Bums Through the Window
The man with the rustpot mug and the yellowed denim stumbles outside and I can see him perfectly through the glass of this cafe. The place is smack in the middle of town, in the big cement square that is beautiful in its urbanity. There are other bums stationed at various benches and tables, but it’s the guy with the curdled grin that catches my attention. He walks like he’s a half-sack into his day and he’s got a grand walk, a proud drunk stagger, the kind of sashay that would make a Whyte Avenue Molson male look like a ponce.
The cafe must have these big windows for a reason. I’m just not sure what that reason is. They don’t have coverings, so the sun beats unrelentingly through them. The bums don’t drool on the door and the latte lovers don’t judge and barely stare. The whole glass barrier thing seems to work out well on some level.
I watch my staggered buddy do his thing with his guys. They slap backs, talk loud and slur some language around, toss a bit of vulgarity in with some mealy-mouthed whiskey jabber. They seem unconcerned about the hockey madness that has engulfed our little burg. The game starts in about five minutes and this crew of men is making no effort to watch it. They seem vaguely content outside in the evening’s bake. As the game starts, all attention in the cafe is shifted from tall lattes to the big screen. The patrons, me included, are serious. Serious about the game. Serious about coffee. Serious about winning.
Beyond the big glass windows of the cafe, the men sit and talk. Seemingly not serious. But they’re laughing. Big laughs. They’re conversing. Loudly. We in the cafe are straight-faced. Unamused. Serious in our glass house.