Smith Fred - M train

I T S NOT SO EASY writing about nothing.

Thats what a cowpoke was saying as I entered the frame of a dream. Vaguely handsome, intensely laconic, he was balancing on a folding chair, leaning backwards, his Stetson brushing the edge of the dun-colored exterior of a lone caf. I say lone, as there appeared to be nothing else around except an antiquated gas pump and a rusting trough ornamented with a necklace of horseflies slung above the last dregs of its stagnant water. There was no one around, either, but he didnt seem to mind; he just pulled the brim of his hat over his eyes and kept on talking. It was the same kind of Silverbelly Open Road model that Lyndon Johnson used to wear.

But we keep on going, he continued, fostering all kinds of crazy hopes. To redeem the lost, some sliver of personal revelation. Its an addiction, like playing the slots, or a game of golf.

Its a lot easier to talk about nothing, I said.

He didnt outright ignore my presence, but he did fail to respond.

Well, anyway, thats my two cents.

Youre just about to pack it in, toss the clubs in a river, when you hit your stride, the ball rolls straight in the cup, and the coins fill your inverted cap.

The sun caught the edge of his belt buckle, projecting a flash that shimmered across the desert plain. A shrill whistle sounded, and as I stepped to the right I caught sight of his shadow spilling a whole other set of sophisms from an entirely different angle.

I been here before, havent I?

He just sat there staring out at the plain.

Son of a bitch, I thought. Hes ignoring me.

Hey, I said, Im not the dead, not a shade passing. Im flesh and blood here.

He pulled a notebook out of his pocket and started writing.

You got to at least look at me, I said. After all, it is my dream.

I drew closer. Close enough to see what he was writing. He had his notebook open to a blank page and three words suddenly materialized.

Nope, its mine.

Well, Ill be damned, I murmured. I shaded my eyes and stood there looking out toward what he was seeingdust clouds flatbed tumbleweed white skya whole lot of nothing.

The writer is a conductor, he drawled.

I wandered off, leaving him to expound on the twisting track of the minds convolutions. Words that lingered then fell away as I boarded a train of my own that dropped me off fully clothed in my rumpled bed.

Opening my eyes, I rose, staggered into the bathroom, and splashed cold water on my face in one swift motion. I slid on my boots, fed the cats, grabbed my watch cap and old black coat, and headed out toward the road many times taken, across the wide avenue to Bedford Street and a small Greenwich Village caf.

Caf Ino

F OUR CEILING FANS spinning overhead.

The Caf Ino is empty save for the Mexican cook and a kid named Zak who sets me up with my usual order of brown toast, a small dish of olive oil, and black coffee. I huddle in my corner, still wearing my coat and watch cap. Its 9 a.m. Im the first one here. Bedford Street as the city awakens. My table, flanked by the coffee machine and the front window, affords me a sense of privacy, where I withdraw into my own atmosphere.

The end of November. The small caf feels chilly. So why are the fans turning? Maybe if I stare at them long enough my mind will turn as well.

Its not so easy writing about nothing.

I can hear the sound of the cowpokes slow and authoritative drawl. I scribble his phrase on my napkin. How can a fellow get your goat in a dream and then have the grit to linger? I feel a need to contradict him, not just a quick retort but with action. I look down at my hands. Im sure I could write endlessly about nothing. If only I had nothing to say.

After a time Zak places a fresh cup before me.

This is the last time Ill be serving you, he says solemnly.

He makes the best coffee around, so I am sad to hear.

Why? Are you going somewhere?

Im going to open a beach caf on the boardwalk in Rockaway Beach.

A beach caf! What do you know, a beach caf!

I stretch my legs and watch as Zak performs his morning tasks. He could not have known that I once harbored a dream of having a caf of my own. I suppose it began with reading of the caf life of the Beats, surrealists, and French symbolist poets. There were no cafs where I grew up but they existed within my books and flourished in my daydreams. In 1965 I had come to New York City from South Jersey just to roam around, and nothing seemed more romantic than just to sit and write poetry in a Greenwich Village caf. I finally got the courage to enter Caff Dante on MacDougal Street. Unable to afford a meal, I just drank coffee, but no one seemed to mind. The walls were covered with printed murals of the city of Florence and scenes from