Sometimes it’s important to shut your fucking mouth, like in public places where your faces are busy misplacing the pastries you’ve paid for while the air escapes your veiny throat and what’s more heinous is the fact that you’re draped with the same shit that killed your uncle James, kid, and you don’t even savor it, you favor it gone in a second like you came with a mission to slay shit, to eat more food than a buffet filled with different stages of diabetic patients, my patience is thin and the more you linger the more anxious I am to flip the one finger on my hand capable of distinguishing me as foe or friend, you annoy me to no end, you’ve destroyed my trail of thoughts and that is my last strand of straw, you’ve ended all my plans to stay calm, I’m erupting from the skull like my cranium’s gone, you pathetic scu – oh, he’s leaving. Ah, back to writing.
Starbucks. A cyst of network marketers, aspiring authors, and old men falling asleep reading the newspaper on the cushy chairs. This is my office. I spend hours curled over rustic tables under the yellow mood lighting and get paid roughly four to twelve likes a week. These likes afford me no food, no shelter – but they give me more pride than any job I’ve ever held.
Next to me there’s a guy yelling at a member of his down-line for not recruiting the right people. To my left there’s a guy watching a movie on his laptop, and a guy who’d recognized him and started talking to him. I hate it when people interrupt me so I sympathize. His words, not mine: “If I buy you a drink, will you look up something on your computer for me?” This is the first line to a future episode of True Crime. I don’t trust anybody who doesn’t have their own functioning computer.
I want to move. I need to move. My laptop is at three percent till K.O. and I need an outlet but the only one in this Starbucks is clogged with the excess flaps of fat hanging from two people talking over coffee. Don’t they know that’s the outlet table? Don’t they know you can’t sit there if you’re not typing? I want to go over there and tell them they fucked up. They parked in the handicap spot. Tow their clogged arteries to the doughnut shop next-door. The people next to me are now talking directly to me and I’m ignoring them. Typing their words and pretending I’m too in-zone to hear them. “He’s got a real laptop. He’s just typing away, he don’t care. That’s cause he’s got all the money. That’s a good laptop.”
If they try to steal my laptop I will break their fingers.
Two percent and I feel panic. I need that table but they’re still talking. Still not drinking. Finish your drink. Finish your conversation. You’re too old to be on a date but too ethnically different to be related. If you guys are friends then I hope you’re having an affair, but if you’re having an affair I hope it’s just holding hands because sex with those bodies is an insult to the art. I hate these two people. I hate them, but not as much as the men talking about my laptop next to me.
The network marketer is trying to recruit a different network marketer who is not suave and not confident like him. She’s trying to recruit a different guy but now he’s lost interest. She’s flustered. This guy’s still confident. He’s the walmart of the network marketing world. He will run your small insurance scheme out of business. And I STILL DON’T HAVE AN OUTLET.
One percent. Should I go home? I should’ve spent these last three percent writing my post for Sunday. I look for another outlet. The guys next to me can’t figure out how to access a website. Like cavemen trying to start a fire. Their knobby, clumsy fingers looking for keys like a newly blind man trying to learn brail. They ask me “Hey, can I see your