Bradley's Website

“Excuse me… Would you mind terribly if I sat here? I promise not to harass you.“

It was the weekend and, per usual, my favorite coffee shop was crowded til overflowing. I could tell that this wasn’t the usual run club taking up seats, as they usually dress quite distinctly and rarely sit inside the shop for long, preferring instead to stand outside where they can show off their fine runner shorts and Hokas.

I scanned the room for an empty seat. Right up front, against the sill of the big windows which I try to wave into every time I pass, someone had claimed the opposite side of my favorite table but left one chair open.

The man at the table was dressed casually in a grey shirt, khaki pants, and soft haircut. He was, maybe, early 40’s. He had no logos showing nor was he flashing any of the usual status symbols so common in this part of Brooklyn. He was deeply absorbed in a novel, steadily tracing each line with his pointer finger as his eyes followed. It was clear that he and I were here for the same reason: to read.

When I asked to sit, he smiled.

“Of course,” he replied. And I could tell he meant it.

About fifteen pages later (thirty if you’re counting both of us), his phone began to vibrate. He answered it with the same sincere yet unexaggerated voice which he had spoken to me.

“Okay, honey, I will be home soon. I have two pages left in my book.”

Naturally, I glanced down. I couldn’t tell what the title was, but he really was on the final stretch. He hung up the phone and his eyes resumed their journey across a great black-and-white desert, led once again by his pointer finger. It wasn’t long before he reached the end.

“May I ask what you’re reading?” he asked while packing up his stuff.

“Down and Out in Paris and London,” I responded. “It’s by George Orwell, same guy who wrote Animal Farm. Essentially, it’s a true story about his time as a vagabond in Europe.”

“Oh, wow, I wasn’t aware that existed. Is that between World War I and World War II?” he inquired.

Upon hearing his question, all of my historical knowledge left me. I couldn’t tell you when the book was written, when the World Wars were, when Orwell lived, or even what year it was now. I fumbled for my book…

“...Uhh, good question. Let me check! Uh, I think that correct sounds— I mean, sounds correct,” I said.

He waited patiently for me find the date of publication and guarded my dignity by staying silent until I found what I was looking for. I confirmed that his assumption was correct and I redirected the original question back toward himself.

“Oh, it was a good book,” he responded. “Fiction. About a math professor and a single mom. It’s not complicated, but if you like math, you’ll definitely enjoy it. Have you seen the movie Memento?”

“I have.” I said.

“Well, it has some elements of a Memento in it. The professor’s memory only last 80 minutes, so a lot of the story progresses in small episodes. But it’s not dark like Memento— oh, not at all. It’s really a sweet, sweet story.”

On principle, I try and pay attention to what people are reading in public, but the man’s demeanor and fact that we shared a table quietly for some time had already convinced me to buy the book, and I needed no extra selling.

“I’ll be sure to pick up some time,” I said. And I meant it.

“No need—I’m giving it to you. I want you to have it,” spoke my new friend.

He held the book out and—for the second time in our brief conversation— I was at a loss for words.

“Really? Wow, that is so so kind of you. Are you sure?” I asked.

He didn’t hesitate to reply, “Absolutely. I just finished, and I think you will like it. It only took me a day—you’ll finish it in no time.”

It occurred to me that he was still speaking in the same warm but unexaggerated tone that he had used throughout our entire time together. By this, I mean that this demonstration of generosity must not be unusual for him. In fact, he seemed quite practiced in benevolence and nothing about his gesture felt performative. He was not just being kind— he was kind. And it made me so, so happy.

“Wow… thank you so much. Seriously!” I said.

“Don’t mention it,” he responded cooly.

I thanked him a few more times and we exchanged names. With a small wave and tightening of his backpack straps, he was gone. An hour later and I too made my exit—smile on my face and a new book to look forward to reading.