fiction – VievesVine

I parked myself in the courtyard of a coffee shop in what could be any college town in any state. Before long, a wisp of cigarette smoke found me and chased me inside to a tall top with a window view.

Secondhand smoke doesn’t bother everyone, but it squeezes my lungs and makes my chest rattle. I am a fan of breathing, but not of hearing every breath I take.

Both inside and out, everyone around me relished a mug of caffeinated or decaffeinated coffee or cappuccino, I sipped on an iced hot chocolate—good stuff. David Bowie sang “Let’s Dance” in the background followed by Stevie Wonder’s “Isn’t She Lovely” and other classic tunes.

I had dropped in during primetime for the college crowd. I was one in a minority of customers over 40 surrounded by students and young professionals. I kept my sunglasses over my eyes in an attempt to pass for a young professional, but my shades reduced my laptop’s screen to blurred images.

Forced to choose between sitting around trying to look young or getting some work accomplished, I removed my sunglasses. The only time I’m good at sitting and doing nothing is when I am asleep.

The majority of patrons who sat indoors and out in the courtyard either stared into their cellular devices or, like me, typed on laptops. One girl had a genuine textbook open on the table before her.

For those who are unfamiliar, a textbook is a scholarly, standalone, manuscript. Between its front and back covers are pages of instructional information. Textbooks are (or were) used as aids for teaching and learning by teachers and students.

My guess is that the girl with the textbook is on a medical track of some sort. Her book’s pages were filled with illustrations of human bones. It is my husband’s kind of book, not mine.

Five guys sitting around a tall top behind me enjoyed a lively conversation. They actually made eye contact as they talked and laughed.

Dressed in jeans and tee-shirts, their cellphones must have been tucked away, forgotten in their pockets. Not one of the five wore earbuds. The sound of their banter—uninterrupted by technology—was refreshing.

Across from the fun guys, a bulletin board filled with posters touted upcoming events. Headlines made with creative fonts publicized plays, bands, and openings for haunted houses.

One poster advertised a self-defense course and another promoted an event called “Oktoberfest in Song.” Next to “Oktoberfest” was a poster to remind me—like I needed reminding—that I was the literal definition of “one of these people is not like the others.” In large pink letters, its headline read: “Project Condom: Where Fashion Meets Sexual Health.”

Not kidding. I only wish I possessed the creativity to make this stuff up.

A poster with a deep purple background stood out on the crowded bulletin board. A set of jagged, colorful piano keys cascaded down its vertical length and ended at the words, “Keepin’ Jazz Alive.” It was the kind of poster that one might frame and hang on a wall in an office, study, or bedroom.

The jazz poster, I decided, was my favorite for two reasons: 1) The design was both appealing and clever. 2) I had no trouble understanding what the event was all about.

The bulletin board, jam-packed with notices in all sizes, colors, and fonts, reflected the varied interests of all who frequent coffeehouses: couples, students, young professionals, professors, tourists, businessmen and women, and retirees. In between the commas are any groups I left out.

The coffee I don’t drink is not what attracts me to coffee shops. Coffeehouses are where I watch all kinds of people and how they do life.

Maybe you’re an astronaut wannabe, someone whose dream has always been to fly into outer space.

Maybe you want to do more than ride in a spaceship. You want to jog on the moon, Jupiter, Venus, or Mars.

But maybe, just maybe, time traveled faster than you ever dreamed, too fast to make those goals happen.

Don’t worry. You can go—when you’re dead.

But you need to make your “travel” plans sooner rather than later and have saved a whole lotta cash.

Dead, you ask?

Yes, dead, as in no longer walking, talking, and breathing here on Earth. Oh, and there is one additional stipulation: your remains must be cremated.

Then, and only then, can you—your ashes to be specific—fly into space.

You can arrange to have your cremated remains launched into the cosmos—for a price. The cost ranges between $3500.00 and $13,000.00, depending on the type of service you choose for your final sendoff.

Starting at the basement bargain price of $3500.00, you can find flights that allow your remains to experience zero gravity. They’re flown into space and then back to Earth.

Or—for $5000—you could choose to have your remains orbit the Earth in a spacecraft.

On the downside, either of those choices leaves your breathing self an additional and difficult decision to make. What to do with the ashes after they return from such an amazing space odyssey? What final resting place could top experiencing zero-gravity or orbiting the Earth?

If making difficult decisions is not your thing, up your budget to say $12,500.00 or $13,000.00. That kind of cash opens the door to a couple of otherworldly options.

It will pay for the Moon to be the final resting place for your ashes.
Or you can choose for your cremated remains to be sent on a permanent celestial voyage into deep space and the solar system.

There are really and truly companies that provide these kinds of journeys for cremated remains. Look them up.

If I were interested in this kind of star-studded send-off—I assure you I am not, but if I were—I would ask for proof before I swiped my card.

“How will you verify my ashes have experienced zero-gravity, orbited the Earth, are on the moon, or are soaring around deep space?”

There’s no way they could prove any of the above to me. By the time the space death-odyssey company could provide evidence of my astronomic trip, I would be but a pile of ashes.

I suppose the company would have to swear to my alive self that it would give my relatives airtight proof that my wishes were observed. On the other hand, if my loved ones didn’t pay for the service, I doubt they would care all that much.

We could ask Eugene Shoemaker if he thinks his ashes are really on the moon. But wait, we can’t. He’s dead.

While people have had their ashes sent to the moon using private companies, Shoemaker was the first and only person to date to have his ashes purposefully buried on the moon. His cremated remains were launched into space in 1998 with NASA’s Lunar Prospector.

Shoemaker was the founder of astrogeology. His cremated remains experienced the zenith of interstellar travel on the Mercedes-Benz of spaceships to honor his work on impact craters.

Good for him, but not for me. I’m not an astronaut wannabe.

The closest my remains might get to space travel is if Gary has a portion of me launched in a firework. I like fireworks, but I’m not too sure I’d want to be a firework.

I’ll think I’ll keep my final wishes down to Earth. My soul won’t give a hoot about where my ashes wind up.

VievesVine

Tag: fiction

Coffee life

Out of this world