Normal

I walked into a place I sometimes go to do some writing. It’s quiet early in the day. By afternoon, it’ll be busy and noisy with conversation.

But for those first few hours, it is quiet save for whatever music the manager feels like playing. Often old jazz. Nina Simone, Coltrane, Louie Armstrong. Sometimes classic R&B.

I sit at the same table every time. The one along the wall that is just the right height for typing.

The manager knows me and my patterns by now. They aren’t complicated. In comfortable places, I’m a creature of habit… and that is part of the comfort.

Before I reach the counter, he’ll say “I’m just putting on a fresh pot…” and reach down into the mini fridge for a bottle of water. I’ll pay and tip well and then sit down and unpack my laptop.

At some point, he’ll bring me over a cup of strong coffee in a real mug on a little tray. I’ll take a sipand remember how perfect it is...

...and then I’ll get to writing; get lost in it; and forget all about the coffee. Invariably, I’ll drink the rest lukewarm or cold before bussing my own tray and bringing my dishes up to the counter.

He’ll say “You outta here?” and I’ll sigh resignedly and say “Yeah, unfortunately.” and then head off to whatever it is I am very late for.

Sometimes, we’ll make small talk in there somewhere. Sports, local news, whatever is going on in the shop.

Usually, we just run through the same routine though and then I sit down and fade into being totally absorbed in writing right up until I have to hurriedly pack up and hustle out.

Today, I didn’t follow the routine though.

Today, I walked up to the counter and sat.

Ordered coffee and paid for. Left the laptop unopened. And then the two of us got to talking and talked for two hours.

His day had started with a fender bender. Mine almost had too.

And then the conversation segued off into talking about a whole lot of difficult stuff in our respective lives. In his, an incarcerated coparent; a struggling child; family members impaired by mental illness; financial hardship; a recent suicide.

I told him about my own little array of issues and challenges and the tone throughout the conversation was just “that’s how it is.”

There was no self-pity. Neither was seeking empathy. It was just a matter-of-fact conversation about real life shit.

He has an absolute ton on his plate. A ton. It is a LOT.

And it is just his normal.

And then he comes into work and puts pride in what he does and treats people well and makes it look like he has just anyone else’s life.

And then he clocks out and heads back to a metric tonne of shit to deal with.

Tonight, he was going to take an Uber to the mall with his daughter so they could do at least something despite the morning fender bender knocking the car out of commission.

And that, the chaos of it, the hardship, the unpredictability, is his ‘normal’.

Might not be mine. Might not be yours. But it is his.

Next time I see him, he’ll say “I’ll put on a fresh pot…” and reach for a bottle of water from the mini fridge.

I’ll pay and tip well and then say “How’s things?” or “How’d you make out with the car?” or some other benign question that really means “How is everything in Your Normal?”

And he’ll say “Oh, you know how it is…” or sometimes , he’ll answer for real and tell me about something going on there.

And then he’ll say “How about you? How’s everything with you?” and I will do the exact same.

And that is just how it works.

That is how it works when you know someone else’s normal and they know yours.

And then I’ll sit down and do some writing and forget all about my coffee and eventually have to hurry off.

And then we’ll do it again.

And that too will be normal.