment of inattention or absence to grab a peck of a croissant or a nata and fly off.