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Sunday, December 19, 2004

It's Minnesota, It's Winter and There's a Fire Here

Let me describe this moment of warmth, of Minnesota in the winter, of Christmas personified. It is me in my most comfortable role – observer, documentarian, a man outside looking in.

I am at my favorite coffeeshop in Minneapolis, drowning in an overstuffed Victorian chair, its back curving in around my head. Like blinders on a horse, they comfort me by limiting my peripheral vision. What I cannot see are clanging forks and chatting customers, their sounds blending into a familiar cacophony.

A fire is blazing on my left, warming my legs and illuminating a mantle stuffed with pine boughs, oversized pinecones and brilliant peacock feathers. Lavish beauty… The kind I normally find gaudy but in this setting is charming.

Occupying two overstuffed chairs directly ahead of me are three men in their 20s – all friends. I know two of them tangentially. They occasionally direct comments and smiles my way. Behind them a pianist sits at an upright, a red scarf around his neck, traditional Christmas carols coming from his fingers. A man somewhere behind me sings along with a loud and nasal voice that is the bane of choirs throughout Christian churches everywhere. I recognize his voice from Sunday mornings in church, but I don’t know what face is its complement.

This place is packed. Two oversized women are sitting on an oversized couch, knitting scarves and chatting a mile a minute, each sentence beginning with the word “I,” which says a lot I think.

Oh, and in comes a choir member from my church. Along with violent swaying, quivering vibrato and pursed lips, jazz hands are tops in his performance reportoire. He takes a seat near the piano and starts singing. Loudly. On a good day, gay men and pianos are like peas and carrots. On a bad day, they are like flies and manure.

I decide that today is a good day. This comforting place and moment is overdue for me. I realized that this afternoon when I took my laptop to the Apple store for a new battery. When they told me they couldn’t look at it until tomorrow, I nearly cried. When little disappointments like that start to get to me, I know it’s time for some rejuvenation in moments like this, with a good book, a warm and comforting environment, some damn good bread pudding and no one I have to talk to – though there is the important option of talking to others if I so desire. Do not discount that option, because it makes all the difference.

And now the choir man has the microphone. He’s singing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” I didn’t know this was Christmas karaoke. Ah well. It’s entertaining at the least.

Last night Nate and I went to a Korean restaurant and nightclub. They have Korean karaoke, but unfortunately we were too early to experience that. We did, however, eat a variety of things not normally found in the Midwestern menu. Our waitress was our guide, encouraging us to try new things and calling us chicken if we blanched at the sight of unfamiliar foods that looked like tapeworms.

My roommates are probably cooking dinner right now and expecting me home two hours ago. I need a break though. It’s tiring to live with three men, their significant others and two dogs. Sometimes I just have to escape.

Tomorrow I have a job interview. I’ve been anxious for days. Six 30-page portfolios are all prepared, and – if I do say so myself – they are quite nice. It’s such a stressful thing, though, convincing someone you’re right for a job in half an hour. And then doing it twice more with two more people. It’s so random and not me. But, tomorrow, it will have to be me.

Oh, but that’s tomorrow. Right now I’m sitting here and decompressing. A man is sleeping in the chair on my right. The Christmas Karaoke singer has decided to take a break. The Christmas tree is bursting with red flames and shiny gold balls and other things I can’t describe. The lighting from the gold antique chandeliers is as warm as the fire. It’s dark outside and –2 degrees. The cold brings all of us inside this cozy coffeeshop a little closer together, members of an elite group of survivors, pioneers, Minnesotans in winter. Together, we will prevail.

Posted by Aaron on December 19, 2004 5:26 PM