“Hi, do you mind if I sit down over here?” asked the pretty woman, and then, recognizing me, “Oh, hiya Jay. I didn’t realize it was you.”
“Hi, Ms. Rodgers,” I grinned. “Sure, it’s a free country.” She smiled at me, but I could see it was a thin veneer over a pain-ridden face. I was sitting on one end of a long park bench in one of the rose gardens surrounding the capital grounds in Salem, Oregon. A few trees sheltered the bench from busy traffic, and a small duck pond lay before us. I was reading “The Stranger” by Albert Camus in the warm spring sun. A bunch of guys were drinking early and raising hell at my fraternity (it was Friday afternoon) and I had sought out a quiet place to get my requisite chapters read.
Ms. Rodgers sat on the bench, a respectful distance from me. She seemed preoccupied. I knew her from the coffee shop where I worked part time as a barista. She was a coffee fanatic and over the course of many mornings, and seeing her credit card she paid with, I got her name, Cassandra Rodgers, and basic story: secretary in a government office, Oregon native, a couple of kids who lived with their father. She was always very nice, and tipped a perfect 15% each time, down to the cent. But that was really all I knew.