Early morning, a weekday, and the café was quiet and nearly deserted. No one was in hurry to get anywhere. After all, why race to the certainty of your death. Nonetheless, in a matter minutes the near solitude would subside in favor of the usual gluttonous consumption. It's what the oligarchs of the 1% want, and especially to ensure the status quo. By means of every cunningly noxious contrivance, consumerism is promoted by sordid mass marketing. Emotional manipulation sells everything, dreams, schemes and foolish memes.
On the fringe of the downtown area, near one local college campus, people were as distracted and self-absorbed as ever. A selfie of the moment, a mindless juvenile post in social media, or an unnecessary phone conversation while driving, all done for emotional reassurance. For the most part, not much, except a disaster with dire human consequences could redirect their focus from themselves. For many, it was all about them and no one else.
Yes, a multitude pretends every day to be something different, other than the basic self that hides deep inside. Human do not easily change. They would need to see ripped and torn bodies in order to break the usual habits and routines of non-engagement. For most, middle and upper class, the social strata bends toward upscale lifestyles and insulated environments. Like hordes of locusts, consumption is what it is all about, from sun up to sundown.
As to my vantage point in the coffee shop, my frequent stop for strong black coffee, I observed the morning rush to get to keep up the intensity of rabid obsession with materiality. As some writers without writings I have known would pontificate, one needs prompts for ideas. For this, watching people is a good source of entertainment. A good place to be is here, in the three-story mall, which was coming alive with all manner of life forms, diverse and divisive.
Most of which, I could care less with regard to the selfish pitiful stories regarding the pretenses of spoiled entitlement. Notable and noble exceptions aside, the vast majority enjoyed the largess of self-indulgence and an inflated sense of themselves. Humility seems to arrive at the worst possible times, as during the holidays where hypocrisy comes out of the shadows. Rich beget rich and poor beget poor, and the massive consumption system perpetuates a mindset of never-ending supply and demand, debt and abundance of taxation. And, the massive mall of malls exemplified the bloated bestiality of the upper class. Impotence limply smirks from the shortcomings.
"With cunning persistence, the maze of illusions perpetuate the status quo," I amused myself. Sighing with that thought, I added, "Fascinating, how little changes." I said to myself and scribbled a few notes in my brown leather notebook. "Opulence surrounds while materiality confounds. Yep, my old therapist used to say that was the 'rhyme effect', some need to do it."
Outside the seemingly safe and secure classy sanctuary, winter chill came sooner than expected to the area known as El Rancho Grande. Known for wealth, success and the gluttony of consumerism, the outskirts of town reflect a different form of modern slavery. Regardless, the fall was coming in spurts, with some day hot and muggy, and other days, wet and windy.
Outdoors, beyond the massive ornate golden entryways, a slight drizzle washed away any remaining remnants of the fading summer. The town atmosphere possessed an intentional contrived old world charm, for a village-like fairyland that surpassed anything the nearby city could offer, or even the closest amusement park. Wealth squandered its best facade.
While I sat at a small white metal bistro table, adjacent the main inner concourse, I wanted to continue the practice of people watching. This hobby provided a source of speculation for ideas that might later develop into a writing project. An added incentive to the imaginative processes was the location of the café. For me, the proximity was like a candy shop.
Next door was the very inspiring, provocative and uniquely fashionable world-renowned lingerie shop. Inside, store personnel modeled the wares they sold other to wear. Ah, yes, that too, perhaps more than any other writing prompt, was exceptionally inspirational. As a writer, and photographer too, there was always entertainment for fascination and amusement.
With humans, the show scales a gamut from asinine, arrogant and immature to dangerously stupid, and everything in between. Anything that relished a trespass upon the boundaries of civility and enlightenment was easily trampled in the self-conceit of myriad deceptions. Oh for the hypocrisy of it all, people were an adventure in fiction and folly. Yes, no doubt my arrogance seeps through the mirror of intentional voyeurism, as projections blink in the reflection.
In a past life, prior to early retirement, certain skill sets paid good dividends in the secret world of espionage. In that mirror image, the duality often notes the flash of successful deceptions. Disguises come in all sizes, shapes and styles. Watching people, places and things had numerous possibilities for all manner of speculation. For the most part, around here there was plenty of con job to go around. For the most part, neither common sense nor common courtesy had meaningful expression in mutual commonality, as superficiality was everywhere.
"Morning, Mr. Lovejoy," a soft feminine voice invited attention. There was a kind of country hint in the accent, with a down south flavor. "Having your usual coffee?"
"Well, good morning, my dear," I responded immediately, rose from my table and gave a slight bow to the young woman. "Please join me, always delightful to see you, Rosa." I perceived that's what she intended, at least that was my enticement. My senses were on high alert, as I inhaled her presence. The draw of that perfume was inebriating. "May I get you something, coffee, tea, breakfast?" My inner being was so easily seduced, I relished in it.
"Oh, thank you so much," she said delightfully, with a tone as though a trickle of a cool stream, over smoothly well-worn river rocks on a warm spring morning. "No thanks, they're preparing my coffee up at the counter," she answered with a sensual pout of her plump lips and a glance at her slim gold watch. "I have to open the store soon". She sat and adjusted her lovely proportioned ass on the green padded seat, as I held her chair for her. "Thank you, such a gentleman."
"Thank you," I said softly while I observed the skintight stretch of her red skirt.
For a flash of an instant, I took in as many details as possible. The healthy round shape of her buttocks, the tuck of the skirt into the crease of her butt cheeks, which suggested no sign of panties. Underneath she was naked, with an olive completion that spoke exquisitely of a Mediterranean heritage. With ample aftermarket adjustment, her bosom blossomed proudly. Her jet-black hair formed a twisted bun at the back of her head and added to her sensual allure. Down the curving contours of her shapely legs, red stiletto heels complimented her sexiness.
"So, what is my favorite writer up to this morning?" She taunted with a tangy tease. For a moment, she glanced at the coffee server who delivered her morning latte. With a polite nod and a sexy smile, she said to the server, "Thank you very much."
"You're welcome," the young man stuttered and stumbled back to coffee bar.
"Writing?" I pondered the answer. Then I said, "I'm writing a story about an urban vigilante." I inched my chair closer to her. While the chair made tiny etching sounds on the polished tile, I breathed in slowly. The exotic aroma of her essence, enhanced by a wonderfully intoxicating perfume, thrilled my thoughts. "Just can't seem to get the character down."
"Hmm, sounds intriguing, I like it," she bubbled and leaned into me. "Can I read a line or two?" Her dark eyes invited me into her web. I went willingly. "I love your stories."
