Saturday, August 7, 2010

something about lost souls




What you see when you look up from the entryway
I found myself drawn to the Lost Souls Café on this oddly displaced Saturday afternoon; it only made sense. Being surrounded by other lost souls increased the chances I might find mine floating around somewhere among them. My plan was to catch up on some reading, but I forgot my book in the car, and I’m too lazy to walk the distance down the little alleyway and half a block up back to where my car is parked. And my computer doesn’t want to seem to stay connected to the Internet, which is just as well; I’ll just sit here and gripe about my downtrodden life.

 Actually, now that I think about it, I don’t feel so sorry for myself anymore, or aimless; I’m not sure where all the exasperation, boredom, lifelessness and uncertainty have gone. Perhaps the other lost souls’ company makes me feel like I haven’t lost much after all.

As I walked into the café, a tattooed guy was sitting in front of the entrance; I would have guessed he was a bouncer of some sort, if I had been visiting a nighttime bar or if he wasn’t so brittle looking. A Goth-like girl clad in black, down to her exaggerated hair and fishnet stockings walked by and out, and left me to soak in the random yet comforting ambiance.
Entrance

Halfway decorated, halfway left to look like an unfinished warehouse; a sticker covered electric control box, vintage-y, well-worn down couches, two miniature chairs hanging out by a slightly newer couch. Christmas lights in the far back nook behind the bar, near a bookshelf filled with games and books; an area that resembles a level performance stage (and by stage, I mean, just a little corner near the front), tiny green and white tiles covering the floor, a single white rocking chair with paint halfway peeled off; a few eccentric paintings here and there with some piled on top of each other against a wall, a random mix of music I may or may not have heard, and, the people.

At first there were only a couple here, two students there, and the employees. Oh, and the little old lady with the messy, graying up-do in a black floral chiffon blouse, a to-go cup of coffee, one of those nerdy rolling backpacks with hot pink wheels, a frumpy purse drooping by her right foot and a pencil in hand, furiously scribbling on what appeared to be a binder full of school notes on top of other notebooks and loose sheets of paper. Maybe she was writing down recipes? Just to add a stereotype… nonetheless, I wondered what she was doing, how old she is, and what her story is. But of course, although I can shamelessly stare at her and her surroundings in order to record every detail, I don’t have the nerve to walk over there and strike up a conversation; I think I’m more afraid of breaking her concentration from whatever she is working on than embarrassing myself.

The only view of the inside from the outside
Around 2:45 p.m., people started pouring in. By pouring in, I mean, the client base went from 5 (including me) to about 17. Such a variety of characters, from young to old, fob to rocker, model to, well, not so much; a black couple, a interracial couple, a small Asian man with a small Asian child pair; a couple in matching fedora hats, a lonesome girl eating her lunch by herself in a fedora hat; a tall, tall lanky man with long hair, tattoos, and lots of jewelry wearing sunglasses, a shorter, clean cut, boring man wearing sunglasses, and a balding man with a beard and a yellowing white t-shirt with no sunglasses who was even smaller still. Enter a 6 Tastes Food Tour bag clad crowd. All of them are at least slightly larger than average. Not ironic in the least.

The possibilities seem endless.

There was a blended iced coffee, whose frozen parts refused to mix with its liquid part and let it slowly drain to the bottom, and the not-so-delicious lemon bar that strangely began to taste better with each bite; and then there wasn't.

Definitely not a place to come in search of refuge from the heat; pretty sure it's cooler outside than inside at the moment, but it's not unbearable, and the coolness of the place, figuratively, seems to make up for the lack of the literal counterpart.

Secretively ogling people and gossiping about them to myself via my little Web book, a few run-on sentences and an experiment with multiple semicolons before a period later, I feel as if this has been an afternoon well spent.. my new favorite place to come and pretend I've escaped.

One of the scattered paintings, with other paintings behind it

"What do you have to offer the world that the
world hasn't already seen?"

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