Random DCenes: How To Talk to Anyone

DC is known as one of the bloggiest cities in the US.  Walk into any coffee shop and it’s not much of a surprise. I spend most of my time in big name bookstore coffee places because most independent cafés are packed with unemployed hipsters hogging all the outlets.  Downtown bookstores tend to attract more casual visitors and tourists, so even when it is crowded, it doesn’t take long for a spot to open up. There are regulars though.  Definitely not the kind that spent last night at Fatback or the back room of The Black Cat.  I’m sitting across the room from a guy reading a book called “How to Talk To Anyone,” and honestly,he looks like he needs it.   Still, there are four guys wearing all black as I take a quick peek over the screen of my lap top.

Hold on.

Just had to move my stuff to a table close to an electrical outlet.  My mood brightens with the screen and my eyes thank me.

The self help guy is chatting up an employee picking up discarded books from empty tables.  The gentleman blathers about being on Twitter and Facebook and all the projects he’s thinking of.  Bookstore Guy nods politely before unceremoniously pulling himself out that vortex of small talk, leaving the guy to crack open a book that, from here, looks like it says “The Ethical Slut.”

That guy who shot up the Discovery Channel Building earlier this year?  I sat next to him a few times.  Hard not to notice a guy who takes out several bricks of bank wrapped dollar bills.  That was a dude screaming for attention, which he inevitably got when someone would ask him about all the cash.  His schtick was offering money to people to read books by Daniel Quinn.  I once dated a woman who tried to get me into Quinn.

I dislike Daniel Quinn with a burning passion.

I’m now in front of a woman who is quietly sobbing as she reads something off of her iPhone.  We make eye contact for the briefest of moments before we both look away.

Working in these conditions can be a strenuous exercise in concentration.  At another a store I often see one guy bring in person with some sort of mental handicap.  Because of the effect of that person’s condition on his physical appearance, it’s hard to tell what their relationship is.  Father/son? Brothers? He looks older, but he could also be significantly younger.  They're usually holding hands when they come in, mostly so one doesn't lose track of the other.  When they sit, the caretaker usually reads some newspapers while his companion stirs and mutters, often not very quietly.  He’s not disruptive.  But he constantly fidgets and will occasionally let out random grunts and moans making people sitting nearby more than a little uncomfortable.

I try to vary where I work just keep things interesting for myself.  It's a good excuse to get some exercise walking to different places around town.  Sometimes to more than one place within the same day.

After awhile I started noticing the same people in different places.  At first I thought it was déjà vu until a few familiar faces sat near me one day the week before Thanksgiving last year.  Collectively, they were an older crowd.  People who looked like they had just retired from the work force and had plenty of time to spend in these places.

They chatted and gossiped as people do, which was not unusual until I realized that they were chatting and gossiping about baristas and bookstore employees throughout the entire city.  They didn’t just talk about who they liked and who gave better service.  They got into amazing detail about different workers’ vacation plans, outside interests, and even who had just gotten engaged.

I started coming to a different place recently which has it’s own regular gathering when I’m there on Sunday afternoons; a group of guys discussing historical events.  I notice that it starts with a nerdy middle aged man usually in some sort of  khaki pants, a short sleeve button down shirt, glasses, and bed head that would take a professional stylist to create on any other person.  I joke to myself that this is the kind of guy that would be working at The Library; the place where I work.  Sure, enough during the course of one of their conversations, he admits as much.

He’s then usually joined by a much older gentleman leaning heavily on a walker. One or two other guys may stop by depending on the week.  They chat for an hour or two talking about civil war campaigns and political elections from a hundred years ago.

I’m guessing the other guys eventually leave because the gentleman in the walker will often wander onto tangential conversational topics.  My unknowing colleague is very accommodating though and stays until his older friend is finished.  He’s a patient man, continuously offering encouraging nods and grunts to the elder who often enters territory that should probably be reserved for therapy. It’s history of a different kind.

Every time the older man finishes and gets ready to go, his only audience member helps him get ready and makes it explicitly clear that he will be there at the same time next week.  Just to chat. About anything.  Oddly enough, I don’t usually hear him say very much.  The old guy usually just mumbles and grumbles as he meanders off.

I didn't get very much work done today.

Re-Post: The Line

I've read lots of responses to my last post online and off.  I was going to write a response until I realized that I did that already.  Oddly enough, I use the same exact Skye and Steven story in that post as I did the last.  Wise people those guys. So I'm reposting a link to that essay and hope that tides people over until I can fix my internet connection at home.

Lucky

My grandfather was a simple animal farmer.  He raised chickens and pigs for a living , and there are still some roosters still wondering around.   They didn’t crow, but they looked like they were taunting me to let me know that they could at any moment. Selling eggs and piglets is how he and my grandmother sent my aunts and uncles to college.  He was a hard man.  His main condition to his children was that they didn’t fraternize with the opposite sex until they were done with their education.  It didn’t stop most of them, but he did bust one of my aunts.   Upon discovery of her relationship, he gave her $100 (US)  and a blanket, and promptly disowned her.  He mellowed out years later, and eventually built her a house next to his.

A few years ago, my mother’s brothers and sisters (there are 10 total including my mom) decided to build a huge house on my grandfather’s land for him to live in and all of them to retire to.   Grandpa objected at first, but his animal farming business went bankrupt after his health started to decline.  He’s not doing very well these days, but he’s at home because there’s nowhere else to take him.  He spends most of his days sitting on the porch in his wheelchair.  He doesn’t remember very much anymore.  My mother tells me that one of my aunts just finished a three week stay with him and he couldn’t remember who she was or that she was even there.

My grandfather’s English was never very good, and he’s now near deaf and blind.    People still talk to him, but it usually involves repeatedly yelling, point blank into his ear.  After numerous attempts to identify me, he asked how old I am.  I told them and they loudly relayed that information to him.  After about a minute, he turned in my general direction and and said in very clear english, “You’re old.”

I swear he had a glint in his eye, the same one I remember as a kid when he visited us in the states.  My parents would normally speak in their home dialect, but they switched to English during an argument when he was there.  I looked over the dinner table, and saw a little twinkle in his eye that seemed to tell me that he knew more than he let on.

I wrote that last Spring during my visit to the Phillipines.  I wish I had more to say about my grandfather, but I only met him a few times and I pretty much used all the interesting stories I know about him.  I’m sure I’ll hear more of them over the holidays.

As I waited Manila Airport for my flight out to Japan, I got some food from a small store attended by a young woman.  From my incredibly privileged position, I couldn’t help but think how much it must suck to be up hours before dawn cooking for travelers in such a cramped space for not very much money.  As I thanked her for my food, it occurred to me that she was relatively lucky compared to many of the people I had met there, living in poverty with little to no means of creating a better life.

I was able to visit my grandfather one more time before I left.  This time around, he wasn’t very mobile and couldn’t leave the bed.  Despite everything happening to him physically and mentally, he still recognized me which is remarkable since he didn’t recognize much of anything by that point.  I could say I’m lucky, but a lot of that is because of the efforts of him and my grandmother to put most of their 11 children through college.  Without that education, it would have been very difficult for my mother to come to the states where she would raise me to sit around and blog about Lindy Hop.

I spend quite a bit of time on this blog talking about the visual aspects of dance, but hardly anytime talking about the physical aspects of touch in social dancing.   I noted in a recent post on Yehoodi that talking about dance has only become practical recently because technology now allows people in different places to see the same thing.  This is part of the reason why I don’t address that physical aspect of touch.  I just don’t feel I can do it justice with words.

I thought about this as I sat next to my grandfather isolated from the chatter around us because neither of us could participate in the conversation, albeit for very different reasons.   At one point I put my hand on his arm because it was the only way I could let him know I was there.

The last thing I did before I left was hold his hand one more time.  I consider myself very lucky for that opportunity.

Rest in peace Grandpa.