July 21, 2005
Neighborhood Hangout
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist

Weekdays, I stop at the same coffee shop in my Downtown neighborhood, a non-corporate entity where routine customers patronize their favorite morning blend.

For two years I’d seen the same guy there almost daily, though we never spoke, only smiled or nodded. Donned in bicycle gear and usually reading Derrick Jensen, Herman Hesse or the like, I pegged him an erudite student who enjoyed skipping class, or an incredibly lucky and successful slacker.

I am sometimes plagued by shyness, but after pulling the cat from my tongue I finally asked him his what was his “deal.”

He explained that he’s a bicycle messenger, the only one in Indianapolis, to be exact. We talked for an hour and I was late to work (commonplace).

Over time, I grew fawning intrigue for his far-out lifestyle and each day pelted him with willy-nilly questions; Pulitzer prize-winning, profound questions like “Why” and “How.”

With little to nothing in common we’ve become friends; I waltz in with my fascination for life, and over a cup of coffee we discuss our passions: he, the freedom, experiences and risks involved in his work; me, unbridled fanaticism for music.

The other day he told me about a local bookstore, Paper Matches, with which he’s involved. I’d read an article about it once but, foiled by horrible long-term memory, had forgotten its narrative. He explained that it’s an alternative, not-for-profit store containing books on radical politics, glorifying responsible direct action.

Thoughtfully (you can’t rush these things), I posed this powerful question: Huh?

Explanation: He and his colleagues are peaceful anarchists expressing the kind of world they choose to live in, guided without authority or power.

My memory reverted to a high school party in a house with out-of-town parents. Everyone was drinking alcohol. I was the goodie-goodie not drinking because I carried the image of my father and his authority on my shoulder, his face both disappointed and angry that I might hurt myself, or someone else.

Sustaining such acute uncoolness, I admitted to my coffee shop friend that I’m not much of an anarchist, and that I usually obey authority, adding that I did sneak the car out once when I was 15.

I waited for his disgusted guffaw, but he said he didn’t mind; in fact, open-mindedness is his refrain.

The chorus in my head sang, “We can! We can all just get along!”

I told him I branching out with new friendships; he laughed and said, “Welcome, then.”
Visit Paper Matches at 40th and Boulevard.