My friend Carol and I go for coffee at Pete’s. The purpose of our meeting is for me to read her, a fellow writer, the monologue I submitted to a local contest. I’m happy that she wants to hear it, but nervous about reading it in a public place. I would have preferred to read it at her home or mine, but somehow, like many things with Carol, they don’t work out exactly the way I’d like them to. She is quirky, although once when we were squabbling over which seats to take at a restaurant and I said lightly that it wasn’t easy to negotiate between two such quirky women, she said adamantly, “I’m not quirky.” 
            We have a complicated relationship. I’m never quite at ease around her, although I appreciate her wry wit, her brilliant mind, and her love of language. Still, there’s always the chance of getting stung because of something I do or say that seems innocuous to me but offensive to her. For example, I cannot say, “Are you sure?” to Carol. As in, 
     “Can I help you carry that bag?” 
     “No thanks.” 
     “Are you sure? It looks pretty heavy.” 
Well, that statement and question cross a very dangerous line. 
      Is she not a grown woman, an adult? Does she seem unsure of her decision? Why wouldn’t she be sure? If she says she doesn’t need help, she doesn’t need help. So, I’ve learned to swallow my habitual, rather innocent question as it begins to form in the back of my throat and clench my teeth around the words before they become sound. This can cause some tension in my jaw. 
            We take seats outside the coffee shop because the chatter and noise within bothers Carol. I prefer to sit inside, thinking there might be the opportunity for more focused attention on my work. Next to us two scruffy-looking men sit at a table. One man gets up to leave and Carol looks up, interrupts our discussion and calls out to the man asking if he needs bus fare. (This is what might be construed as one of Carol’s quirks—a tendency to show kindness and concern to strangers at the cost of the person sitting with her.) 
            He looks surprised and answers, “No, I’m fine,” and walks away. Good, I think; let’s get on with it. I haven’t quite finished forming that thought when the man who was sitting next him, springs out of his chair, stands beside us, slightly wobbling on his feet, and says as if offering a precious gift, “I do. I’m homeless and I need money until tomorrow when the governor’s money comes through.” I shade my eyes and look up. He’s easily 6’2”, tan, a day’s growth of beard on his wide face, wears dark-rimmed glasses, a cap, and a dark blue sweatshirt over worn jeans. When he speaks one tooth catches the light as it dips beneath his upper lip. 
            Carol hands over two dollars. He smiles, says, “That’s great. Now I’ll be able to get to the shelter,” and off he goes. 
            I turn to my computer. The bright afternoon sun makes it difficult to see the print on my screen. I swallow this discomfort and begin. My jaw is tightening. I speak the first line of my monologue—my precious hard-wrought words I so want to share with this witty, brilliant friend—and the man returns. 
            “I just gave one of my dollars to a friend who needed it for transportation. Can I have another?” Carol says okay and reaches for her purse. 
            I say, “I have one Carol,” and hand it to him. He thanks me. One might wonder why I feel compelled to spare Carol the burden of giving this man more money. Well, mostly to get rid of him fast, so that he can catch “the bus.” However, it seems his plans have suddenly changed, and, after pocketing the dollar, he plops his large frame into a chair at another table across from ours where a woman with a dog sips a cup of coffee. He speaks to her. She responds in a friendly manner. 
            I begin the monologue again, straining to see the words. Carol can’t hear me and asks me to read just a little louder. Another irritation. I don’t want other people to hear what I’m reading. I swallow, raise my voice and continue. 
            After some moments, our friend, overhearing my recitation, perks up, turns his attention away from the woman with a dog and says, “Oh, what are you reading?” Carol patiently tells him that it’s something I wrote. 
            He says, “Is it a monologue?” 
            I say, “Yes.” 
            He says, “Have you applied for the monologue contest at the Cherry?” 
            I say, “Yes.” 
            He says, “You’re gonna win.” I find it difficult to appreciate his opinion. He says, “I wrote one; it’s about being a schizophrenic guy, but I got it in late. It won’t be considered. It was only half a page.” 
            I say, “Well, there’s always next year.” 
            There’s a part of me—the witness, the writer—who appreciates the absurdity of this episode. Another part, however, the more insistent one, yearns for a different scenario. The beginning of suffering, say the Buddhists: wanting things to be other than they are. 
            He says, “I took classes at MPC with Linda Baxter.” Linda Baxter is the local playwriting guru in the area, and this man probably did take classes with her. What luck, I think. I anticipate that if it were up to him, the conversation would be prolonged and attempt to tell him politely that I would just like to finish reading the piece. Which I do. The lady with the dog leaves. The man does not. 
            He says, “Do you mind if I say something?” As if that would matter. 
            I say, “No.” 
            He says, “That’s not a monologue. A monologue has only one person talking. It’s I , I, I this . . . , I that . . .  You’ll have to go back and edit it. You have two people in there.” 
            He’s right that there are two voices. In my monologue, a daughter reenacts a conversation with her mother. But I know that it is, in fact, a legitimate form for a monologue. 
            He continues by providing an example. “A monologue is like this. I was sitting at a café and I saw a beautiful brown-haired woman” (a second passes before I realize he’s referring to me) “reading something on her computer to her friend with gray hair.” (not particularly complimentary to Carol). 
            I say, “I understand. I will edit it,” with no intention of doing so. Much as I hate to admit it, his use of the word beautiful softens me a bit. It’s been years since anyone voiced such an observation and, for the briefest of instances, my jaw relaxes slightly. 
            “I used to be in theater,” he elaborates. Then he stands and starts to sing in a reedy baritone. “When you walk through a storm hold your head up high . . . ” I am unpleasantly surprised to notice, out of the corner of my eye, that Carol is humming along and nodding to the “music.” My jaw and stomach tighten. He sings the song all the way through. 
            I give up on getting any response to my monologue from Carol. I let go of my expectations for the day. I fold, and say, “That’s from Man of La Mancha!” Why not surrender and join the fun, after all, in this sidewalk serenade. 
            “No,” he says, “Carousel.” 
            Carol further corrects me saying, “‘To Dream the Impossible Dream’ is from Man of La Mancha,” and, so cued, he begins to sing said song and we are treated to every single verse, with bravado, as his form wobbles back and forth and the sunlight bounces on and off his tooth. 
            He’s warmed up now and, without pause, launches into “The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow.” I realize that the only way to end the concert is to leave (which I’m more than ready to do) and look to Carol. She responds silently and begins to gather her things. I shut my laptop, put it into its bag and hoist the bag onto my shoulder. I’d forgotten how heavy it was. We nod at the man—Carol also smiles—and head toward the parking lot followed by a rising crescendo carried on the wind: Tomorrow, Tomorrow, I’ll see you tomorrow. It’s only a day away.  
               I won the monologue contest.  
               I never ask Carol for anything again.