Seattle Press on Line - Sound View: Part One

Sound View: Part One

By lon mckinney

Apr 05, 2001 -- Gray was the prominent color on the canvas this morning. Earlier, before sunrise, the rain had not yet decided if it was appropriate to grace the surface of the city with a wet Monday kiss. An amorous affinity had taken place, however, and mid-morning became a sensuously slippery drizzle. The clouds hung so low on the city that ferry boats leaving the slip would quickly disappear into thick waiting arms. As the sun took a closer look around, the brushstrokes began to take on a lush nuance reminiscent of Renoir.

Jonathan had managed to catch the time between the last of the lingering breakfast crowd and the onslaught of the view-for-lunch-bunch. Except for two others, he was the only guest in the Sound View Cafe.

Healthy fare was the theme of the small folksy place. Organic was the operative word. The place cried out, however, for a Shankar Raga or Grateful Dead song. The sound that spun around the room was an out-of-place awful seventies disco boogie mess by some bell-bottomed funk-Montovani wannabe band. Surprisingly, the two others in the place were perceptibly nodding their heads to the beat. Jonathan thought disco had suffered an appropriate demise. He'd been quietly elated when Andy Gibb had passed on to no-talent heaven. Were these two wishing for a reincarnation? He couldn't tell if they were relating musically, or if it was just the only beat to head-shake along with. The music was so bad he felt like throwing up. And he hadn't even ordered yet.

In the far corner was an old man in a dark overcoat, undoubtedly a Market regular, who had come in for a strong cup of tea to accompany his crossword puzzle. He seemed to be at an impasse at forty-nine across.

Jonathan had almost sat down at a stool at the long counter which ran along the tall windows facing Elliott Bay. This would have put him between the crossword puzzler and a young woman. She had dark hair and sipped a coffee while she drew on a small sketchpad. But, always the shy-at-first fellow, Jonathan ordered a coffee and chose a small table in the back corner by the staircase.

It was a fine vantage point for watching the entire cafe, as well as the view at his left. He could take in the whole canvas as it constantly changed. He was not a control freak but, from here, he was a god damn da Vinci: Where shall I splash a colorful character, or make the mood more mysterious with chiaroscuro tones? Jonathan, however, was a writer, not a painter or art critic. He could best describe, in narrative prose, the changing face of the cafe. He wrote a bit in one of his notebooks. It was a journal he kept when he wasn't writing poetry or prose. He put the notebook down and glanced at a newspaper, but it was a pretense. He was much more interested in looking at the woman by the window. She looked to be, maybe, in her late twenties. He had never been good at guessing someone's age. She wore her hair in a pageboy style. She had on a long black skirt, black boots, and a dark gray turtleneck sweater beneath a thin black quilted vest that zipped up the front. She wore it open. Her hair was what he first noticed. It was dark, not exactly straight and not curly but with a subtle wave. It was cut midway to the level of her shoulders. This was hair that was cared for, coiffed along and pampered the way a patient gardener carefully tends a rare flower.

She would look out of the window from time to time and take a bite of her organic salad. She must have been an early lunch person, not the late breakfast one he'd first imagined. He could see her eyes watching the scene below the window searching for mood and light to be interpreted. She had gone back three times for coffee refills and each time she made it a point to look directly at him and smile. He was certain she wasn't just smiling at the postered walls and he found himself looking from side to side to make sure that another regular had not slipped into the cafe unnoticed. She had a mischevious grin, a cute little nose, rosy prominent cheekbones, and very blue eyes. She moved with calm self-assurance and enough whimsy in her mannerisms to make her persona even more interesting. She wore ornate small dangling turquoise earrings.

He suddenly stopped himself in mid-thought. Damnit. Why were men attracted to the superficial? Sure, he'd been a dope-smoking granola-head twenty years ago, back when it was acceptable to love-the-one-you're-with, but hadn't that mindset died long before the Grateful Garcia? Weren't these days a renaissance of enlightenment? Jonathan liked to feel he was progressive, someone who'd grown up with the times. Oh, his hormones would kick in from time to time. It was nature's kick-in-a-guy's-ass way. Even monogamy had a tough time controlling things at a less-than-philosophical level. But he'd supported the ERA, women's rights, Anita Hill. He liked to think of himself as sensitive and caring. And he was honest enough to say that he had inhaled.

Now here he was acting like some adolescent Casanova mooning over someone he'd not even met. He'd write some more, finish his sandwich, and go back to work. Diversion, he needed diversion. Ok, Jonathan, get it together for christ's sake. He'd spent enough time letting his coffee cool, so he got up and went to the cashier. He ordered a half a tuna on whole wheat and some cranberry juice. He noticed the menu board details after he'd ordered. They served breakfast until eleven-thirty. It was nearly twelve. He could see a young woman in the kitchen scrubbing the grill. He made a mental note to come back again for his favorite meal. He lived for breakfast. Whether it was healthy or not.

The cashier asked him if he wanted all the veggies on his sandwich. "Sure," he said. It had been a little over a month since he'd gone vegetarian. Not the strict vegan trip. What the hell did they eat anyway? It was harder to look into a little lamb's eyes, a contented cow's, or, rather the stud husband of one, even a roly poly little pig's and not think: That's a critter that's cute and I can't eat one of those. But fish eyes? No problem. And the chickens wouldn't miss a few of those eggs, would they? He could get the rest of his protein from peanuts and beans. He might sit around afterwards and pass gas and lose the few friends he had, but he'd try to be as discrete as possible.

After a month of this regimen he really didn't feel much different except, well, lighter. His solid six-foot frame was feeling just a tad leaner. He was shooting for his college weight. Fat chance.

He'd also become something of a computer potato, what with the writing and editing and all. At least he was using his mind. He'd say that to himself in the mirror each morning, "You're using your mind, Jonathan." It also made it easier to take the subtle streaks of gray creeping into his auburn hair. He liked to think of himself as becoming the distinguished literary type rather than a slightly paunchy no-talent hack.

Weaning himself from the hypnotic grasp of mindless sitcoms and tabloid quackery masquerading as the evening news was almost as bad as quitting smoking. He'd snuffed the smoking thing out ten years ago. So he felt it was time to go cold turkey on another time waster.

He carried his tray back to the comfort and safety of his corner table. As he sat down he said a silent thank you, in as much as the music had been changed to some nameless McCartney song. Anything was better than the disco funk.

He'd always been into music. Most any kind of music. He'd taken a hearing test in the third grade and found out he had perfect pitch. Sometimes he thought that might explain his ability to read people. Not just a good first impression thing either. He sometimes thought he could see the Dorian Gray in anybody. Anyway, his leaning toward music followed cycles like most things do in life. These days he was into old jazz standards. Oscar Peterson on piano. Great vocals by Ella and Louie. The Shostakovich string quartets. And any really good rock was fine. No metal, thank you very much, and Marilyn Manson just made Blackwell's Worst Dressed Women's List so he/she was history. Jonathan liked ska, blues, and hip-hop, but angry death-thump rap was bullshit--kind of a de rigeuer rage against the machine.

These days everything was going cocktail retro. The forties were being discovered again. The nineties was a great decade for a music lover. So this McCartney music would do in a pinch.

Whenever he went to a cafe he'd invariably muse about the most appropriate music for the place and what artwork or prints would create the best ambiance. He didn't feign to be an interior decorator or anything, it was just an exercise he'd spend a few seconds on, that was all. Today, however, was definitely one for a romantic old standard. It might not fit the place but it made the moment, given his sudden infatuation for the dark-haired artist sitting at the tall windows. He would have chosen "Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered," or "I Get A Kick Out of You." The artwork would have to be some vintage Hopper.

He glanced at his watch. It was almost half-past twelve. He had calls to make and work to do, but he'd settled into his cozy corner and it was a damn good place to watch the morning end.

The woman got up and bussed her dishes. As she moved slowly toward the staircase to leave, she smiled warmly at him. This was not just a friendly passing howdee. This was a smile that spoke of a future. He smiled back and said:

"Have a good day."

She stopped in her tracks and came over to his table. She put her palms down on the polished wood. Silver sparkled around turquoise and jade stones on several of her fingers. She leaned over resting her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands. Her face was less than a foot away from his--well inside his personal space--but he didn't move. In that instant he could see the blue of her eyes and the pink of her skin. He saw an almost diminutive flush tingeing her cheeks. She smiled warmly and spoke:

"I'd tip my hat to you, if I were wearing one. Most people in this town don't take the time to say hi. Pretentious preoccupation or something. So thanks. And you have a good day too. Maybe I'll see you here again sometime. See you."

"Uh, see you too," he said back. She bounced up the stairs, stopping to turn briefly and wave back at him. It was no beauty-contest-princess-wave either. This one was significant. As he put his hand casually up to wave back, he knocked over his glass of cranberry juice, splashing it on his lap and sending the glass crashing to the floor. The old man looked up from fifty-five down, but just for an instant. The young woman had disappeared out the door, turning down the stairs toward Western Avenue. He hoped she hadn't seen his graceful response. God, he was pathetic.

"Nice move, John Boy," he whispered to himself as he stooped, red-faced and red-crotched, to pick up the aftermath of his clumsy grace. But his heart was thundering and the McCartney music seemed totally inappropriate. Looks. Brains. Wit. An attitude. Perfect!

Now he wanted that bad funk back. Right now, god damnit. He wanted to jump up on a table and do the funky chicken to James Brown's "Sex Machine." He wanted to be twenty pounds lighter, suave, and swathed in a tight white Disco King suit, open-collar shirt revealing a thin gold chain around his neck. He would slide on his knees across the dance floor, grab that beautiful artist, and groove to the strains of "Stayin' Alive." They would shake their booties.

But he hated the Bee Gees, especially that Gibb with the highest cartoon voice. The dead one. And a calm, soft spoken artist wouldn't want to be confronted by a chunky disco-king, for christ's sake. What mind game hath his hormones wrought this time?

He opted instead to shake his head in disbelief, to no particular beat, and buss the dishes he hadn't broken. He packed up his notebooks and took a last glance around the room and at his watch. It was nearly twelve forty-five. It was Monday. He made a mental note of treating himself to a late breakfast in a week. He wanted to see how the painting would turn out.

It had moved from the subtle impressionism of a happy Renoir party crowd into a mixed metaphor of paint and music. Was it multimedia performance art or his ridiculous male fantasy?

He sidled over to the window overlooking the street below. He saw her climb onto a pale green vintage Vespa, with cream trim, narrow white-sidewall tires, and a leopard-skin saddle. She gunned the scooter, pulled an illegal u-turn, and sped up under the old Market skybridge toward Belltown.

He took a deep breath, let his hormones calm, and settled into a more introspective Lorenna McKennet kind of mood. He walked up the stairs, out the door of the quiet cafe and into the light of the afternoon.

Return in two weeks for part two of Sound View

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