You enter the establishment and the cacophonous, almost disjointed, audible assault that hits you ensures that you know that The Entertainer is here, at your regular bookshop haunt, holding court in the coffee shop. You resolve yourself to make it through the experience, steeling your determination with every step you take towards the source of such auditory displeasure.
Finally, you are there at the counter, but today there is no time or inclination for any observant dealings with The Barista. Your transaction is impatient and rapid, as if one is a thief, stealing from a teller’s window.
Whilst waiting for your Arabica brew, you instinctively turn to watch him.
He stands there, looking all the part of the aging bachelor hippie. His hair, long and straight, hangs past his shoulders, lank and lifeless as if the strings of a well-used old mop have been teased to single strands and fashioned into a hairpiece. His graying, aged sneakers – old school plimsolls, of course – are proudly showing their age, though they are, undoubtedly, as comfortable as a pair of slippers to the wearer. His jeans and t-shirt also show signs of their stereotypical bachelor neglect, grungy and a little thin in places with a motif on the t-shirt that is twenty-something years old. But his eyes sparkle and his voice rings with the youthful exuberance of one who is enjoying and losing themselves as they indulge in a passion of their heart….
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