Vetters Corner Table

I wrote this little piece for my english class but thought I might as well put it up on the blog. 

Approaching the door along the damp cobblestone street, you hear muffled laughter. A few older men sit outside smoking cigarettes, lounging in fold out chairs enjoying light conversation. With each step the noise becomes louder and louder until your hand slides into the brass handle fixed to the weathered door. With a light pull of the door the noise that has been slowly building erupts. A blast of warm air is followed by the familiar sounds of the creaking floor and friend’s voices welcoming another familiar face to the table. The usual blonde waitress with rosy cheeks pours a beer, without a word exchanged. A quick peck on the cheek followed by a short but heart felt greeting passes between us as the beer slides into my hands. The first sip makes the transformation complete before I have even sat down. A friend stands and gives a, “Prost!” and soon after glasses are clinking in unorganized rhythm, each one louder than the one before it until beer has erupted out of the glasses covering the table. Another Friday out with the friends. Conversations around the table vary from the latest soccer scores, to school problems, or to more immediate issues like whether or not to drum up a conversation with a girl across the room. With each new beer the answers to the questions become fewer and further in-between until at last nothing is left to be said, no more stones to over turn. As fast as it had begun it has also come to an end with one yell of, “last call!” from the owner in his stained, pinstripe shirt. The corner table, that was once neat and orderly like soldiers marching into battle has now changed into a chaotic mess. Napkins lie where they fell in wet clumps around the table not to be moved. A light film lies on top of what was once a clean smooth surface. After the last glasses are finished and shoulders find their matching jackets and we file back out into the street. Farewells and hand shakes are followed by the familiar sound of steps on wet stones.

-Owen Darrow