On Writing and Storytelling: A Look at Scene One from 'Reunion: Coda' Chapter 29

Cover design by Juan Carlos Hernandez

 

Echoes of Familiarity

Jim Garraty’s Apartment 

Late Morning, Saturday, March 25, 2000

 

The aroma of brewing coffee snakes through the air, nudging me toward wakefulness. I’m leaning against the countertop, staring at the Mr. Coffee machine as if watching the last few sputters of Maxwell House Colombian Supreme trickling into the pot might provide clarity—or absolution. The toaster oven clicks softly, signaling that my English muffin is ready. But I linger, hesitant, my hand hovering over the coffeepot. 

The kitchen feels smaller today. Maybe it’s the weight of Marty’s letters, or perhaps it’s the shadows cast by a late-morning sun attempting to pierce the haze of Midtown Manhattan. Outside, the weather is unseasonably warm for March, with the sun shining brightly and temperatures hovering around 61°F. Even from my climate-controlled perch on the 33rd floor, I can sense the city’s restlessness below. 

The New York Times lies untouched on the small table in the corner, its headlines catching my eye: “Wall Street Rallies Amid Tech Boom,” “Clinton Administration Faces New Challenges in Middle East Peace Talks,” and “Broadway’s Latest Hit: A Revival of ‘The Music Man.’” Off to one side, a chaotic stack of unopened mail taunts me—bills, junk mail, and the rare tactile gesture of human connection: a letter from a fan. 

I pour myself a cup, the dark liquid swirling like the thoughts I’ve been trying to suppress. The letters—they’ve been haunting me...

I sink into the worn chair by the kitchen table, cradling the mug as though it might ground me. My gaze flickers to the unopened mail, then to the headline on the front page of the Times. I can’t bring myself to focus. 

Maddie’s voice drifts through my memory—soft, teasing, from yesterday morning in the shower. "Save water, shower with someone you love." The corners of my lips tug upward despite myself. She wanted to stay, to help me wade through the emotional quagmire of Marty’s letters and Miguel’s death, but her world—her music—called her back. She’s across the East River now, in Queens, likely practicing for tonight's concert. 

I take a bite of the English muffin, its crunch dissolving into warmth that’s a poor substitute for the comfort I’ve been reaching for. Tonight, I’ll be at Avery Fisher Hall, not as a historian or a writer, but as Maddie’s guest. I should be grateful, and I am. But the knots in my chest don’t loosen. 

The coffee cools in my mug as I sit there, unmoving. Outside, the city hums with life, indifferent to the turmoil churning within me.