2 A.M. The night was beautiful — cool and quiet. It was the place that was open. And the coffee was only a dollar — any size.
I sat on the tall concrete base of a buzzing lamppost in the parking lot, Kawasaki green motorcycle in front of me, neon yellow jacket on my back, grey in my beard, and coffee in my hand… It must have been a particularly suspicious sight — enough so to slow passing police patrol cars to a crawl…
… and to a U-turn
… and to some more crawling
… and then some.
I was there a bit before and then some afterward. The store was mostly empty. A few people came and went. There were the occasional oddballs, but nothing particularly suspicious — except maybe for an old white guy lingering beneath a lamppost in a convenience store parking lot at 2 A.M. Oddly, I rarely have that level of scrutiny when I sit outside after-hours at a Starbucks in a nicer part of town. At least I wasn’t rousted.
There’s not much more to add to the story — it is what it is. To tell the story, though, is to hear the entire world of passionate interpretation. After all, each person inevitably reveals a piece of him or herself when encountering a yellow jacket.
For the rest of the my ride through the rural county roads, I lost the thought of how we all see one another while watching watching for any sign of the road and watching for the next deer to leap out. There was no shortage of the later.
3 A.M. on the patio. Without a question to ask, the crickets’ autumn chatter will never be heard.