The Regulars

“No foam havin’ people.” says the blonde barista. The two people in line — married, she’s white with pink hair and he’s black with a pointed beard — have just returned from Chesapeake, getting to the store thirty minutes before it closes. Like myself, they’re regulars here…but more regular than myself I presume, especially with the way they carry on conversation with the two people working tonight.

They’re both loaded with tattoos up and down their arms. Two particular ones stand out most on him; a hand of cards with unreadable cursive text overhead, and a flaming skull that appears to be staring right at me. On her left calf there appears to be a woman in a cape holding a gun, above which its a woman in daisy dukes and cowboy boots.

The two of them know the employees well, going back and forth with stories of their children and significant others and friends — someone named Katy (Katey? Katie?) is going to Africa sometime soon for a study abroad program. Laughter, and lots of it, erupt from both sides of the counter. Among the topics discussed are people being shot at, a guy masturbating outside of the store, and what kinds of coffee the man likes.

Oh yeah, that’s happened more than once. A homeless guy also peed on one of their windows in broad daylight.

In his hand is a large iced white mocha, something he’s never had before. He’s taken aback by the drink, unsure of whether or not he likes it. Between now and the time I leave, he’s taken maybe a few sips of the drink so I guess he doesn’t like it. His loss, I love white mocha.

Now they’re back to discussing foam in coffee. Apparently the woman was recently at a Barnes & Noble “Starbucks” (they don’t take gift cards, so they aren’t a real Starbucks) and asked for her drink with no foam, only to be served a drink with extra foam. “That barista was kind of a bitch,” she starts, “which is why I should have just come here!”

Oh, man, now they’re talking about a restaurant I used to work at. Apparently one of the employees was there last Sunday twerking, though she vehemently denies doing such a thing. “I had a few drinks!” she says, which meets laughter from all parties. They discuss making plans to go out as a group, bouncing different locations back and forth. “This place has a great Southwest burger!” clashes against “The appetizers here are perfect!”, but they all agree that they should get together.

But it’s five minutes from closing time, and I have to start making my way west for the night.

The Wanderers

One of them is older — he’s tall and white, both in skin color and in hair color. Another is slightly younger, though still relatively old — he’s black, skinny to the point of nigh frailty, and balding. The third is another white man, younger than the other two though just as scruffy — black hair turned to brown by the same star that reddened his otherwise paper white skin.

They gather, one by one, throughout the night. First the white haired man, then the bald one, and then the sunburned one. They steal metal chairs from other tables and, together, sit in front of Tropical Smoothie (which, by the time of their arrival, has long been closed for the night). Most of the time they don’t talk; they simply sit there with their bags of collected items and trash and bare necessities. On occasion I’ll hear one of them say something that causes the other two to chuckle, but most of the time they’re quiet.

I’ve talked to the white haired man before, if only briefly. I walk into the store, he says “Good evening!” with a great, wide smile, which immediately releases a stench of alcohol. The balding one seems to come from just beyond the road, somewhere behind a nearby grocery store. I’ve seen the sunburned one before, usually standing on a street corner with a cardboard sign that pleads for spare change.

“God Bless”, it says.

One day, I saw another man — this one strapped to a wheelchair, his right arm and both legs seemingly deformed — roll to the man standing on the street corner. The wheelchair bound man pulled a bill (could have been a single dollar, could’ve been a twenty) and stretched his good arm out to the man with the sign. The sunburned man shook his head and held his hand out, shaking that as well, fervently denying the man opposite him — vehemently against taking a fellow wanderer’s money. Nonetheless, the wheelchair bound man held it out, adamant that he take it.

The three of them sit there at the table for hours and just stare out into the void. Cars and people passing by, unless someone reaches out to them they generally sit in silence.

I’m nothing like them, I tell myself. I have a job, and a home, and a car. But some nights I sit here, by myself, and I stare at them. For all the things they lack — whether it’s a home or a family — like me they come here every night. They come here and they sit and wonder and, sometimes, laugh. While I sit alone, they at least have each other. They may not even like one another, but in their stoic silence is a particular, visible bond. They’re here together for however long, their only consistencies in life, and then disband.

I don’t know why. I don’t feel particularly pushed to ask why. But like me, they’re here.

CK

I knew her briefly, and for that I am grateful. Years ago – it was my senior year of high school – I had the chance to interview her for a spot on a school-related group. Unlike a lot of the other candidates, she appeared to be laid back. They were all humorous in their own way, but she had a way with making light of a situation, not just bringing light to it.

Everyone that had the pleasure of interacting with her might say that her happiness was infectious — they would be correct. A smile here or a “Hey!” there, and a surge of energy – happiness beyond what you may have already felt – consumed you.

I was in New Mexico when it happened, probably 200 miles away. It wasn’t until the day after the incident when I actually heard about it. Like a lot of other people, I woke up and checked Facebook first thing in the morning, expecting announcements of pregnant classmates and pictures from parties – the usual things I see.

Instead, my front page was flooded with statements of utter disbelief and overwhelming sadness. After trying to figure out who had passed – and how – I came across a brief news article about a hiker that had died after falling from an outcropping.

This is nothing new to me. As a rock climber, too often do I read stories about hikers and climbers dying or being critically injured after falling from great heights…but this instance hit me differently. This person, this brilliant girl that I and so many others had known – even briefly, even for just a few months – was now the victim. It’s a different kind of shock.

I think what hit me most was the sadness of all of my friends, people that knew her better and longer than I did. Their heartbreak was the most difficult thing for me to see and read and hear.

From what I know about her, from the things that other people have said about her, she was a true beacon of light. For many – most, even – she still is. I won’t pretend to know every detail about her, and I won’t pretend that I was closer to her than I really was. A couple of months, but the impact remains.

I know that she aspired to make people happy. I know that her smile was infectious. I know that she was loved by many of my friends. I know that she was vastly creative. I know what I need to know, and I know that she is and will continue to be missed dearly by everyone that had the good fortune of being around her.

Her light – her memory and her very being – is not lost. I think it’s safe to say that those of us lucky enough to have known her will do our best to carry on her mission of making the world a better place.

Here’s to you.