Two Conversations in a Baltimore Starbucks

With a whole day to kill, and all of Baltimore gridlocked by Barack Obama's speech, I've camped out in a Starbucks. A pen, a notebook, and an exquisitely-caffeinated beverage have kept me happily occupied.

My contemplative reverie was interrupted when an elderly gentleman wearing a Marine Corps cap sat next to me. "Cold enough for you?" he asked, which has to be the most inane conversation starter in the history of spoken language. Still, respect your elders and all that, so I humored him.

"I went to school in Cleveland, this is nothing"

He saw my latitude and raised me. "For a while, the Corps had me stationed in the Arctic circle."

Thus began a 90 minute conversation that completely caught me by surprise. "Rip" had been a Marine fighter pilot during WWII, and he'd spent the 50s as a test pilot. A widower, Rip is opinionated, outspoken, and a veritable fountain of stories. Our conversation ranged from Aviation to Grandfatherhood, from Dynamical Systems to the Gaza strip, from Graduate Degrees to Alzheimers.

We spoke of America's bright future, and we spoke of death.

It was the most pleasant conversation I've ever had with a complete stranger. And after hearing his story, how he's outlived his friends and siblings and wife, I think he needed someone to talk to.

It was the sort of conversation that just leaves you feeling warm.

I was in a talkative mood when he left, and standing on line for another large Americano (I still can't bring myself to say "venti"), I told a woman that her baby is cute. The discourse progressed according to standard protocol:

"Thank you!"

"How old is he?"

[Age of child]

"Oh, that's a fun age"

"Yes it is. Do you have any children?"

I stammered, completely taken aback. Of course I am physiologically capable of reproduction, and have been for quite some time. Many of my contemporaries are parents, and there is no reason for a stranger to assume one way or the other (except, I suppose, my conspicuously bare ring finger).

Still, no one has ever asked me if I am a father. Ever. No one has even acknowledged the possibility. Until today.

It almost feels like a milestone. Like a saltatory transition from young-adulthood to adult-adulthood. Like my future as a father, the not-yet-twinkling twinkle in my eye, is suddenly real and palpable. Like the imaginable is now imminent. Like conception is conceivable.

I've been shaken to the core, all because some lady asked a trivial question while making small-talk.

Maybe it's the beard?