The Sparrow's Path

Tuesday

Julian woke up around eight-thirty on Tuesday. He was going to be late for work, then he realized he didn't have to go to work if he didn't want to. He looked at his chimerical painting. Still the old man, staring back at him. Franny was on the other side of his bed, stirring awake alongside him. Her half-open eyes and stretched-out legs suggested she was not keen to commence her typical morning routine either.

He put on jeans and a t-shirt and headed down to The Savory Pass. The cafe was located to the right of his apartment complex. It did not have an entrance from the lobby; he and every other tenant had to walk out of the building, down the sidewalk a few feet, and enter through the front door facing the street. The establishment was something of a local landmark, the location itself anyway. A cafe -- one form or another -- had been open since the apartment building was first constructed as a hotel some seventy years ago. It had gone through new management every fifteen years or so, changed names a few times, but always kept its doors open for coffee, pastries, and ambiance. From the front doorway the place opened up to a cashier stand and display counter on the right, tables and chairs in the back, and a long bar with high chairs lining the windows on the left. It was not a sunny day but there was enough brightness coming through the windows to illuminate the place without any additional lighting required. There were half a dozen tables occupied.

Julian walked up to the counter to make an order. The barista was stood idly, preoccupied with writing in some kind of notebook or ledger. Julian waited a few moments, then called the barista over.

"I'd like a small Americano, please," Julian requested.

"Espresso machine's broken." the barista replied brusquely.

"Can you fix it?"

The barista looked up with dead eyes. "No."

"Fine." said Julian. "What about some tea?"

"Which kind?"

"What do you got?"

"Black, earl grey, something with hibiscus." said the barista.

"Any of those have caffeine?"

"I don't know."

"I'll take a medium drip then." Julian requested. "Do you know where the beans came from?"

"Do you want the coffee or not?"

"Sure. I'll take a croissant as well."

"They're not warm." said the barista.

"Is your oven broken too?" Julian asked somewhat sarcastically.

"No."

"I guess you'll figure it out then. I'll be over there." Julian pointed towards a table for two against the back wall and walked over.

He sat down and opened the blank spiral notebook he brought with him. He set a goal of writing out at least one paragraph, maybe one page of something, anything, which might give him an opening into how the rest of the book might develop. He was not a writer. He had no idea why he was told to do this. He was not sure if it was even worth trying. He decided to give it a go for today and see what happened.

He took out a blue pen and put it to paper. How the hell do you start? He thought to himself, almost in a literal sense, what is the very first word that a writer writes down? He wondered if he had to know what he was going to write before he started, or, if it could evolve organically, growing from one word into a few words, a few sentences, a few pages, and eventually a finished and elegant manuscript. The second approach seemed more compelling, almost romantic even, but awfully risky. There seemed to a lot riding on that first word, and whether it was the right word to propel an entire story.