Dream Hon

I walk into a cafe with birds nesting on the roof. I sit down. The waitress reminds me of my aunt Julia. She calls me "Hon" and brings me a plate of breakfast. The breakfast consists of fruits, meats, and scrambled eggs. I did not order hash browns.

Outside, a peculiar man is attempting to change a tire. His spare tire lacks air, he will soon discover. "Why is there no air in this tire?" My waitress inquires as to whether or not I would like more coffee. "Top that off for you, hon?" she says.

The word "Hon" travels through the air, from her mouth to my ear. Once inside my brain, it looks for the appropriate door to enter. It finds one marked "childhood" and considers entering. But further down the hall, there is a door that says "comfort." There are millions of doors. These are just two of them the word "hon" considers entering.

Outside, the peculiar man is searching for change. He needs to make a call. He does not own a cellphone. All around him, people on the sidewalk are talking on their cellphones. He thinks about asking someone if he can borrow their cellphone. A man, he decides. Not a woman. He will ask the next man he sees.

"Hon" has found its home. I am finishing off my coffee. The bacon is a little fake-tasting. "How does this bacon taste fake?" I wonder, but only for a second. It is a small thought, a tiny wonderment. Julia is now nowhere to be seen. Through the window, I am watching the peculiar man. I am journaling. My big journal is on the table, beside the coffee cup. I am journaling about his plight. Will he succeed?

A new man enters the frame. He seems nice. He is talking on his cell phone. He is the sort of man who appears to be on his way to a job he enjoys, with well-intended co-workers who share his enjoyment of their particular job. Old Peculiar - that is what I am calling the peculiar man now - Old Peculiar (who looks like the sort of man who wishes he owned a cell phone and who maybe had a hard night last night) mouths the words "Excuse me." His expression is both hopeful and tired.

I cannot see his words. I cannot hear his words. But by watching the shape of his mouth I see "Excuse me" happen. "Excuses, excuses," I say to myself. Can a man in this world be excused for something he did not bring upon himself?