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The Man With The Black Case
I was writing the first time I noticed him.
He sat down at a nearby table with a drink in one hand and a shopping bag in the other. The way so many people do each and every day while I’m tapping away on the keyboard.
Yet, he was different.
There was something about the way he carried himself, the way he dressed, the confidence he possessed. It intrigued me. He intrigued me.
I sat back in my seat and simply studied him. He was smartly dressed in all black—trousers, shirt, loose-fitting blazer, and shoes. If he had any hair, it wasn’t visible beneath the lines of his derby hat. The glasses he wore were rimmed in silver, the color of his eyes tough to determine from where I sat. His age hovered somewhere in the low to mid fifties.
From the moment I saw him, I pegged him as a musician. I wasn’t entirely sure of the instrument but, if I had to guess (which I did), I assumed sax. Went with the image.
Everything about him suggested he was the kind of guy who feels music in his soul. The kind who lives it, breathes it, sleeps it…
Eventually I looked away, burying myself in my writing lest he look up and find me staring. I stole a few glances his way over the next thirty minutes, noting the contents of his shopping bag (music CDs), the way he poured over the lyrics, and the instrument case he pulled out from under the table and slung over his back before leaving (okay, so I’m a genius, what can I say?).
I’ve never forgotten him. And I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s the writer thing. Maybe it’s because of the vivid character he projected without ever saying a word. Maybe I’m simply a nut. Who knows?
Anyway, I saw him again last week, in a Starbucks about two miles away from the bookstore where I write. I was having a drink with my friend, Jodi, when he walked in. Same clothes. Same hat. Same instrument case slung over his back.
Being the crappy poker player I am, Jodi noticed the way my eyes strayed to the door mid-conversation and remained there longer than they should, only moving as this guy walked to and from the counter.
Busted!
I explained (while still watching him) my first visual of the man months earlier and that I was convinced he was a musician before I ever saw the case on his back. We took a few guesses as to what he might play and then he was gone—out the door with his coffee, his I-pod, and the answers to my mental list of twenty-one questions.
Saw him again this past weekend, walking along the road. Same clothes. Same hat. Same instrument case slung over his back. Suddenly he’s like that actor you’ve never seen before and then—WHAM!—he pops up in every movie you see for the next six months.
Only now, I’m wondering…why? Why is he walking in an area you don’t normally see people walking? Why is he always wearing the same clothes?
And, more importantly, is there really an instrument in his case?
That, ladies and gentlemen, is what being a writer does to you. It makes you see instead of look. It makes you study instead of notice. It makes you concoct instead of think. And it turns something as innocent as an instrument case into…
…What?
Have at it everyone. Be creative. Who is this guy? Where’s he going and why? And what is in his case?
Hugs,
~Laura
