Downtown Camelot

Survival instinct drives a cat to seek safety in the high places far above the vague perils that lie hidden in lower levels. At least that’s the word on the street. Abbie Hoffman, for example, often views the world from a place of safety atop the kitchen cabinets, knowing that any hullabaloo arising below can't touch him.

For those who're new to The Circular Journey, I should explain that Abbie Hoffman in this story is not one of the Chicago Seven. This Abbie, a.k.a. Abracadabra, is a stylish cat, always dressed in black and white formal wear, who adds a dash of elegance to the laid back atmosphere of Chatsford Hall.

Downtown Wilma rises several feet as it climbs away from the Riverwalk and up into the middle of downtown. It must have been an instinct shared with Abbie that sent me up into the Brooklyn Arts District this morning

From Egret Café, the elevated view looks out over the shops and restaurants lining the Cape Fear River and continues out past Memorial Bridge until it reaches the gates of Chatsford Hall on the edge of Brunswick Forest.

The change in elevation did nothing to lighten my sultry, overcast mood. The drought that plagued the countryside in recent weeks was washed from memory by the current week-long string of thunderstorms that had rushed in from the Atlantic and now refused to leave. The lack of sunshine gives Princess Amy the pip. If you haven’t met her, you’re most fortunate. She’s that small cluster of brain cells, disturbing my sangfroid like a spoiled brat in a royal household.

As I was saying, the city was shrouded by a sullen sky and had taken on a brooding atmosphere, much like my mood, which was in the third act of a festering bipolar sketch.

I stepped into Egret Café, hoping the atmosphere inside was brighter than Princess Amy’s forecast. As I moved to the order here spot, Amy remarked, Pointless to try lifting the spirit on a day destined to end in frustration and anxiety.

Still, as I’m sure you’re aware, we Genomes are made of sterner stuff than the standard model.  Chilled Damascus steel is how my grandfather Claudus put it. I placed my order for a double cappuccino with a flourish I perfected learned in the caffès of the Holy City, near the Spanish Steps but not too near the fountain. Then I chose a small table near the window but not too near the door. I played Jimmy Buffett tunes on Spotify. 

I was the only customer in the cafe and the barista seemed bored with nothing to do other than watch the early morning dogs walking their people. She decided to take steps; the kind that generate diverting conversation. She wasn’t a buzzer, bless her heart, and lacked the skill to follow Michael Jackson’s advice to start something. 

"Out for a walk this morning," she said.

"Yes," I said. I knew it was lacking a certain something but I thought it best to warm up slowly.

"It's muggy out there, isn't it?" she said and her words stirred Amy to ask, What the hell is this? Conversation about weather? Again?

For my part, I was silently praying, Oh no! Please, God, deliver me. What I actually said was, "I try to get a good walk in every morning.”

"Do you like exercise?" she said and I remember thinking at the time, Where the hell is this conversation going?

 "Me?" I said. "Are you kidding? I don't know when to stop." I was sure the remark had given me the home field advantage.

"Are you a runner then?" she said. And if I was a little confused before, I was astounded now. What was this young geezer thinking? "I love running. Five miles every morning. What do you do for exercise?"

"Oh, exercise," I said. "That explains it then. I thought you asked me if I liked extra fries."

Her face took on an expression worn by someone who felt strongly and had much to say. I couldn't hold in the laughter. I came close to slapping my knee and shouting 'Huzzah!' This hard-working tiller of roasted coffee beans may not be a buzzer but she'd started something anyway.

"I can see why you were confused," said a voice behind me.

"Oh, I didn't hear you come in," I said.

"I overheard the conversation," she said. "And I'm like you. I run like a herd of turtles is chasing me."

This comic relief appealed to the barista and she burst into laughter like a paper bag exploding.

When she caught her breath, she asked the newcomer, "So you only run when you're being chased?"

"Let me put it this way," she said. "If you see me running, you better start running too because whatever is chasing me is nothing you want to be introduced to."

It was magical. Suddenly it mattered little that a storm was brewing outside. Inside it was sunny and set fair.

"I think I love you," said the barista.

"I know," said the newcomer.

In all of the Carolinas, there is no sweeter spot than the districts of downtown Camelot. Looking out on the world through the windows of Egret Café, I felt as safe and cozy as viewing the world with Abbie Hoffman from atop the kitchen cabinets.