People Watching Writing

I am taking a summer writing course and below is a fictional piece I developed after a people watching activity at a local coffee shop. It is rough, and it is not the piece I decided to work on for my writing workshop, but I liked it and decided to post it since I haven't made a post in a while.

The used book store is a nice retreat from the oppressive July heat. The air condition hums in effort as it seeks to cool the customers. Each has come for his or her own purpose. In one corner of the small shop, a tall thin man browses the history section. Dressed in green cargo pants and a plain white t-shirt, he adjusts his camo cap in effort to better see the titles. Dark tattoos cover his right arm in stark geometric patterns. The designs bleed up his neck and to the tanned skin of his face, leaving a casual observer to imagine similar figures stretching across his chest and shoulders hidden beneath the thin cotton shirt. He seems an odd character to find in a small town book store, but as he turns to acknowledge a passing customer, his mouth turns slightly into a friendly smile and the corners of his eyes crinkle causing the inked arrows around his temples to bend. The woman responds to his gesture with a nod, and the man returns to his book browsing.

He comes to this shop because he appreciates the character of the place, something that is lost in chain stores that carry fifteen copies of the same best seller and could order more on demand. The musty scent of old coffee, the low wooden table stained with the condensation of too many beverage cups, and the worn red furniture in this section remind him of a place he once knew and the memories surround him as he bends to search the collection on war books.

He has traveled many roads since that old place of innocence, and it strikes him strange that his thoughts can so quickly return to that time. His eyes have seen such pain and suffering. His hands have hurt those his heart once held close. The marks on his body remind him time and again that he is not the man he once was; the more permanent scars on his soul tell him he will never be that person again.

He stoops to draw out a book on WWII and his bone like fingers brush the cover. Unlike the other books in this shop, this one seems brand new. The bright, blue book is unfaded and the pages are crisp. This book has never been left in the car to face the summer heat alone. Its spine has not been stretched backward during long nights of required reading. Its pages were not handled carelessly by a student impatient to be through with it. This book is intact and whole. It is, in a strange way, the window to a fresh start, and he knows immediately it is meant for him. The man hands the book to a sales girl. “I’ll take it,” he says softly, “I’ll take it.”