Highliner

The rust stained tile beneath me harbors a temperamental puddle of water. A few remaining drips hang desperately from the forest green trim of my Kavu britches. The wet, shining trace of a pair of boots gives away my route through the room; somewhat similar to a Yosemite Sam treasure map I once had. My table is nestled deep in a corner, near the entrance; a red and black checker board is etched into it's surface. My back is against the salmon colored wall. There is a large, welcoming window two feet to my left; my green, weathered cruiser rests against the opposite side of the pane. I have a clear view of everyone in the cafe. A women is at the counter; it looks as though she has ordered a bagel and is awaiting some blend of hot brew. The barista hurries to and fro; pulling shots and steaming milk, all while making small talk and fingering the hair out of her eyes. Two other locals are immersed in the material behind the screens of their laptops; their eyes glazed, their minds frozen. A graying women sits alone at a table for two. A hardback novel rests in front of her; her eyes slowly move from left to right, down the page, and then back up again. Her aged fingers gracefully turn each beige colored leaf. Three women congregate gaily at a table near the cream and sugar, each one seems to stem from a different decade of the 20th century. Their skin tones and hair color each tell a separate tale; tales of an Alaskan homesteader, Iowa farmer, and California surfer. In the center of the room a couple sits nose to nose, fingers intertwined, eyes lost in the shades of blue and green of the other. The surrounding walls are covered in black and white photographs; all of Alaskan fishermen. The men and women in the photos each carry an icy stare. They are weathered similar to a miner's cabin; in tact on the outside, but empty and somber on the inside. I have seen this look once before, in a photograph of an ancient Sioux chief. He held himself with dignity, but his eyes told a story of brokenness and pain. Outside, the landscape is painted white from fresh precipitation. Tree branches hang low from the extra weight of snow and ice. The parking lot is a slushy mix of salt and dirtied snow; tread marks slash this way and that. Snow drops from the sky like pellets from a .12 gauge shotgun. The mountains are a faint ghost in the distance. The sun will not come out today, at least not until it's decline - when it's positioned low enough over the horizon to burn through the sopped-in air. My coffee mug has been emptied, my stomach is beginning to growl from it's own vacuity. A tacked up memo on the cash register boasts a fresh batch of salmon chowder. My fingers bounce erratically against the grain of the table; a product of caffeine I suppose.

Another day in Alaska inconspicuously trickles on.