My Muse’s Gone Now

Enough soul drama this week for a Gershwin melody.  Or maybe not.

I've mentioned before my "field work" at a local coffeehouse where I've spent these past five months hanging out, chilling out and singling out a few unwitting employees for "field work":  recording their mannerisms, dialogue, and every wart and wrinkle on their bodies for inspiration in my book-in-progress.  It's easier to work with someone whose shift requires them to be in the same place for 60-90 minutes (the length of my usual visit) and a body in motion –performing his job, specifically — is much more interesting to watch than a body at rest.  I've been having a gay old time spying on these innocent working types, including the cute one, even though keeping my eyes and ears peeled isn't nearly as voyeuristic — or fun — as it sounds.

Returning to my "office" after a few weeks' absence, I've found that the people I've been watching have either left the restaurant or changed shifts.  Including the inspiration for the second most important character.  I was surprised at the ineffable sadness that's clouded over me.  Could this be what Jane Goodall felt when she completed her study with the chimps?  Or Dian Fossey's pangs when Rwandan poachers took machetes to some of her gorillas in the mist?

Somehow this reminds me of the time I took a blind date to a movie theater across a parking lot from my house.  To protect my safety, I gave him only my Hebrew name and met him at a nearby restaurant without telling him where I lived.  It  dawned on me as we paid our way into an old Robert Altman flick that neither of us were interested in each other — awkward pauses increased as time went on, and clearly we were going through the motions out of courtesy and respect.  As I stepped outside mid-film to use the restroom, I gazed across the street and up the parking lot to my familiar red brick.  No.  I'd never do anything that cruel or cowardly.  But yes, I could've made a run for it.  By the time Bad Date had a clue, I could be relaxing at home, in the comfort of my own computer chair…blocking his e-mail. 

I just wanted out of that painful awkwardness.  But in the end, doing the right thing wasn't much more life-affirming than the cowardly flight.  We agreed we had "stuff to do now", parted company in front of the cinema marquee, and went our separate ways without him ever knowing my name.  I was safe.  I was polite.  I just felt empty.

So it goes with the end of the coffeehouse story.  You cross paths with the same individuals every day, exchanging pleasantries and pennies, and fade in and out of one another's lives without ever even knowing each other.  Many of the regulars are on a first-name basis with the staff.  But for my purposes, it was important to keep a distance from the folks inspiring my story:  no initiating conversation, no obvious eye contact, no contact with them outside the restaurant.  And since I was creating anew, learning about their real lives was beside the point. 

And suddenly, these people I lived and worked with are now gone.  Will they ever know they inspired a book?  Should they know?  But in the immortal words, "My work is done here."  The immortal words of some other person I'll never know.