The Little Player from Washington

First chapter, introduces main character, Matt, and what happens at the end of his first week in Seattle. A little satirical in this chapter.

Chapter 1: The Little Player from Washington

The rain beat down hard on the city that day. All I could do, since the storm caught me in a t-shirt and jeans, was run and find shelter under an awning or something. A little more running down past the street corner and I saw a coffee shop with a couple dry, empty tables. I quickly shot for one of them so I didn’t lose it to someone else who found themselves in the same situation as me.

            I set the cap I wore on a table, claiming it, so I could go get a cup of coffee. I thought the cup would warm me up. A summer day. A rainy, summer day and I need something to warm me up? F*****g Seattle. Rainy every day, but it can’t be warm while it happens.

            Before I entered, I shook my brown, curly hair free of the droplets of water that clung to it. Then, I stepped through the doorway of the small, cramped coffee store and found myself at the end of a fifteen person line. The line went by quick. During that time, I looked around the local establishment. It seemed like any other coffee shop. Brown, with hints of green. A mic stand on a small stage for “poetry”, if you want to call it that. I’d call it something else, but trash talking fellow writers? Not my thing. A counter lined up against the back of the store, with coffee machines and a glass case taking up half of the counter to advertise pastries and such. The other half of the counter had cashiers working to meet the demands of the never ending crowd of people. Small tables dotted the store, with a couple booths around for bigger groups of customers. Almost every inch of the place seemed full, excluding the outside due to the rain. Lucky for me, I guess. No one wanting to take a table in such a serene scene. Fine by me.

            Finally, I came to the front of the line. A cute brunette served me. Curly hair and green eyes, I couldn’t help but stare a little as she took my order. Snapping back out of my small trance, I made my order. “Can I just get a caramel latte?”

            “Of course”, she replied with the same tone any customer service worker replied with: polite, tired, a hint of contempt sprinkled in there somewhere. “Would you like whipped cream on that?”

            “Sure.” Couldn’t resist the whipped cream.

            “Alright, that’ll be $4.35!” Her same fake, cheerful tone continued. A little pricy, but anything to keep me warm in this unending rain.

            “Can you bring it out to my table?” I pointed to the outside table with my cap on it as I paid for the drink.

            A small twitch in her otherwise perfect façade proved my theory of contempt correct. “Of course, sir. I’ll have it right out.” I could barely hear the sigh permeate her mouth as we both turned away from the counter.

            I smiled. “I was there once too, sweetie”, I spoke only loud enough for myself to hear.

            I made my way outside with my hands in my pockets and quietly whistling a solemn tune. I sat down and watched as the rain pounded the concrete pathways mercilessly. Something simple, yet so amazing. The patter of the rain kept time equally with the sad tune emitting from my lips. Nature, simply amazing. It always seemed to fit my mood. Right now? Solemn, yet serene. That’s how I felt most days anymore.

            Well, it always helped with my writing so being in this mood sat fine with me. I contemplated the ideas forming in my head now as I whistled the same melody subconsciously. Ideas that ranged from amazing to stupid all poured into my mind. As always, I pulled out the small notebook from the back pocket of my jeans, now drenched thanks to the onslaught of rain. A small pen fell onto the table from the notebook. I picked it up almost immediately and began to jot down any idea in my head. Brilliant things found their way to my small pieces of paper, but disturbing things did too. Those I tore out of the notebook and tossed aside nonchalantly on the table in front of me.

            Once the tune I played between my lips ran its course, I put my notebook away, content with the few ideas I had for my book. My book, more like my dream, but still I wrote down these ideas. I guess that counts for something. I elected to just watch the rain freely fall from the sky with no resistance as I waited for my much needed coffee. Eventually, not much longer after I finished my brainstorming, the same barista that took my order came out with my drink. Giving her my thanks and a small tip, I turned my attention back to the rain as I sipped on my hot beverage.

            As I looked back out into the near blinding sheets of rainfall, I noticed the droplets parting around something. Once the object became clearer as the rain let up for a moment, I could see a couple running for the sanctuary of the same awning I sat under. When they had made it to the shop, I could see both wore smiles that could make a man sick and they giggled like little school girls. The woman wrung her hair as she kissed her boyfriend, husband, whatever, and went inside to order some coffee. The man stared after her for a second, then shook his long, brown hair and turned his attention to me. Staring at me for a minute, sizing me up or trying to figure me out, then coming over and sitting down at my table.

            “Hey,” he began “new to Seattle?” I recoiled slightly at the question, surprised he could have guessed that so easily. Maybe I still looked a little green.

            “Yeah,” I replied slowly to his question. “How’d you know?” Only a week living in Seattle and I already had a stalker? Great.

            “Well, you don’t have jacket,” the stranger stated simply.

            I looked around my being. He pointed out the obvious, but it still prompted me to look at myself. “Yeah, I know. Wasn’t expecting it to rain today.”

            A small chuckle emitted from his throat. “And that’s how I know you’re new here. It always rains in Seattle. That means,” he paused for a moment for emphasis “you always wear a f*****g jacket in Seattle.” At this point he had a smile on his face and made his way to the seat across from me.

            Before I knew it, his hand extended itself in front of me. “Jimmy Lawrence.”

            My hand met his in the middle of the table as I followed suit in introducing myself. “Matt Spaulding.”

            “Nice to meet you,” we shook hands for a brief second before we released. “So, how long have you been in Seattle?”

            “Only a week. Still getting used to this weather.”

            “I know. Annoying, right? Even when you think it won’t rain, it f*****g rains.”

            “Yeah.” My response brief, not knowing exactly what to ask. But Jimmy proved ready to ask anything.

            “What made you come up here anyways? And if you say the rain…” The vague threat left empty, but in a jokingly way that made me smirk.

            “If you need to know, the rain was part of it,” he let out a long sigh once I said this. “But that’s quickly changing.”

            “Of course it is, you were probably expecting nice warm rain like in California or Florida. Not this ice cold s**t.”

            “Basically, yeah,” I chuckled a little. This guy was pretty funny. “Though it does help my writing.”

            This piqued his curiosity as he sat up a little bit more. “Writing?”

            “Yeah, I’ve always been interested in writing. Poems, articles, books, whatever I can, or try to.” I didn’t want to sound too conceded. Definitely did not want to sound like one of those modern writers either. ‘Oh, of course I write. It brings out my spirit and it is the purest form of expressing one’s thoughts. Unbiased, unknowing, blah, blah, blah.’ Of course writing was a great form of expression, but I didn’t need to sound condescending when I told people I write for a living. Not one of those writers.

            “That’s cool, man,” his response casual and unbiased. “I write myself a little, well, mostly music, but still along the same lines of poetry and stuff, right?”

            “Definitely, just adding some instruments to it.”

            “Exactly!” He gave me a friendly smile and look to match. “I like you already, man.”

            An equally friendly smile grew on my face. For the past week I’d been alone in this big city. I had to find a job on my own, working as a journalist at the Seattle Times, move in on my own, and adjust to the city on my own. It was a little difficult. Maybe having a friend in this city would finally give me a little ease in my life here.

            The rest of the time we just talked and got to know each other. Surprisingly, Jimmy was very open about his life. He seemed to have left out very few details in his story. Granted, I guess I should have known a musician, such as himself, wouldn’t care about airing out his dirty laundry. That’s just how they presented themselves.

            He spoke of how he had formed a band, which he currently played with, back in community college. They chose the name the Ramblers, playing grungy rock-blues music that seemed popular to some Seattleites. And like every modern musician story, the band got better, made some music of their own, and all of them dropped out of school. Jimmy played guitar for the band, so I guess the fact that he was the first to jump overboard didn’t surprise me. Lead guitarists seem to always steer the band in a certain direction. Or that’s how I thought.

            This didn’t sit well with his parents and they basically disowned him, kicking him out of their house a week after he dropped out of school. He crashed on several of his friend’s couches while his band became more famous. A great childhood. But, the band began to play gigs at several bars and gained some recognition. So, once he earned enough money, he bought an apartment and has lived there ever since. No looking back.

            Sometime during the conversation, the girl that came with him sat at the table with us. I don’t quite remember her name, didn’t really matter though as Jimmy would have another girl to replace her by the time I met up with him again. Though, that day, things began to look up as the three of us just wasted the day by talking, telling stories, and so on. We spoke of good times and bad, relishing in the memories of the time we caused mayhem or trouble. My writing came up, again, and, a little bashfully I might add, I talked about the book I tried to get ideas for, laughing it off as a fanciful idea. They didn’t laugh.

In fact, Jimmy looked at me and said, “Listen, Matt, if that’s what you want to do then do it. I mean, look at me,” he moved his hands up and down his body to prove his point. “My parents thought I would amount to nothing, and I half believed them. But when I picked up guitar for the first time and played, I realized that’s what I needed to do, that’s my calling. And I did it. So you, man, you go out there and write that damn book. You’ll make it.”

I smiled a bit, happy to think someone at least thought I had a chance. “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”

 Hours had passed and the sky began to dim as the rain just kept pouring outside of our awning. Small slivers of light made it through the dark gray overcast. Bit by bit, however, the depressed clouds passed over our heads, revealing a little more of the fading light of twilight each minute. By the time the rain had let up and walking down the street became bearable, night had fallen over the city. Street lights flickered on and young people, my age, started to appear on the streets, looking to fulfill any vice their heart desired. Never really had any desire for such things, sure I’d hit the bar every now and then, but the clubs, drugs, the one night stands, not really my thing.

            It was at that moment that Jimmy and his girl decided to leave, making haste to a gig the Ramblers had within the next hour. All of us shook hands as they started to leave and I gave Jimmy my number to call me up before the next gig they played. I’d be there. He pulled his leather jacket up around him and walked down the street, girl in hand, turning for one moment to wave at me. From my seated position, I waved back.

            Not much later, I decided to go back home myself. I tossed my coffee cup away and began the short stroll back to my apartment. I smiled and let out a short laugh. “’Always wear a f*****g jacket in Seattle’…” Staring up at the starless sky, I thought things would finally start to get a little interesting around this city.

Author's Note

I'm trying to nail a style a similar to Hemingway's, while also adding in my own ways of description and detail. So, I want to know if my style is coming to close to Hemingway's, but also leading towards a path of its own. Thanks!