Certainly better than a day in my cubicle

Bank of No Forks was closed for the holiday so I spent the day writing. I pitched a tent in one of the five hundred Starbucks near my house and stayed for hours. I am absolutely flabbergasted that I got anything done because it was a total freak show there today.

I counted five self-important doctors wearing full scrubs and shoe booties. Why would they wear their scrub booties outside the hospital? Or even outside the surgery? They do realize that once they wear them out they become completely covered in germs and thus are totally useless, don’t they? I’m not a germaphobe by any stretch, but good grief. I’m certain they do it just because they want to make sure we all realize they’re doctors and therefore TOTALLY better than us.

I didn’t see it on the Internet, but I think we may have several traveling Broadway shows in town. Or they’re filming a Southwestern version of Project Runway. A couple of the most flamboyantly gay people I’ve seen since the last time I was in San Francisco regaled me for about twenty minutes gossiping about people I’ve never met, but feel like I totally know intimately at this point. Someone named Bernadette apparently dissed Jorge. Whether Jorge was a man or a woman isn’t completely clear as my entertaining new friends kept switching up their pronouns. Either way, Bernadette is a total skank and deserves what’s coming to her.

I had no idea that Starbucks had a big outlaw biker clientele, but apparently I’ve been busy living my stereotypes. One of them ordered a triple decaf espresso. I don’t understand the point of a dacaf espresso in the first place, and then add the triple part and you confuse the hell out of me.  Wouldn’t you assume a bad-ass biker could handle a real espresso? It seems like everyone is going soft these days.

It also seemed as though today might also have been Released Mental Patient Day. Our designated patient apparently had only one volume  and that was 11.  I know this because she talked. A lot.  She was also wearing an in-patient style uniform and socks. Just socks. And a shaved head. She also did a remarkable impersonation of Ray Charles and Stevie Wonder when she put on her headphones. I guessed she was listening to music but honestly that was just an assumption. It’s entirely possible the headphones weren’t even connected to anything but air. She was a certified whack-a-loon and I was that much more entertained. I’ll tell you what I am 100% certain of though and that is her treatment plan can’t possibly include caffeine therapy.

Last but not least, my favorite patron was a tiny little old man. He had to have been at least ninety or ninety-five and was very dapper in his brown suit and fedora complete with a jaunty feather in the brim. He was wizened and ancient and absolutely adorable. He strolled in using an old fashioned umbrella with an ivory-looking handle as a cane. He ordered a cup of Americano – black and sat in the brown, leather chair next to where I was camping out. We shared the end table, his coffee next to my non-fat chai. I worked on my book and he did four New York Times crossword puzzles. He completed every single one. Without help. In pen. Of course, it’s entirely possible that he wrote gibberish in the spaces but I suspect not. When I left to go pick up my kids from school, he patted my hand, gave me a sincere smile, and told me to have a lovely rest of my day.

I actually might have a crush on him.