A little girl named Hannah was dancing around my table, her long, curly hair bouncing as she dipped and swirled. When an older gentleman walked past us (who am I kidding — he was probably my age), he misstepped. His iced latte went flying out of his hand, crashing to the ground and spreading a milky river across the sidewalk.
Remarkably restrained, he walked back into the coffee shop to explain what had happened. A few minutes later, he exited a different door, a new drink in hand, calling “Thank you!” to the barrista. Another employee came out with a big bucket of soapy water, releasing it with a forward thrust to push the mess toward a small patch of grass.
Hannah danced closer to the soapy, light brown puddle, clearly intrigued.
“Stay away!” her mother shouted cheerfully from a nearby table, where she was enjoying a late afternoon coffee and chat with a friend. “It’s the alligator lagoon!” Hannah looked up, alarmed. Then she met her mother’s eyes and smiled, enjoying the joke.
For a few hours, this was my happy place: a coffee shop at a busy intersection in north Phoenix. A place where little girls danced and mommies talked and customers oogled pastries as they debated how many shots of espresso and how many pumps of syrup they wanted in $4 coffee drinks.
I, too, had an expensive iced coffee, though mine was free because I belong to the “frequent buyers club” and they send me a postcard offer for a free drink every year near my birthday. I held onto my card for two weeks, waiting for a special occasion. Today felt right.
I sipped my drink (more milkshake than coffee), popped earbuds in my ears and pulled out my laptop. Blenders whirred loudly. The music of the Eurythmics (“Here Comes the Rain Again”) was jarringly loud. I wondered if I’d even be able to concentrate.
But when I pushed “play” on my recorder I was instantly transported. As I listened to an interview I’d conducted several months ago, I remembered the emotion of that meeting, the clarity of purpose I’d observed in my subject. I listened, typed, replayed, listened and typed some more, bracketing new questions that occurred to me and adding observations I thought I’d long forgotten but which now came flooding back.
I typed until my right hand index finger was stiff and numb. Until I, too, found a place of clarity. Until the sun started down on an almost perfect day and I knew it was time to get home for dinner.