This Seat is Taken

The aesthetic had changed through the years. Trends and fads came and went like ships in the night: slate greys traded for cobalt blues, fry ups replaced by avocados, hearty portions exchanged for tasting plates. There had, however, been one constant in the little coffee shop on the street corner in the 35 years since it had first opened its doors. More consistent than any member of staff, colour scheme, or owner - it was a customer who had been ever present in the coffee shop. Such a part of the furniture that he did, rather fittingly, have his own designated piece of furniture: the chair in the window looking out onto the street; and it was through some initial confusion about this seat that I first met Vince.

A man of very few words: none, in fact; to say that I met Vince that day feels like something of an overstatement, but regardless of the lack of words exchanged over the years, it felt as though we formed some sort of connection. That first pseudo-interaction began as it had done for countless others who crossed paths with Vince, with a gentle tap on the shoulder and a friendly smile. Over the years I had come to understand the meaning of this, but in this initial instance, I had completely misread the gesture as something that was seeking a reciprocal smile, or a wave should the individual feel in such a social mood. It was upon returning my attention to the coffee in front of me that Vince's jabby fingers made their way back to my shoulder - only this time they carried a much-increased sense of vigour. Upon turning around, I was greeted this time not by a friendly smile but instead by a much sterner expression, and a hand gesture that assured me in no uncertain terms that I was to vacate this chair with haste. Upon my departure from the chair, I noticed that the friendly demeanour had once again graced Vince's countenance with almost immediate effect.

As somebody who has had the pleasure of working for myself for quite some time, I was afforded the opportunity over the years to get to know Vince, not through his limited words but through the beautiful pattern of his days. There was this effortless, gracious flow to Vince's days that had this mesmerising quality, soothing to watch. Frequently I would find myself forgetting about the pressures of the deadlines looming over me, of the disappointed commissioners who had paid for their work, instead drawn in by the seamless choreography with which Vince danced through each day - his every move carrying such a natural, hypnotic rhythm that ironically it could only have been obtained through countless rehearsals. You would watch in awe as he glided across the floor, remarkably light-footed for such a heavy-set man. His order had been so consistent - a double espresso with a speculoos biscuit on the side - that the sound of his Chelsea-booted footsteps approaching the door was enough to cue any member of staff into action and thus catapult them into the limelight that seemed to come with Vince's attention.

He would enter the cafe at the precisely the same time every day, 2:34 pm. Over time, I surmised that this was to still feel the buzz of being surrounded by others while avoiding the lunchtime rush. For a quiet man, Vince never appeared to have so much of a problem with people, but rather it seemed there was a limit to the amount of jabbing that he could muster up in his increasing age. The venom behind each prod you saw someone receive was enough to let everybody in that room, not just the recipient, know that he was more than capable of holding his own.

The irony was, given the hold he had over the chair, he wouldn't sit for too long: at most, he was there for eight minutes: and even then, this diversion from his usual five minutes and forty seconds was only on the occasions where the coffee poured for him was too hot (which itself came with a disapproving look at the poor barista who must surely have rather poisoned any other one of us customers than face this glare). While he drank his coffee, he would stare out of the window keeping an eye on proceedings in the street that the window faced out onto. His coffee he would finish, but the biscuit he would only ever have half of before he shuffled out of the door.

Once out of the door, the elegant rhythm would resume, gracing the entirety of the neighbourhood: the betting shop, the pub, the greengrocers, the charity shop; each for approximately the same amount of time as he had been in the pub. I liked to imagine a street laden with tales of the half-drunk pint in the pub, and the half-eaten pastries in the bakery. I hasten to suggest that despite the thickness of his glasses, he only managed to complete half an eye test during one sitting at the optician.

As I write, I am in my usual spot - a perch just across the cafe from Vince's chair, a vantage point from which I could watch his gracious entrance on a daily basis and then admire him as he sat stoically in his throne, King of the Road. His chair sits, empty. It has been three weeks since I last saw Vince, yet today his chair basks in the glory of the sun's rays. It prompts a feeling, a feeling that he is still keeping an eye on everything, almost definitely from a chair that he has requisitioned as his own.

I continue my work for a while, until the sun catches my eye, reflecting off the clock face. It's 2:34 pm and a hipster begins approaching the chair armed with his oat flat white: I know exactly what I need to do. Vince fucking hated hipsters.

Liam Glover is a creative, cinephile and cheap-pint advocate from the UK's jewel in the crown: the North West.