The Armchair Café saved my life. A year earlier I had broken my engagement, leaving my family and friends to wonder why. With everything I owned stuffed into my car I left my hometown for the city lights, where I pawned off the engagement ring, and sold my car. I got a night job at a twenty-four hour gas station, and moved into a tiny bachelor apartment downtown. I had given up everything to dedicate my life to writing. I had been wrong.
The latest rejection letter sent me on another binge at the bar. Waking up next to an unsightly stranger forced me to realize that I had hit rock bottom. I couldn’t face another pointless day.
Over whelmed with self-pity, I stumbled off the bus to find myself on an unfamiliar street. The suns relentless glare was directed only at me as I walked in painful heels, while sweat washed away what was left of my sleazy makeup. A sign across the road caught my eye, and I zigzagged through honking cars to reach The Armchair Café.
The world came to a halt when I stepped into the air-conditioned café. The street chaos faded into a serene hum of relaxing woodwind instruments, subtle drumming, and the occasional laugh. Tinted windows shaded from the sun and heat.
“Good morning love.” A stranger’s voice drifted to me as my eyes adjusted to the dark. “You look like you could use a ‘Chiller.’” The girl behind the counter suggested.
“Sounds perfect.” I said desperately. The girl grinned at me and casually began the details of the mysterious ‘Chiller’ while I checked my surroundings. “I’ve never seen this place before, is it new?”
“About six months new. It’s been a real hit.” She turned back to me with a clear cup filled with crushed ice and a banana yellow liquid. I took a sip and rolled my eyes at the delightful sensation. I couldn’t place all the flavours, but it was so cold and refreshing I didn’t care to ask.
“Thank you so much,” I checked her nametag. “Michelle. This is exactly what I needed.”
“No problem. Have a seat and cool off before you head out again.”
I checked the café for empty seats. On the main floor area there were many small coffee tables surrounded by plush red and royal blue armchairs. I sat, taking in the entire scene from the back corner, on a triangle of raised platform that allowed room for one table and two armchairs. The café had pine shelves of used books, magazines, board games and puzzles. People lingered in the cool refuge, entertaining themselves and others. Students were huddled in a circle, making a game out of studying for upcoming exams, while someone in another corner, practiced his guitar. An older couple sipped their drinks simultaneously, each engrossed in a different book. Two young women talked while bouncing babies in their arms. It was a giant living room, opened up for anyone to use. I found the environment inspiring, and pulled out my notepad, describing the scenes around me, and the snippets of conversation that made me chuckle. It was two hours before I could rip myself away, and then only because my tiny notepad was full.
Within two weeks I had made the café my home. Every server knew my name, and I theirs. My table in the corner was always cleared when I came in, waiting for me to take my place, and within minutes my green tea was brought to me. I watched from my lookout, as people came in and out, constantly inspired by the variety, the conflicts, and the endless interaction. Overheard conversations induced clever dialogue. Characters were built with ease; plotlines grew like weeds in an unkempt garden.
Since I had found my writers haven, I had come every single day for weeks, starting at noon, leaving before dinner. I’d go home and eat, then get ready for a night of work, sleeping between six and eleven am. I was writing again, and it was good. Every distraction was an opportunity for new ideas. Even Jordan, the young server who had an obvious crush on me, stimulated my imagination. The servers took turns asking me about life as a writer. I enjoyed their reverence, though I had nothing spectacular to tell them, yet.
