Everyone has a story
I dropped off some paperwork at the district Avon training center yesterday afternoon. I listened to Kentucky bluegrass on the way, cranked the radio up loud, drove east through two towns of suburbs and avocado groves and strip malls, oh so many cream white stucco strip malls, until I reached the starkest most non-descript stucco strip mall in the universe. Two men in jeans and blue work shirts leaned against the wall next to the Avon door. They smoked generic cigarettes and closed their eyes with each breath, two uneven twins. They didn't notice me sneak into the building, and when I left, they stood still as statues, the only life moving through them a line of whispy gray smoke.
These men are like this town, I thought. Old and worn and alive enough to smoke, covered in grime and no open eyes, just a trail of toxic vapor, my lazy Avon town. A few years back the residents voted to build a theatre district, to restore the original downtown, to bring ice cream and hot wings and Starbucks to the people, create a buzz, get the bad smoke out of town. They managed to get the fancy coffee and a multiplex cinema, but the place still reeks, still looks tired and frayed, and the citizens rarely venture to the renovated district, leaving it for hillbilly Avon Ladies like me.
I walked along the streets after dropping off my papers. I wanted a cup of iced tea or lemonade, and a place to sit and look through the new Campaign 15 Avon brochure and make some notes in the margins. Nothing was open. A new Yoga studio meditated alone. The dancing bar sat closed, an iron gate locked shut with a black metal band. I quit looking and started back for my car when I saw a white wooden door open in front of me.
"Hey, come on in, come on in!"
A short man with gray curly hair and an impish grin smiled and shooed me inside. Three computers in booths glowed silent in a row against one white wall, small tables and chairs against the other.
"I'm closed, but you looked like you wanted to take a look around. This is my place, I started it six months ago. I'm here late most days, I have a lot to do."
He spoke quickly, with a New York accent, and he shuffled along the floor like a man on skates. His breath smelled of alcohol and I looked around the room for empty beer cans.
"Hey, you ever try gelato? You gotta try this, it's amazing stuff."
He pointed to a glass freezer display and ran behind it.
"What flavor you want to try? You like coffee?"
I nodded yes, and accepted a spoonful of creamy espresso gelato. It tasted like dark roasted coffee mixed with sweet cream, and I smiled and mmmmmmed and tossed the spoon in the small plastic bucket at my feet.
"Wow, that was great! Hey, my name is Birdie. You have a great coffee shop, this is beautiful!"
It wasn't really beautiful, but it was quirky and clean, and the gelato was terrific. He told me his name was Marty and he chose the tiny yellow Italian tiles for the floor himself. He pointed to two pieces of art made of hammered metal on the wall and told me they came from Iran. He wore a long sleeve t-shirt and baggy shorts, and his belly jiggled when he talked.
"And over here, this is where I am going to put in a microphone and stage for poetry readings."
Marty built a grand New York coffee house before my eyes, by running his hand along the wall and acting out baristas and patrons and hot singles singing Karaoke. He showed me the back yard where a patio would be fashioned out of wood and folding tables, and gave me a menu to take home. I wanted to leave and find something to drink, didn't want to ask tipsy Marty, but he looked like he needed a friend, and so I stood for a long while, listening to him tell me about the dirt that wouldn't leave his windows and how he used to have more computers but the internet cafe business went bust when the library opened up free web access.
Everyone has a story, I thought, as Marty pointed to pictures and deserts. Everyone has a dream, even if it doesn't match their crazy toxic town. The best dreams, I thought as he waved goodbye, are those you tell other people.
I promised Marty I'd come back for cappucino and karaoke.
9:42:30 PM 
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