Novelists occasionally employ a technique known as dramatic foreshadowing as a means of introducing characters or locations early in a narrative, the significance of which may only be revealed much further down the line. Besides functioning as a clever literary device, dramatic foreshadowing strikes me as a perfect example of “art imitating life.”

Regular visitors to this space will have no doubt already deduced that my journey through adolescence wasn’t the sort you’d describe as being “all beer and skittles.”

A case in point: About halfway through high school I decided that it would be a terrific idea to drop out for a while. In what I now recognize as an ill-conceived bid to exchange my teenage angst for some imagined grand adventure shimmering just beyond the horizon, I abruptly quit whatever else I was doing and boogied on outta there.

This strategy was, of course far from original with me. Virtually no one of my acquaintance, least of all parents, teachers or any halfway reasonable adult within 50 feet of me at the time, viewed my decision as anything other than sheer folly. But, hey, what did they know? Fueled by youthful hubris, raging hormones and plenty of beer, I scraped together whatever dollars I could locate, stuffed some clothes into a canvas duffle bag and hit the road.

According to the ancient Chinese philosopher Laozi (translation courtesy of Kari-Out Fortune Cookies, White Plains, N.Y.) “The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.” In my case, that first step led me straight through the door of a modest little sandwich shop on Portland’s Monument Square. The sign hanging in the window read “Charley’s on the Square.”

As a frightened kid nursing a cup of homemade soup while waiting to board a Boston-bound Greyhound, I couldn’t have imagined the effect that place (and the sharp-eyed proprietor standing behind the lunch counter) would eventually have on my life. Looking back on it today, the moment I first walked through the door of Charley’s on the Square still reads as a stroke of dramatic foreshadowing worthy of William Shakespeare.

A few years later I’d managed to finish high school and even take a few classes at The Portland School of Art by the time I paid my second visit to Charley’s on the Square. It felt exactly like I was stepping out of a time machine: There was the same worn lunch counter and the same warm, lively chef behind the counter, only this time I wasn’t in so much of a rush, and we struck up a conversation.

When I said I was looking for an inexpensive artist’s loft, Charley broke into in his trademark grin. Having recently purchased both the six-story office building above the restaurant and the attached warehouse, he was anxious to make a deal. A handshake and a refill of my coffee mug sealed the agreement. I moved in the following day.

During my occupancy in Charley’s warehouse, our friendship deepened considerably. Charley wore a lot of hats in those days: mentor; financial advisor, master storyteller and life coach, to name a few. Sometimes, if I was up early enough, I’d knock quietly on the restaurant’s back door and we’d share a quiet moment over coffee. But, from the minute he unlocked the door at 5 a.m., the curtain went up, the show was on and Charley owned the stage.

Bobbing and weaving behind the counter, wielding his dented spatula like a symphony conductor’s baton, Charley barked friendly greetings as his customers arrived, alternately cajoling, chiding, kvetching, charming and encouraging his appreciative audience of loyal “regulars.”

During a lull one cold January afternoon, Charley asked to see some of my artwork. Before long I was busy illustrating his weekly menus and window fliers. My compensation, in the form of hot, homemade meals, was literally all that kept me from becoming a genuine “starving artist” that winter.

On another occasion I was sitting across from him nursing a cup of coffee when Charley abruptly asked, “What do you want to eat?” When I told him I didn’t have any money he shot back, “Is there something wrong with your ears kid? I didn’t ask you if you had any money. I asked what you wanted to eat!”

No such thing as a free lunch? Maybe not. But there isn’t enough money on the planet to cover the tab for the lunch Charley made for me that day.