A fit of pique

Posted on July 30, 2002 in Cafes

I think it is time to change coffee shops. The help has started talking about me behind my back, pointing me out as an object of ridicule.

All I want in a coffee shop is a clean, well-lighted place with a couple of comfortable chairs where I can write. I make a point to clean up after myself. Completely. Napkins thrown away. Sugar and drops that I have spilled wiped up. Cups tossed. The pastry plate and fork brought to the counter so they don’t have to walk over to where I was sitting. I am happiest when I can sit in a public place and be a cipher, unread and unpronounced. But when you are six feet four inches with longish brown hair and a peppery beard, it’s not easy to hide.

The chubby blonde did it. The one who thinks she is a good Christian and is attending Pepperdine in the fall. She was talking about me to the boyfriend of another worker. I’ve heard her yapping about all kinds of people before. He sat down in his chair about seven feet away and declaimed in a loud voice “Is that the guy you’ve been talking about?” I looked up. I saw his beady little eyes — they were genuine beady little eyes, a rare commodity — rolling about in puffy sockets. He stared at me. There was consternation behind the counter as the blonde and the other barriste went to hide at the other end.

They spent the rest of the afternoon fleeing to the backroom. Once I heard the Pentecostal blonde whine “I can’t believe he did that. It’s like ruined my day.” I believe she said it for me. I settled a bit after I finished a character sketch. Made some notes about this incident. Then I left the dregs of the coffee, the bit of water in the cup, and the plate at my table. Left without a word. No one said goodbye.