The Crazy Table
Yesterday morning I packed up my laptop and walked over to my local Starbucks to do some writing. I got there early enough that I had my pick of where to sit. I chose the large table in the corner that is designed for people doing work (It has plentiful outlet space and lamps to read by.) This table is also pretty much a community space, so I expected as the day went by people would join me. I just wasn’t aware of how crazy these people were going to be.
Now, I should probably explain the geography of this particular Starbucks, as it is located at the intersection of several very disparate communities. It sits on the corner of Hollywood Blvd. and Western, right across the street from one of the city’s few Metro stops. (Yes, LA does have a Subway system!) To the northwest is Beachwood Canyon, which consists mostly of large, expensive homes and a few funky, independently owned businesses. To the northeast is Los Feliz, which is considered a mecca for 20-something hipsters and families who only eat organic foods. To the South are two (oddly) overlapping ethnic neighborhoods - Thai Town and Little Armenia - which are also both home to a high Hispanic population.
The first girl who sat down and joined me was hispanic, in her late teens or early twenties, and carried a large Quizno’s bag full of sandwiches and chips. She asked me the time - around 11:00 - then told me she just got a job at Quizno’s and didn’t want to be late! I congratulated her and turned back to my writing. Ten minutes later she asked me the time again. I told her. She then started guessing my age.
“Twenty-one?”
I shook my head.
“Twenty? Nineteen?”
“Other direction!”
“Eighteen? Twenty?”
“I’m twenty five.”
“Oh my god!” She was shocked. This isn’t totally unusual for me - I have a baby face and I’m often mistaken for being five or six years younger than I actually am (which is becoming more and more flattering the older I get!) But this girl just wouldn’t let it drop. She proceeded to tell me how beautiful I was, and how “women pay to look like you!” and how I should be really thankful for my looks, and did I work out? Etc., etc., etc.
Now, if this were a guy my cheesy-pick-up-o-meter would have gone off almost immediately, but this was a young, clean, moderately attractive woman, so I was thrown and didn’t know how to react. I thanked her and tried to get back to my work.
Ten minutes later she asked me the time again. She had to work at noon and didn’t want to be late. I told her it was 11:20. She then asked me if I had a boyfriend.
“Well, sort of. It’s complicated.”
“Like an internet thing?”
“No. He just lives far away and we’re trying to figure stuff out.”
“Oh, so an internet thing.”
“No, I mean, we talk on the internet occasionally, but we met in person. Now he just lives far away.”
“Like in Tarzana far away, or further?”
“Further. Like Boston far away.”
“Dang!” At this point I was feeling uncomfortable because a) even I don’t understand my current relationship status so I feel weird talking about it and b) it’s become pretty clear to me that this woman is, indeed, trying to pick me up.
I again try to return to my writing. She asks me if I live around here. I nod and lower my head towards my computer screen. She asks me if I’m in college. I say I am currently working on my master’s degree. This impresses her. She starts talking about her own life - how she dropped out of high school. Now she’s trying to get her GED but can’t pass the math test. She hasn’t had a job for two years and so she’s really happy that she finally found work. I ask her if she lives with her parents or if she has her own place.
“Actually, I’m homeless.”
I don’t know how to react to this. Not what I was expecting.
“Yeah, every morning I go over to the gym and shower so that I’m not disgusting.”
She then gets up to go buy herself a tea. She asks me to watch her stuff. I notice for the first time that she has a rolling suitcase with her - probably all of the possessions she owns.
When she gets back it’s almost time to start work, so she packs up to go. But before she leaves she tells me that she doesn’t really believe in having girl friends but she thinks I’m really cool and maybe do I want to hang out some time? I mumble something that must sound like, “sure, that might be cool some time,” so she hands me a pen and asks me to write my number down in the back of her Quizno’s training manual.
And I do. And I gave her my real number. In retrospect, I’m not really sure that was a wise decision… but maybe I can finagle some free Quizno’s out of the situation?
I got a good thirty minutes of writing done before I was interrupted again. This time it was a man, probably in his forties, a little scuffy but within the realm of acceptably scuffy. As soon as he sits down he takes out his electric guitar and starts to play it lightly. After a few minutes he puts it away and starts taking clothing out of his bag. New clothing. He inspects each piece, then folds it up and puts it back. I begin to wonder if they’re Valentine’s day gifts for his family - some of the pieces are women’s clothing, and others are men’s. After a few moments he starts talking to me.
“My nephew wants to be a rock star, but he’s a Christian.”
“Well, those aren’t necessarily mutually exclusive things.”
“You can’t be a real rock star and be a Christian.” At this point he goes on a good ten minute tirade about Christians and how he hates them and the clever things he’s said to them when they’ve tried to save him. It’s mostly incoherent. I pretend I’m not listening and stare at my computer screen, but he continues to talk.
I’m obviously avoiding eye contact, so he asks me if he’s bothering me. I say no, but I have an assignment that I really need to be working on.
“Okay, well, I’ll just sit here until my friend comes, then.” He proceeds into another tirade about something vaguely political. I don’t really remember what. I’m very releived when his phone rings and he gets up to answer it. I engross myself in my writing and he moves to the next table.
So finally I have some peace and quiet. And then the fight breaks out. Not at my table, mind you, but in the Starbucks more generally. An older man is yelling at two security guards, who I garner have asked him to leave. The old man looks to be homeless (he is dirty and unkempt, has not ordered a drink, and has that somewhat crazy, far-off look in his eye.) - there have been issues in the past at this Starbucks with a few homeless men coming in and hassling the customers. But this man is having none of it from the security guards. He starts yelling at them, accusing them of racially profiling him (he is African American, the guards are hispanic), and ranting about his constitutional rights. The guards don’t really know what to do, so they just stand there and let this crazy old man scream at them in front of everyone. Eventually he calms down and, again, I return to my story.
Someone else sits across the table from me - this time a young, studious looking black woman. She takes out her laptop and headphones and I am relieved to finally have a normal table mate. And then anti-Christian, pro-rocker guy comes back. His friend has apparently never shown up. This time the other woman is the focus of his tirades. He asks her name - Niha. He tells her all about his crazy family, and then tells her he’s in school for music. He makes her listen to some beats he’s written then asks her opinion on them. She’s obviously trying to get rid of him but still be polite. He starts to tell her how beautiful she is and wants to guess where in the country she’s from. At this point I can’t help but laugh and shake my head.
I look down at my computer screen and somehow, despite all the (literal) insanity, I have managed to write six pages! I pack up my things and head home - leaving the Hollywood and Western weirdos in the capable hands of Niha.
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