Café Musings

It’s Tuesday morning, 11:15, not quite lunchtime yet. The sun is high and the winds have slowed down, it’s the best day I’ve seen in weeks. I usually have class at this hour, but it has been called off. I decide to make the most of my time off and go to the library to catch up on my schoolwork. I’m way behind on my readings, and I could really use these few spare minutes. I pass by the café on my way, as I do everyday, but this time, for some reason I’m inclined to get a cup of coffee and possibly a slice of cake. I know I’m not hungry; I had just eaten breakfast two hours ago. Maybe I just fancy sitting down and nibbling on something while I mindlessly leaf through random magazines. You see, I have this gift for dallying around, some people say it’s called "wasting time". I grab a sandwich and a bottle of apple juice instead, and make my way to the corner of the room.

Five storeys up, from my sunlit view I can see the street below. It’s a quiet morning, no people or cars in sight, except maybe one or two passing by every now and then. A girl walks by and conspicuously picks her nose. I smile, I bet she doesn’t think anyone’s watching. There’s only seven of us in the café: the sandwich lady, the coffee guy, a couple on the other side of the other room talking in hushed tones, an old man reading a newspaper, and me. The radio is on, set on a station playing classic hits, you know, the kind of stuff you’d expect to hear in such places. First song I hear is Walking Away by Craig David. As I sip my juice and bite into my BLT, I laugh aloud to myself, I feel as if I’m in a movie set with the soundtrack of my life blaring in the background. My imagination is cut short by a group of intellectuals who have just entered the café, one of them obviously livid, fuming at the once-again increase in tuition fees. They hand out fliers around the room, notifying students of an upcoming strike demanding a reduction in student debt. I am reminded of the time when I was sitting in my room talking to my father who was regularly updating me on the chain of events leading to the overthrow of former president Joseph Estrada. I remember how I had longed to be there, how I had wished to be part of the mass multitude that would change the course of Philippine history, how I had aspired to be part of something worthwhile. Has the course of Philippine history really changed, I wondered? Nothing much has seemed to, but then again, that could just be my ignorant opinion.

Next song I hear is Eternal Flame, and it’s funny how as soon as the song comes on, a wave of sunshine splashes onto me. I grin, I feel like a singer in a pitch-black arena with the spotlight being suddenly beamed at me. I visualize the music video of the song, where The Bangles, all four looking as pretty and lovesick as can be, are singing around a bonfire on the coastline, with the waves surging behind them. As I shiver in the dry winter air, trying to catch as much warmth from the sun’s rays as I can, I sigh, wouldn’t I love to be at the beach this very moment, lounging underneath a coconut tree, scorching sand all over my feet, reading a book and sipping something sweet. I recall my days in Repulse Bay, floating aimlessly in my life buoy, staring at the sun. What was I thinking of back then, I muse, those long afternoons paddling in the sea? Perhaps that I wish I could go past the red-dotted line where swimmers weren’t allowed to venture into? Or perhaps that I simply wish I knew how to swim? Maybe I was just in awe of how beautiful and picturesque Repulse Bay was on a clear summer day. Maybe I was just thinking of ways to hide my red shiny sunburnt nose at school the next day.

I pick up a magazine and read one of the articles. I can’t seem to concentrate much on it as I’m distracted by the music. Elton John’s Your Song is playing, and I think of the movie Moulin Rouge where the song is a key element of the film. I love that movie, such extravagance for the eyes, ears and heart. I must have watched that movie six times, plus countless more instances on DVD. I wonder what it would be like if life were one big musical? People tap-dancing on their way to work, people singing in the rain, people making clothes out of draperies, wouldn’t that be amusing! I look down at the street again, and I see my friend speeding up ungracefully towards the building. I chuckle dotingly at her clumsiness and remember how she has a physics class at 11:30 taught by a rigid professor who can’t stand tardy undergraduates. A song by Def Leppard comes on, I don’t know how I know it, but I sing the words almost automatically in my mind. I remember my older cousins singing this song back in the days, whenever that was. I assume its title is Two Steps Behind although I’ve always referred to it as the "stalker song". The café ambiance is starting to grow on me, and I feel like I could sit here in my little corner for hours, just listening to the laid-back music and watching the folks around me.

The coffee guy is making his rounds about the room, clearing and wiping down tables. The old man is still reading his newspaper, I think I may have had him as a professor last semester, I’m not too sure. The sandwich lady is busy preparing the menu, possibly in preparation for the lunch crowd that’s about to march in any moment now. The whispering couple has left, and is replaced by three young men talking animatedly about nuclear missiles and world domination. I can’t help but listen in and smile at the zeal and enthusiasm in their voices. I nod to myself, this is what cafés are all about, discussing your views and perspectives and beliefs and opinions over rounds of espresso, communicating to those present a glimmer of your values, attitudes and way of life.

You Get What You Give by the New Radicals comes on, and halfway through the song, the coffee guy starts singing loudly in sync with the music. Don’t give up I feel the music in you/ Once dance left this world is gonna pull through/ Don’t give up you’ve got a reason to live/ Can’t forget we only get what we give/. We smile even more when the sandwich lady chimes in. Any minute now, I think, and that old man/professor still reading the newspaper is going to jump in and start belting out the tunes. I giggle quietly in anticipation. I hear doors opening, loud voices coming through, the lunch crowd fast approaching. Hungry students by the hordes have made their way in. This is my signal to leave; I prompt myself, as I have a class at 12:10. Another hour not spent on schoolwork, I shrug. Looks like this self-proclaimed gift for dallying around really has developed, and just keeps getting better. As I leave the café I imagine the old man/professor still absorbed in his newspaper thinking, "Just who was that weird young lady in the corner incessantly smiling and looking in my direction?" I turn around and smile at him. He quizzically returns it, then slips back into his precious newspaper.

Email the weird author at diannababy@hotmail.com.