People at a coffee shopAllergic to people.

Over time he’s learned to present himself as warm and approachable, gregarious in fact. And he is so convincing that people line to be his friends.

That complicates things for a person who reacts to social activities like some people react to gluten and chemicals in cleaning agents.

Before the epiphany, he was trapped in a feedback loop of his own making. He’d invent flaws in friends as an excuse to keep his distance. When they stopped inviting him to do things, he was free to write them off.

There’s no way to eliminate his need for time alone but through a series of false starts, he’s taught himself to live comfortably.

He’s close with his family and friends on a one-on-one basis. He stays on the outer edges of social circles in a way that won’t be noticed. He avoids appearing aloof.

Books and the outdoors offer refuge; he can find his way around a kitchen. He avoids entertainment that jams his receptors, especially if a laugh track is involved.

Some years ago he experienced his epiphany.

A friend he admired described himself as “inwardly directed” and somehow that prompted the man to search for keywords like self-sufficient, self-possessed, independent, resilient, innovative.

A book about the power of introverts helped him see that he’s not an oddity, that there are millions of others like him; and that they’ve been given a gift in disguise.

Our closet introvert seldom talks openly about his allergy to people because no one here at the coffee shop would believe him if he did.

People at a coffee shopThere are precious few places where the walls can talk. This happens to be one of them.

The walls of our cave speak volumes about the people who put their drawings, paintings, photos and whatnots on display.

The process is simple. You ask the barista to add your name to the schedule and some time later you own the walls for a month.

Nobody asks what kind of stuff you plan to show. There’s no judging or no curating. No prizes. Each month is an adventure.

It’s a joy to see unrecognized artists given a chance to share their creations.

Some of the works come out of tutored workshops but much is created in garages, basements and on dining room tables. It ranges from ‘naive’ to ‘indigenous’ to ’street art.” Some of the works have important things to say. Occasionally one of them will take your breath away.

The prices applied to the art will scarcely cover the cost of materials (works in cadmiums and ceruleans deserve a healthy surcharge)…but then a dollar value is a barbaric way to judge an artist’s output.

One day around noon Ruby could be seen walking toward the coffee shop from blocks away. She was carrying what turned out to be a work of assemblage art in progress.

She briefly stepped into the coffee shop to show it to the members of the clan. And as it has happened in caves through the millennia, we gathered around and eww-ed and ahh-ed.

People at a coffee shopThe morning’s short, impromptu memorial service was all the more moving for being unplanned and unscripted.

Linnea and Ian stopped in to introduce Tristan to the coffee shop that Linnea and her father loved.

Her father is gone, she told me. We spent a moment sharing what that loss means. Ian’s father had died as well, so the birth of Tristan was providential.

Linnea and her sister Jordan grew up with Neil. On the mornings when she could sleep in, she’d wander down past the couple doors to our corner coffee shop to greet her father.

He would already have spent hours with the likes of Joyce, Dickens, Austen, Faulkner, Flaubert, Stevens, and Eliot. Neil was a published poet himself and he used literature to explain “life’s greatest treasures and worst vices” to his daughters.

Neil Lukatch taught people to think. He was much sought after as a tutor for ACTs, LSATs and personalized learning strategies. (This from a guy who owned a comic-book store?)

When Neil and I got to know each other, we discovered that Linnea and my son were friends from high school and that Neil had tutored Ben.

Our friendship was built around the hamburger. Scouring suburbs for the best of the best provided the perfect guy excuse for two old men to make plans and get out of the house.

More than anything else we talked about being fathers. We liked to think that meeting our paternal responsibilities to the best of our ability would make up for our wild years.

To my blog’s question of “What’s the most important thing your father taught you?” Neil sent this: “How to love a child! There isn’t even a close second best.” He passed that wisdom on to Linnea.

The table where he liked to sit is now often claimed by a fascinating guy who reads and rereads the same impenetrable works of literature that Neil dedicated his life to. He is not Neil.

People at a coffee shopThe decor of our corner coffee shop screams a healthy disdain for tidiness and convention.

Its owner is either a genius at creating a welcoming underground, counterculture ambiance – the kind of space that retail designers charge tens of thousands to come up with – or he’s simply a bro who doesn’t give a shit.

There’s paint peeling around those enormous windows. Vintage floor tiles are cracked and gaping. There’s no effort to hide exposed conduits in the walls. An invisible film of neglect covers every surface.

Having said all that, the joint runs like a precision time piece. Service is crisp and friendly, lines short. The ugly dispenser of tap water is almost never empty. Customers double park and pick up orders fast enough to avoid parking tickets.

The place is an incubator for remote gig-workers, creatives, small LLC owners and university rats who set up shop and stay for hours. The energy is electric.

A room full of tattoos, piercings, pony tails, hipster knit caps and splashes of florescent hair offer you an opportunity for self-renewal. Osmosis on the cheap. Forget that trek through Nepal. Who needs Burning Man?

All you need do is sit quietly with a cup of coffee, breathe in the vapors and it WILL happen. When you’re in the moment, you’ll connect with a freer, looser, hipper, preservative-free version of your authentic self.

But fear not, wild thing, the minute you step out that door, you’ll return to the person your life choices and your dependents need you to be.