It's about the shoes.

The strangest thing just happened to me. I'm at my favorite coffee shop, eking out my 1 hour of sacred writing time (it's been weeks), when an opportunity just arose to walk the walk. Before you read any further, watch this. Seriously, watch it. It's 4 minutes long, it's funny, kind, and perfect, especially in this season. It's also the impetus for what happened next:

A Firefighter on Bravery

So there I was (or rather, am)... chai latte steaming at my side, frantically working on an essay on step-parenting and bravery that is really trying to be born, when he slinks around the corner. "He" looks like he walked out of Portlandia as an extra. Hipster glasses, greasy shaggy hair, 3 day stubble, green drab jacket, converse sneakers. He's putting away an i-pad mini and a pack of American Spirits falls out of his jacket as he reaches my table. I'm aware of him; I've felt his eyes glance on me occasionally since I walked in here. He's maybe 26 at the most. He mumbles something I can't understand and his hands tremble as he replaces the pack of cigarettes. Nervously, he stands up and makes eye contact, and says in a strangely thin voice, "Hi, are you working? This is one of those working or studying tables, right?"

"Yeah. I'm writing. I come here to write."

He gives an awkward closed-lip smile. "That's cool. Writers are interesting. Would you mind if I visit with you?"

I don't mean the flash of embarrassment and then disdain that must cross my face, but I see it in the tight sadness of his expression. I stammer. "Sorry, I'm here to write. I only have a few hours a week. Sorry." I don't think I even make eye contact when I say the second sorry.

"I apologize for bothering you. Hope your writing goes well."

I can feel the wave of his humiliation, subtle but definite, as his shoulders slump and he walks to the other side of the partition in the coffee shop. He's got the shuffle step of rejection.

I go back to my writing. I'm trying to come up with some amazing metaphor about parenting and battlefields. I'm summoning up the many emotions I repress on a daily basis about step-parenting, and trying to given them a voice. I'm frustrated by the distraction and irritated by the interruption in what was a good flow. I come here to avoid interruption. This is my hiding place in a life full of interruptions and demands.

A feeling of vague unease settles around me. I'm bothered, and then it occurs to me-- it's about the shoes, dummy. (If you didn't watch the video, you'll have no idea what I'm talking about).

Looking around, I don't see him in plain sight, my interrupter. I take a drink of water, hit save on my computer screen, and get up. As I round the corner of the cafe, I can tell where's he's sitting by the insecure rounding of his shoulders. He's folded in on himself, hands around a coffee mug, seeking a safe invisibility. His hair really is greasy, and the mom in me wants to tell him he needs to take a shower and wash his hair if he intends on ever having a real conversation with a girl. I walk right up to the other side of his table, pull the seat out, and sit down with greater force than I intend. He stares for a second, wide-eyed and startled, then casts his eyes down to his mug. I'd like to say that the awkward-fest that followed was smoother than I'm portraying it, but it wasn't.

"Hi. I'm the lady that just told you to go away".

"I can see that. I didn't take it personally, you were busy."

"I was, I mean, I am, but I wanted to tell you I respect you as a person."

Yeah, I actually said that. Like I said.... awkward.

"You see, I'm married, I have four kids, and a full-time job, and I get like one hour, two a week at most to write, and this is where I come to get away and do that. It's my time, and I just want to tell you I wasn't rejecting you personally, I'm just trying to keep my time. I mean, you could be a very nice person, or an axe-murderer, but you deserve someone to tell you that you matter. Because you do."

"Wow. Okay. Uh, thanks. That's really cool that you're able to get away to write."

There's an awkward pause while we sit there across from each other, not making eye contact, and I can feel the heat of foolishness rise in my cheeks. Who do I think I am, Oprah? After 10 seconds of silence, I stand up and start to step away.

"Hey. I'm not a very social person and my counselor says I should try and be more social. And I'm lonely. I wasn't trying to hit on you or anything. Shit, do you really have four kids?"

We finally make eye contact, just for a second. "Really." He smiles widely. He has terrible teeth. He must realize that I am noticing this, and immediately clamps his lips back into a thin grimace. "Well, I only have an hour, so I'm going to get back to my writing. I hope you have a good day, and I hope you find a really good conversation."

"Thank you. I appreciate it. I really do." His hands tremble around his mug, and he's trying to control his smile.

Less than a minute has elapsed. I go back to my writing. (Here I am!) The metaphors don't come, but the desire to capture this moment, however ordinary and random, is there. I'll always be a New Yorker at heart, so eye contact and smiling at total strangers aren't something I practice with a whole lot of regularity. I spent so many years being hyper-vigilant of my space, of always readying myself against an unwanted advance, or worse, attack, that it takes a conscious effort to let my guard down when I'm alone. We put so much effort into creating our relative isolations. My chai is cold now, but I'm acutely aware of subtle spice, of the slight grainy texture of the cinnamon on my tongue as I swallow the last sip.

Out of the corner of my eye, I observe him get shut down two more times; once with a young college-age woman, another time with an elderly gentleman. As I'm half-way through writing this, he slips out the door. As he walks past the big glass windows separating cafe from sidewalk, he stops and pauses and looks in to where I'm sitting. This time I'm very deliberate about my eye contact, and I smile. He smiles back, even showing a little bit of teeth. He fumbles with a cigarette, lights it, and walks up the sidewalk, shoulders hunched protectively forward.