Portraits, Buenos Aires.

The People´s Cafe

I stand out in this café not because I’m reading, nor because I can, but that I’m doing it. Most people stare off blankly, coke or beer in front of them. Some are watching the fútbol match on the teli. I yell out to a waiter to order. My third attempt. One stops at my table, awkwardly, not facing me. Three fingers are placed atop the table. He’s looking to the other end of the café but somehow I sense he’s waiting for me to order. I speak to the side of a face. A slice of Napolitana pizza. An humita empanada. A beer. Draft is good. He pauses a further second to see perhaps if I’m done. The side of the face walks off.

I continue reading. The waiter places my beer on my table mid-stride while walking off to the other end of the café. I circle a particular passage of text. Someone else brings my food. When I look up no one is there, but there are a handful of waiters around, a hazy cloud of stained white jackets, revolving, all suspect.

The pizza’s good, and the empanada how I like it. The beer is beer, cold and I’m happy. People don’t come here for the service. They might come for the food, or they might come because it’s cheap. Maybe just to come. Tired souls. Lonely souls. Families. Sweat and dirt caked on hands. Black fingernails, black lungs. A place where nobody will bother you. Perhaps the waiter’s inattention is a service. Not calculated, rather unconscious. The beer’s cold. The pizza good. The empanada how I like it.

Dignity

His hand is still relatively steady, puts the mug to his lips, sipping beer. Mug down he looks at me, smiles. Uncomfortable I don’t know why, I look away. Still smiling I can see and I look back. His hair is thin, grey, slicked back, furrowed brows brushed and ordered. Friday night, eight minutes til’ midnight.

He’s in a suit and tie, loafers and coat over the suit. You get cold more easily the older you get. The waiter walks by and puts a hand on his shoulder in passing. The most affection I’ve ever seen an Argentine waiter give. Old man pick up on it? He’s looking around the room, as dignified a man as I’ve ever seen. Friday night, six minutes til’ midnight.

He’s sitting across the way alone, beer and a slice of pizza on the table. I’m sitting alone, beer and a slice of pizza on the table. Maybe in fifty years I’ll be looking across the way at the youngin’. Friday night, five minutes til’ midnight.

Cider-colored leaves litter our Autumn streets

Our times are cold streams and deep earth
Our times are destruction and creation
Our times are creation that destroys
Our times are all time, passing, susceptible to perception
Our times are autumn leaves falling in crisp air
Our times are yours and mine and everyone’s
Our times are universal, indiscriminate.

These are Our times
They’re yours and mine and everyone’s
Our times are passing, susceptible to perception
Cold streams and deep earth
Creation-destruction
Autumn leaves-crisp air
Universal, Indiscriminate
These, are our times.