Another Saturday, another round of thesis writing.
I am meeting a fellow grad student at the Plum Island Coffee
Roasters Café in Newburyport for one of our sporadic but productive
mini-marathon writing sessions. My
partner-in-font-riddled-crime usually runs a few minutes late, and I usually
run a few minutes early. It works for
both of us because it gives me time to acclimate myself to the task at hand,
and it gives her a chance to pack up her daughter, who has joined our writing
group, at least in spirit, and bring her along.
In the course of getting myself ready to get down to work, I
choose a table close to an electrical outlet in case our third writer shows up
(her computer battery is being fussy, so she needs a plug as a back up). I
spread out a few things to show I have actually claimed the space, and then I
grab myself something to eat and drink.
Today I order British breakfast tea and a fat slice of banana
bread. After adding a little sugar and a
fair amount of honey to the steaming travel cup, I am ready to light a
proverbial fire under my proverbial ass.
And speaking of fires, there are two drawbacks to this
café. The first is that it is
ridiculously small. The second is that
it is ridiculously cold, heated only by a small gas fireplace in the far corner. However, the view, straight over the
Merrimack River where it flows out into the Atlantic Ocean and past the route 1
bridge that connects Newburyport to Salisbury, is unbeatable. I huddle at my small square table and get
down to business.
First, I take out my notebooks and my folder of work to
edit. Then, out comes a writing
magazine. I pop open the tea to stir it,
try to re-cover it, and spill about a teaspoon's worth onto the table. After I disengage the one napkin from under
the banana bread, I clean up my tea mess.
Now that I've touched the banana bread, my body believes that I should
eat it … right now … do not wait for my partner, do not pass go, do not collect
two hundred dollars. Most of the subtle
lipstick I put on this morning is subtly smearing onto my tea cup, so I use the tea-dirty
napkin to wipe up that mess, as well.
Other than the woman who drags a chair to the makeshift
hearth and completely bogarts the fire, it seems like a regular Saturday. I do not get the piano table this week, so I
position myself at the square table with my back to humanity. After a few minutes of staring out the glass
double doors, I start reading an edition of Writer's
Digest magazine. I realize it is a
copy I've already read and earmarked, but I refresh my memory going through it
again, anyway.
I am deep into thought and silently minding my own business. I am as much in my own personal space as one
can be when one goes into a crowded public place to be alone. I truly believe that I have properly and
effectively made it clear to every other patron in the café that I am here to
get work done. People bustle around me,
providing plenty of fodder for Hemingway-like conversation-stealing
moments. I am content in my own world.
That is, until the arm.
A man is standing at my back, breaching that Third Wall
between performers (people in the café, like him) and audience (that would be
me). I do not look up nor make eye
contact, but his arm extends over my left shoulder and his hairy hand makes a
balled up fist with the index finger directing itself to something on my table.
"Are you done with this?" he asks me without any
other introduction or small talk. He is
clearly pointing to my pile of work.
What? Done with what? My notebooks? My folder of story drafts that require
editing? My half-eaten banana
bread? My steeping tea? My chair?
This table? The magazine I am
holding down with my elbows?
I do not turn to look at his face, but I know he is not an
employee. Only two people are working,
and they are both still behind the counter.
I can hear them from where I am sitting, even though I am not facing the
register area. The weird, creepy hand
invasion continues, only now the index finger is shaking like it is really,
really pissed off.
"This," he clarifies. "Are you done with THIS?"
I still have no idea what he wants, but my brain is rapidly
going through the possible list of things he could be asking me for. I feel like it takes ten seconds to gather my
thoughts, but I'm sure it's closer to three seconds. I do not know what he wants, but the one
thing I do know is that making eye contact will probably be fatal. Finally, I stammer, "Done … with …
what?"
He puts his finger down onto my tea-stained,
lipstick-smeared, crumpled napkin and says, "Your napkin. I need this napkin. Are you done with it? Can I have it?" As if there is not one single paper napkin
anywhere in this café, in this city, in this universe, except, of course, for
the one and only paper napkin that I happen to have on my table.
My brain goes into instant overload. Why
does he need my already-dirtied napkin?
Is he trying to get my DNA sample?
Does he have some curious fetish? Is he a serial killer picking out his
next victim and garnering the memento first before slaughtering me between the
dry-docked boats in the lot?
I want to yell, "Bugger off, you sick fuck." Instead, I stammer, "No. I'm not done with it."
"Okay," the man, who shall henceforth be referred
to as Wicked Creepy Napkin Guy, says reasonably. Wicked Creepy Napkin Guy removes his finger
from the table, recoils his arm from around my shoulder, and sits down. At the next table. Back to back.
With me. Only about ten inches
apart. He looks like he is part of my
table universe, yet he is not. Wicked
Creepy Napkin Guy is loudly speaking to the woman who is also sitting at his
table. (I do not look closely, but I'm
fairly certain she has a paper napkin with her coffee.)
I am Flypaper for Freaks.
The coup de gras is unwittingly delivered by my thesis
mate. Shortly after she arrives, she
asks if she can use my napkin. Before I
can recount the story of Wicked Creepy Napkin Guy, and before I can assure her
that the napkin is filthy, she grabs it for her runny nose, blows into it, and
crumples it up.
Hey, I may not want strangers touching my DNA-laced paper
café napkin, but I've no aversion to my thesis mate touching it. And, to be honest, I am relieved the damn thing is gone.
