The Night Cafe

The Night Cafe

By Paul McCann

The clock on the dashboard said a quarter to six . I pulled up outside the café and took my notepad and pen and went in and took a seat by the window ,

I was a friend of the sous chef who worked at the night café on main street .She always allowed me the time and space to sit in the corner and do my thing when she was on her shift . My thing was observing and writing . Being a creative writer was something I never chose to be however the way of life chose me and I went along for the ride . I saw it as a gift that I had and as a result I had to share that gift with others who were interested in what I did .

There was always people and places, events and lifestyles that meant something to me . I had their stories to tell and even more important and for as long as I can remember that’s what I had chosen to do in life .

The dusk arrived and the night pulsated in a movement of people and shadows coming and going in a variety of shapes and images , almost unworldly at times however still part of life’s experience between reality the unknown .

The sous chef was a friend of mine and she always brought me a coffee when she had a spare moment , I was like a ghost writer with words that haunted me in a way that none might understand . Where did they come from , I don’t know but they were always there to find in the night café on main street . 

I wait and write and in the space in between I watch life passing by .  
I noticed that some of the things that happen in the night café is almost like keeping a regular journal of life . The experience and images of a never changing story .

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As the lights faded dim , soft music blended in with the coffee and cakes on offer .

There were other strange brews on the side displayed in coloured glass bottles .

A new face was seen every night walking through the door . Someone looking for a place to sit down and chill or someone looking for a friend .

Some sat alone listening to the conversations of others while some sat in groups chatting and giggling for hours . . 

I liked to come and write poetry and watch people passing by on the sidewalk outside with a story to tell . For me they were like different scenes from a movie and there was always something interesting if you looked hard enough and waited long enough for them to happen .

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The sous chef was a friend of mine so I always had an extra egg sunny side up on my plate . Between 6 and 7pm most of the crowd were journalists who called in for a strange brew and a discussion about what had gone on around the city that day . Between 7pm and 8pm there were young people on their way to a dance or a date and they were either excited or apprehensive  about the evening that lay ahead , Between 8pm and 10pm were the university crowd who would sit and try to solve their assignment problems and talk about their future careers , Than after 10pm you would see and hear the philosophers  who would discuss how they could change the world .

 After 10pm you would see the stumble in after the pubs closes . Some of them would be waiting for a lift home or a taxi , or to grab an extra strong cup of coffee to keep them awake as they drove home .

During the course of the night that followed there would be the quick drop ins for a take away , night shift workers , bus drivers , taxi drivers , buskers , police and para medics .

The night café was like an oasis for many who called in  for a while and refresh themselves and escape from the place they were in  .I was a friend of the sous chef and would sit until it was time for her to go .

I often thought , what if life were different .

What if I had no more time to write ..

What if the sous chef wasn’t a friend of mine .

She always gave me a nod towards the end of her shift and leave a coffee before me that blended in with the sunrise of another day .

The End.

By Paul McCann