@ Zenpai

A story about people

It was a rainy day in the busy city. The type of day when a dark silence envelops the air, allowing the hard thuds of rain to paint the concrete. I enjoy the evening in the city. The neon lights enliven the darkness, giving flair to the city as a whole. Every color you can think of is in these billboards; they’re bright pink, red, green, and so on, almost like a 14-year-old who plays too many sci-fi games designed it. As the city dimmed, I took a trip to my favorite café, Speedy’s. There’s nothing particularly special about this café. It holds an average rating of 4.0 stars online; it has cushy booth seats. The coffee is mid-tier, a bit watered down, but I don’t mind since I’m not too much of a fan of a strong blend. They have enough food items to keep you satisfied, but nothing to make it exceptional. Maybe that’s why I’ve come to love a café like this; it’s not extravagant, it blends in, it’s how a café should be; it meets its mark. Sometimes that’s all we hope for in things, even in people.

I’m good friends with the owner; she noticed me coming in often, and one night while the café was deserted and empty, we struck up a conversation. It was mere small talk on the first occasion, the simple things like how your day is, what part of the city you live in, what you do for work. It felt like a barrier of entry to a deeper well we both had yet to discover. At night, Speedy liked to switch all the lights to red; it gave a special ambience to the café, it relaxed you, and highlighted a lot of the art and design in the room. It almost feels like someone made the café to be lit red; when the regular lights were on, it was a plain old café. Once those lights came on, it became something entirely vivid and alive like those neon skyscrapers in the city. The thing about the nighttime was no one came into the café; it’s like they didn’t even know it existed even though the open sign continued to hang till 11:00 pm. People had more important places to be or they thought going to a café at night was an odd choice.

I frequented Speedy’s three times a week on average, but I always showed up on rainy days. There was no reason behind this; I felt drawn to the café, to Speedy, and to the atmosphere created by those red lights. I walked in and Speedy was at the counter blending a mint tea. I could smell the mint from the moment I walked in; it cleared my nose and I was breathing clearer than ever. It had me wondering how long my nasal passages had been blocked and how unfortunate it is to have a stuffy nose. I recalled a quote I heard once: ‘An ordinary man wishes for a million things, a sick man only has one.’ I sat at the corner booth. Speedy knew the drill. So, she made a black coffee with one cream and two sugars. I don’t mind coffee in the evening. Being an avid drinker, the effects of caffeine no longer do much to me; my mom had the same phenomenon, it’s in the genes.

Speedy had on blue jeans that hovered right above her ankles, she wore clean, new-looking white sneakers and a tiny horizontal striped t-shirt. The sleeves hugged her arms nicely, she was oddly in great shape; she used to be an Olympic sprinter but no one had a clue. She had a diamond face shape, high cheekbones, and a soft welcoming face, and always wore her hair in a messy bun. She’d recently left for a vacation to Hawaii and appeared to have a nice brown tan from the trip.

We never ate much when we got together to talk. The conversation was enough to feed our souls. The thing about Speedy was she was the exact opposite of her name, which made no sense to me. She was never in a rush, always calm, composed in each action. She loved to live in the silence of life, never speaking too soon, thinking, never rushing anywhere. To her, time didn’t seem to exist; she set her own pace in life, devoid of what the world was doing. I found it an honorable skill to have, as I was the exact opposite; in essence, my name should’ve been Speedy. I was always in a rush, always frantic and anxious. I couldn’t sit still; I had to go, to be on the move, doing something at all times. Overthinking everything twice over. When we’d talk, it would be as if two species were encountering a life so unknown to the other. We discussed everything: music, especially jazz, art, culture, life, cars, and games. If it existed, it found a place in our canvas.

Slow and smooth as ever, Speedy came to the booth with a grin on her face.

Speedy: Here’s your coffee, as usual.

Narrator: *nods head* I wanted to ask you what the story behind that painting is.

To the far right of the room on the wall hung a painting that stretched from the ceiling to close to the floor. I’d never seen a canvas that size before. This was a new piece, no doubt; as I sat down in the booth, I couldn’t help but stare. It gripped me and left me blank. Speedy turned her head and glanced for a while; I don’t know how long she was looking, but she seemed to be transported somewhere far away. She finally turned back.

Speedy: That’s “color and contrast” (artist unknown). I found it after I fell out of love. I’ve had it for a while; I just never decided to put it up until two weeks ago.

Narrator: It’s an interesting piece; I can’t find the words for it, but I can’t take my eyes off it.

The painting had the perfect mix of dark and light colors, areas of bright luminance and dark depth. It engrossed you. When Speedy said she found it when she fell out of love, somehow I understood her. The painting made me reminisce about a love I once had. Maybe that’s where she was teleported to when she stared blankly at it. The painting invited you back to that place of both the light and dark parts. The title began to make sense to me. All the while, “Romance” by Hiroshi Suzuki played in the background.

Speedy: A few years after a devastating heartbreak, I was on a week-long sabbatical in Ojai, California. I stayed in an old inn on a hill near a lake. While I was there, I would take a morning walk to the lake to enjoy the birds, reflect, and drink my morning coffee. The first time I went down the hill, I spotted the huge canvas propped up in front of the lake and a tiny glass house right next to it. The glass was fully tinted so you couldn’t see inside at all. It looked like it had no doors; when the sun shone on it, it reflected back an almost platinum silver glow. Standing outside was a man facing the canvas. He had on a baggy set of linen clothes, a beaded necklace, sandals, long grey and black hair, and a big goatee. The man was immersed, almost looked possessed, and he would violently strike the canvas with his brush. Then he would abruptly stop and he would be gentle with the canvas, adding in finer details; then he would explode into a violent rhythm again. He continued this for hours, and I would visit the lake each morning to sit and watch. I always had the feeling the man knew he was being watched. To him, it was a performance, a show, somewhat of a grand finale, I as the only witness. My final morning there, I went down to the lake; the man was sealing the painting, signaling that he had finished it. He was wrapping rope around it to secure it. Once he finished, he turned with sunglasses on, stared at me for what felt like an eternity, and then signaled for me to come over. He took a seat on his wooden stool as I approached, pulling out a leather notebook; he ripped a page out of it and handed it to me. The man was not from California; I couldn’t tell where he was from, he didn’t speak English at all, or so it seemed. His silence was his voice; it didn’t feel strange at all at the time, but as I retell this story, it seems a bit mystical. I took the letter, and the man bowed to me. Once he finished bowing, he got up and walked into the glass house and closed the door. He never came back out. I was confused, so I read the note in hard-to-read writing; all it said was ‘a gift of love, yours.’ I stared blankly at the wrapped painting and took it with me. I’ve had it stored in the back of the café for years, never opening it once; when I put it up 2 weeks ago, that was the first time I saw it.

At this point, Speedy put her head down, and I could see tears falling in her lap. I figured it was best to say nothing for a while.

Speedy: Unwrapping the painting felt like reopening the wound of my broken heart; it held a power that was unexplainable. It made me shake and gave me cold chills. I’m not sure why I decided to open it, but I did. I did so with extreme caution, unwrapping the paper and untying the rope that held it together. As I saw the painting, I began to get dizzy, as if I had taken drugs and the high was hitting unexpectedly. It felt like an invisible cloak had surrounded me from every angle; I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It wasn’t a painting but a full story. I want to show you something.

Speedy got up and I followed her to the painting. We stood in front of it and I could feel a magnetic pull; I was experiencing that cloak. She then pointed to the center of the painting; it was cut in a square that was very hard to notice. She pushed on the corner and it swiveled around, unveiling words on the back of the painting.

Speedy: That man engraved this message on the back; when I read it, my heart seemed to scream out and burst. Not in a bad or good way, but more so as a natural reaction. I can’t explain what it did, but it took care of me. Like a potion that was reserved for the right moment, if you receive it at the wrong time, you won’t get the desired effect. Maybe that’s why you came here tonight.

I sat and stared at the words.

“Color can only appear in a place of non-color, in a place where there is no flair, no fill. Color could be light filling darkness, a complement, not an opposite. Love is color, as it complements the blank canvas of emptiness. It takes the form of a blank canvas and makes its work known. It draws you in; you can’t pay attention to anything else; it’s as if the lover who has evoked this is as wide as the vast sky. As bright as a full moon. Staring into their eyes, you can no longer see the borders that the canvas inhabited; everything has become the canvas. Everything has become the art, the intricate colors and the strokes. The separation that was present before, whether noticed or not, is no longer the picture. It is now whole. It’s complete, with nothing to add; it towers over you and envelops you. You can’t believe how high it’s reached or how wide it is. It is both flowing above, below, beyond, and through your entire being. You can no longer distinguish where you and the love begin and end.“

Like the mint tea that cleared my nose, my heart cleared the way; it felt like it could finally breathe. I sat in disbelief and wondered how long I had been that way.