Diana Raab
Sam knew that he was people-watching too long when he heard his stomach growling. It was a good day for his favorite pastime, this midNovember Friday afternoon, where people were rushing about every which direction along New York City’s prestigious Fifth Avenue. He enjoyed sitting on the street bench to watch people moving about and shopkeepers beginning to prepare the windows for the thankless yearly Christmas rush. There were crowds on corners waiting for the light to change and herds of others taking quick strides up the street, oblivious to who stood beside them. Some were holding parcels in one hand, a briefcase in the other, walking
at an uncontrollable pace. Others strolled slowly while window shopping, with no apparent rush to get anywhere.
Sam’s two favorite restaurants were Stouffers and The Eclair, depending upon his mood. The former was perfect for a good home-style meal, yet the latter prided itself on its reputation for European-style homemade desserts. This particular day, Saturday, was a good day to visit The Eclair, a coffee house on 72nd Street, sometimes called “the old-timers hangout.” There was a sense of calm that overcame Sam as he set foot into this coffee house during this chilly November afternoon.
“Sam, so good to see you,” said Anna, the hostess, personally greeting him at the door. “It seems like a long time since you’ve been here…everythin’ all right?” she asked. She took pride in making customers feel right at home. She remembered everyone’s names, stories, and happenings. He noticed that she did this with all the regulars.
“Thank you, thank you,” replied Sam, slowly nodding his half-balding, white-haired head with blond highlights, a gentle reminder of years gone by. The fact that it hung slightly over his shirt collar was a hint that he was “a cool guy.” He wore it brushed back from his face and, with the help of gel, the perfect wave on top of his head. It was the only way he would start his day.
Sam reached down to take Anna’s wrinkled and freckled hand to plant a kiss. Having been a patron of The Eclair for 25 years, he felt comfortable showing Anna his appreciation. He had carefully observed her over the years, in her interactions with him and others. He often acted guarded when meeting new people and was slow to trust, but Anna’s trust came naturally as she was consistently friendly towards Sam. He was struck by her consistent kindness to him with disregard to his quiet ways and letting others initiate the conversations.
Anna knew that he was a private sort of man who didn’t talk too much about himself, so she didn’t pry, but made the motions to take him to his favorite table by the window. After hosting for 30 years, she knew all the frequent patrons’ preferences—where they liked to sit, who they wanted at the adjacent table, what they ate or drank, when they wanted to talk, and when they preferred to be left alone. Although Sam did not volunteer any information of his previous whereabouts, she sensed a restrained yet soft expression in his eyes. Something seemed different about Sam this day. There was a certain openness and warmth in his eyes she’d never
noticed before.
“Can I start you off with a light tea and a piece of babka?” she inquired. “Marvin just took it out of the oven.” She pulled the chair out for Sam and placed the linen napkin on his lap at this Viennese-style coffeehouse.
“Thank you, thank you,” he said, adjusting his stiff, starched white shirt collar. He was tempted to remove his tie and jacket, as if he were home, but he chose to be respectful. Sam was always properly dressed in haute couture. His parents who died during World War I in Poland, taught him to look good regardless of his destination—one never knew who one would meet. Standing six feet, three inches tall in his prime, Sam had probably lost one or two inches over the years. After being widowed at the age of 58, he learned how to live alone and now, at the age of 76, Sam appeared tranquil in his lifestyle. People said he looked his age, but his spirit was much younger. He still enjoyed hearing a good joke and observing a pretty woman walk past.
Dora, Sam’s deceased wife, had been in control of their marriage. She made all the decisions and he made all the compromises. One would say that she “wore the pants” in the household. Sam and Dora went through difficult times during the war and disagreed on many issues, strong-minded as they both were. He didn’t miss their arguments, but at times he missed the always-present companionship.
While waiting for his tea, he glanced into the rear of The Éclair to see if he recognized anyone. The place was almost full. There were about five vacant tables, but not for long, because it was the time when the Europeans arrived for their afternoon tea. There were some old-timers sitting at the counter—a perfect place for lonely seniors wanting to flirt or chat with the waitresses. There were more seniors sitting alone at tables in the back.
“There you go Sam,” said Anna, before placing his order in front of him. “I know you’ll like this and it’s still warm,” she said, looking at the generous portion of babka.
“Thanks Anna, service is great as usual.” Sam looked up, attempting to hold a stare. ? How’ve you been, Anna?”
“Same old thing, work, work, work. Not much has changed here. You heard about Herman, did you?”
“No, what happened?”
“Well, they rushed him to the hospital the night before last. A ruptured aortic aneurysm, they said. He had some pain in his lower back for a couple of days; they couldn’t figure out what it was. Those doctors ended up doing one of their modern surgeries, but it was too late, he died on the table. Horrible story, Sam. Horrible. Feelin’ so bad for Ethel. They were like two birds in a nest, no kids, nothin’.”
“Terrible, terrible, I didn’t hear,” replied Sam.
“He was such a great guy. Always stoppin’ in for his strong cup of coffee at bedtime. Said it helped him sleep. Only 60 years old.”
“What a shame.” Sam lowered his gaze and shook his head. “What a shame.”
At Sam’s age, the news of death was fairly common. His friends seemed to be dropping one by one. It was just a fact of life now. The news of death always made him feel that much lonelier.
As Sam sipped his tea, he pondered why he never remarried. He never thought he could be in love again and growing old alone seemed to be more and more of a reality. For the first time in a long him, his little chat with Anna made him feel warm and cozy inside like a sip of his hot tea going down.
These were the kinds of talks he would have with Dora—about people, life, death, and all the little things that happened in-between.
The snow had been heavy the night before. As he trudged home along the sidewalk, Sam felt thankful for having a warm place to live and the simple pleasures of watching the news on his small black and white television. After his day in the city, he arrived and sat in the same wrinkled faux-black leather recliner that he rested in each evening for decades now to watch the evening news. The reports hadn’t changed, only the names and the places. War was happening, people were robbing and committing adultery, there were natural disasters and politicians were arguing about policies.
One of the highlights of his people-watching days after going to The Éclair, was when he was sitting on a park bench in New York’s Central Park during the days before crime was an issue. Many senior citizens strolled through the park at various times during the day. Once, he had the rare citing of Jacqueline Onassis seated on the bench across the path with her grandchild. “She was so unpretentious,” he thought. She wore black jeans, a simple blouse and comfortable walking shoes. He observed her gentle and patient nature with her grandchild and how she moved with so much dignity and class. She wore a big felt hat, a good way to appear anonymous. He liked people like her and Anna who were understated.
As a people-watcher and reader of character-driven novels, he concluded that time quickly slipped by as he tried to imagine lives of every passerby—each one with a different story. There were people from every walk of life. He was particularly fascinated by the fancy rich ladies. He wondered where they were going and what they were doing. He wondered if they ever got tired of shopping. The thought of writing never occurred to him, but since Dora’s death, the family wondered why he never took pen to paper with his accurate analysis of people and always observing from the sidelines. As a loner and old soul, he was fascinated by the human condition, just like his idol, writer Honoré de Balzac.
Having recently recovered from prostate surgery, Sam was only now feeling stronger about going out. Recovery was difficult while living alone; his daughter had her hands full raising two children, Johnny and Sarah. She brought him a few meals to get him through and provided for a nurse during the first few days, but outside of that he was self-sufficient. He never liked having strangers in his home.
He heard the voice of his wife echo in the background. “Sam, you must start trusting people. You can’t go through life and not trust anyone. You are making life so difficult for yourself.” She would constantly berate him for being suspicious of people, especially when he thought they were stealing merchandise from his store.
In the less privileged section of Brooklyn under the train, known as the “L”, Sam was known as “the weirdo.” When most of the customers walked into his store and without any sign of shyness he would follow a few feet behind them, hardly giving them breathing space. Some customers found it suffocating and difficult to concentrate on their selections, but others were used to him and accepted his bizarre ways. For the most, part it didn’t stop the constant flow of customers. They knew he had the best deals in town.
Sam’s ways sometimes annoyed his employees. For example, he would insist on closing the store whenever he had to attend to an errand. He’d typically call the employees to the front register, and they would all roll their eyes knowing why they were paged. Sometimes he went to the bank, other times shopping or maybe to pick up lunch. He would frequently return with a huge lunch, rarely sharing. In spite of his behavior, he was able to hold onto a faithful group of employees, some of whom had been with him for over ten years. Gloria was his favorite salesgirl. She was a good-looking Spanish-speaking woman in her 40s with three children and an invalid mother at home. Some customers called her “the saint of Brooklyn.” She never wore her troubles on her sleeve and more importantly, she understood Sam’s idiosyncrasies, knew how to handle him, and wasn’t affected by his quirks. She made jokes and brought in homemade cakes for him, She had a special knack for sales; if a customer came in with a particular purchase in mind, she wouldn’t let them leave until a sale was made. Sam trusted Gloria; when she was working, he didn’t follow customers around the store. Even as an old curmudgeon, he had a soft spot for her.
Sam had closed his dry goods store to retire and enjoy all the cultural facets of his city that he didn’t have time for during his years in the retail business.
As soon as Sam stepped out of his store and onto the train back to New York, he suddenly became a tourist in his own city. As an immigrant, he was proud to say he was a New Yorker.
Arriving at The Éclair was like coming home. Something about Anna always charmed Sam. She reminded him of her mother—nurturing and always there. He wondered if, after all these years, she would take it wrong if he asked her to the movies. The fear of losing the friendship gave him a queasy feeling. He thought about his adolescence and the first time he asked a girl out and how he was turned down. He felt those butterflies in his stomach again. One never forgets that feeling of being turned down.
“Say, Anna,” he said, as she was clearing dishes from an adjacent table. “C’mon here.” He motioned with his hand.
“Yes Sam, what can I get you?”
“I don’t know how to say this—I don’t want you to take it wrong. We’ve known each other for years. Almost feel like you could be my sister. It’s been a long time since I asked a woman out on a date.” He hesitated, hoping to elicit a reaction before he continued, but Anna maintained her flat expression while being mindful and attentive to all her customers.
“What are you doing on Saturday evening? How about a movie?” The words came out quickly and he felt relieved to have finally asked. He took his white handkerchief out of his pocket to wipe the sweat beaded on his forehead.
“Um…um,” she stuttered. “Oh, how nice of you to ask Sam. How nice of you to think of me. Saturday night, that should be fine.”
“How about I meet you here at 6:00pm?”
“It’s a date.” Anna turned her head and hurried away, as if to quickly hide a blushing face. A thought came into his mind about how his daughter Emma would respond to Anna. He didn’t want to hurt Emma, but just as she had her family, he needed someone he could call his own.
For Sam, there was something mystical about Thanksgiving; it reminded him of all he had to be thankful for. He loved getting together with his daughter’s kids Johnny and Sarah. There was always lots of food on the dining room table set on the red-toned Persian rug. He jested why kids weren’t fed on the floor because all the food ended up there anyway.
“Dad, I’m so happy you’re with us this year,” Emma said. “Remember last year I brought the Thanksgiving feast to you in bed after your surgery?”
“How could I forget, dear? You know how I hate being ill.”
“Can’t remember Dad. When they made you they created an ox, sure hope I inherited that from you.”
“Well, you’ve got a lot from both of us. Your mom, may she rest in peace, had a heart of gold, always watching out for everyone’s best interest. On top of everything she ran the business and the home, while I spent all those years going to the city. That Austrian part of me just liked opening the store and then spending a few afternoons in the city going for tea and people-watching. What a good woman your mother was!”
“I really miss her too, Dad. Johnny and Sarah would absolutely adore her. Boy, would she spoil them to death, ay Dad?” She lifted Sarah out of a highchair covered in food remnants.
“Well, after all these years I didn’t think I would ever be lonely,” he confessed to Emma, who only gave him a fraction of her attention. Sam could barely remember the last time she gave him undivided attention. It was difficult to not take it personally. He tried making eye contact with Emma to show that he needed to talk to no avail. Instead, Sam stepped into rhythm and started clearing the table. Emma, with her preoccupations, was not making a special effort to talk with him.
“As I was saying, Emma…” He attempted to force conversation upon her while doing the dishes together. The kids were running frantically around the three-bedroom walk-up. “I’m tired of living alone. After the surgery, I gained a deeper understanding of how short life really is. Without hedging anymore, I want to say that I am getting ready to propose to someone.”
The cup in Emma’s hands dropped to the wooden floor with a large thunk. He got her attention this time.
“Wow, dad, it’s shocking to hear you say this right now. Ever since mom died, I never heard you dating or even talking about another woman.”
“You’d adore her Emma. You might even know who she is.”
“I would?”
“Remember Anna from The Eclair? She’s known you since you were a baby. Mom and I used to take you in your stroller for a babka. Anna was always so gentle with you. She still asks about you. I think she’ll love being a part of our family. She’s never been married and doesn’t have any grandchildren. I know it will be a win-win situation for us all. I’m excited, Emma.”
“Well, dad if you’re happy I am happy. I look forward to meeting her again!”
Diana Raab, MFA, PhD, is a memoirist, poet, speaker, and award-winning author of fourteen books of poetry and nonfiction. Her writings have been published and anthologized worldwide. Her latest book is HUMMINGBIRD: MESSAGES FROM MY ANCESTORS. (Modern History Press, January 2024). She writes for Psychology Today, The Wisdom Daily, and Thrive Global and is a guest writer for many others. Visit her at: dianaraab.com.