there’s a little coffee shop around the corner from us. actually, there are two.

one is a more posh looking “starbucks” style shop, with minimalist modern furnishings and frosted glass windows, advertising free wi-fi. it’s been open since we’ve moved to this area. i’ve never been in there – mostly because, for a coffee shop, they bizarrely don’t seem to open before 10:00 am.

the other is just across the street from the posh place, and it opened about 6 months after we moved here. it was previously a greasy spoon cafe, which was gutted and re-opened as a mom-and-pop coffee and tea shop. i walked past it every day as it was undergoing the endless renovations, and every day i would see this little old genteel-looking gentleman wearing a fedora and a suitjacket in the shop, sitting having a cup of coffee, going over bluepints. and when it finally opened, it had refashioned itself as an intimate little coffee nook, with a old-fashioned curio cabinet full of pastries and glass stands displaying fresh cakes. it looked cute and cozy – and as always, the little old man with the fedora was there every day, reading the paper, sipping an espresso, or smoking his slim, brown cigarettes.

it looked like the kind of warm, inviting neighbourhood place that you feel good about patronising. and i kept meaning to go in, i really did….yet somehow, i never quite made it.

but i kept walking past it every day. and at first there seemed to be a reasonable trickle of patrons sitting at the little scattered tables, enjoying their lattes and muffins on mismatched china. but after several months, it looked as though the trickle had started to dry up. seeing a customer inside slowly became the exception rather than the rule. a few months later, there was a sandwichboard propped outside the storefront which advertised their homemade soups and made-to-order sandwiches. it didn’t appear to have the desired effect. a few months after that, there was a puzzling new sign for biryanis, chips and curries. they started opening earlier and staying open later.

and yet, the shop stayed empty. except for the little old man in the hat. he was there early. he was there late. he was always there.

and then, a few weeks ago, they installed several computers at one wall. they attached a little paper sign to the sandwichboard advertising their internet cafe services.

upon seeing this, my heart sank. there is more than a hint of desperation to this recent development. the street is already full of grotty internet cafes, kebab shops and curry houses.

and my heart sank because somewhere, deep down, i know that what i am watching is the long, slow, downward spiral of that little old man’s long-cherished dream. that little man, with his careful dress, and his old-fashioned hat, is slowly haemorrhaging to death from a thousand tiny disappointments. for every person that walks past without stopping, his humble goal gets further and further away. it makes my chest ache just to think about it.

and in some strange way, i also feel responsible. as if, because i did not do my part to try to contribute to the success of his homespun business, i am somehow complicit in its failure. i did nothing to support it, therefore by omission, i helped bring it down. i get a twinge of guilt in my gut every time i walk past and see the empty tables accusing me.

empty except, of course, for the little old man and his fedora. it’s probably just my imagination projecting, but his brow seems heavier, his shoulders more stooped. he stands in the door, waiting with anticipation for customers that never arrive.

i’ve still never been in for a cup of coffee.

i doubt i ever will.

death cab for cutie – a movie script ending

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