mystery's many guises

i sit down next to an old, camouflaged man trying not to appear at the end of the counter. he squeaks a greeting at me but otherwise sits there quietly, not reading or talking or looking at a phone, just sitting there like a stubbed cigarette, facing the window. outside, cloud men in candy-colored hard hats study the forecast's alphabet. above them a line is drawn between storm & clarity. below them a young woman saunters down the damp block, her black monologue interrupted with a burgundy dress & a brilliant blue scarf, head turned, her dark chocolate gaze drinking in the windows, long, wavy chestnut colored hair tucked to one side, in one hand she clasps a zebra striped gift bag, sad as she passes, she arrives too soon at the corner of blue as her bus arrives just after, to take her too soon to where she doesn't long to go. after awhile the old camouflaged man stands & walks out the door, leaving behind a camouflaged handbag on the counter. i watch him amble across the slick street with his taped up metal cane and wonder if i should tell him that he forgot his bag until he approaches a bland young man, smoking on the corner of blue. the old camouflaged man asks him for a cigarette and the bland young man reaches into a pocket, gives him one, and lights it. they talk briefly until the young man's bus arrives and the old camouflaged man ambles back across the street, where he is met by a clean cut barista wearing black jeans, a blazing red plaid patterned shirt & fresh white sneakers. i cannot hear what he says but i can see the barista, his back towards me, gesticulating quite expressively, as if conducting a sad, rumpled little orchestra of one as the old camouflaged man stands there & simply nods, the cigarette dangling from his lips. the barista smartly turns and goes back inside as the old camouflaged man mutters, puts the half-finished cigarette in an ashtray on one of the sidewalk tables, and goes back in to retrieve his camouflaged bag. i watch him come back outside and sit down on the filthy green pillow of a wet wooden chair pushed up against a brick wall just beside the cafe as i wonder what's up with the camouflage, and how what hides you in one place announces your presence in an other. he doesn't appear to have any money but his bag is small and i don't see a shopping cart nearby. who knows, i think, as he ambles away into the newly arrived rain, each one of them remaining a poorly hidden mystery.