Starbucks
I look up from my computer in a Starbucks in Broad Ripple. Through the mesh of the free-standing fireplace in the center of the room I can see a man, maybe in his late 40s, olive complexion, balding head, blue worn t-shirt. He's staring off into space. When I look back a second later, he's got his hand out and he's talking, laughing quietly, shaking his head. It's as if he's got someone in front of him, talking back, except he doesn't. I don't see a phone, earbuds, or a computer. He's just sitting in Starbucks, eyes closed one moment, open the next. His face turns upset, sad, his words quiet but frantic as he whispers, like he's pleading with someone, begging—then immediately he's laughing again, chortling almost, bringing his fingers up to his forehead as if the joke's so funny he can't take it.
At first I think it's amusing, but the more I watch him the more he makes me paranoid, scared. He's not doing anything to me—why should I be scared? But it's not hard to scare myself these days. There's so much potential for danger everywhere, if you pay too much attention to the news.
The man gets up and walks to the bathroom and suddenly he looks like a normal person, walks like a normal person. I go back to my writing, except then my head starts to construct a scenario where this mentally ill man is in the bathroom, attaching a homemade bomb to the underside of the sink. Maybe he's been spurned by a lover, maybe he's been radicalized, maybe he sees purple monkeys everywhere and thinks the only way to get rid of them is to blow them up. My heart starts to beat faster as 5 minutes go by and he doesn't come back out. I imagine the walls exploding, dust in the air, shrapnel, boxes of Narino 70 Cold Brew bursting into flame, Michael at my funeral, saying, "if only she hadn't gone to Starbucks..."
More time passes. A trio of giggling college girls in sundresses come out of one of the bathrooms (why were they all in there?), but no man in a blue shirt. I toy with the idea of telling Sarah we should leave. I won't, I know I won't, it's too much unfounded paranoia, but what if this is my one moment to save our lives? What if this is the moment of no return?
(Later when I tell this to Sarah, she says, "If you ever feel like we need to leave, you tell me, and we'll leave no problem. I watch too much Homeland to ignore that shit.")
He comes out, of course. He stands in line and gets another coffee, then sits back down for 30 more minutes of muttering, near crying, laughing, and staring off into space. I can't make out any words except for the whispered, "Jesus...Jesus...Jesus."
At another Starbucks in highbrow Dublin, Ohio, a couple years ago, a man crossed his shorts-clad legs in his chair and flashed his shaved balls at Moriya and me. It was grotesque—so much flesh, stretched out, bulging out of his blue khakis. After the first moment of shock we giggled at each other, embarrassed for him, thinking it was an accident—but then he lowered his newspaper and grinned at us.
At first I think it's amusing, but the more I watch him the more he makes me paranoid, scared. He's not doing anything to me—why should I be scared? But it's not hard to scare myself these days. There's so much potential for danger everywhere, if you pay too much attention to the news.
The man gets up and walks to the bathroom and suddenly he looks like a normal person, walks like a normal person. I go back to my writing, except then my head starts to construct a scenario where this mentally ill man is in the bathroom, attaching a homemade bomb to the underside of the sink. Maybe he's been spurned by a lover, maybe he's been radicalized, maybe he sees purple monkeys everywhere and thinks the only way to get rid of them is to blow them up. My heart starts to beat faster as 5 minutes go by and he doesn't come back out. I imagine the walls exploding, dust in the air, shrapnel, boxes of Narino 70 Cold Brew bursting into flame, Michael at my funeral, saying, "if only she hadn't gone to Starbucks..."
More time passes. A trio of giggling college girls in sundresses come out of one of the bathrooms (why were they all in there?), but no man in a blue shirt. I toy with the idea of telling Sarah we should leave. I won't, I know I won't, it's too much unfounded paranoia, but what if this is my one moment to save our lives? What if this is the moment of no return?
(Later when I tell this to Sarah, she says, "If you ever feel like we need to leave, you tell me, and we'll leave no problem. I watch too much Homeland to ignore that shit.")
He comes out, of course. He stands in line and gets another coffee, then sits back down for 30 more minutes of muttering, near crying, laughing, and staring off into space. I can't make out any words except for the whispered, "Jesus...Jesus...Jesus."
At another Starbucks in highbrow Dublin, Ohio, a couple years ago, a man crossed his shorts-clad legs in his chair and flashed his shaved balls at Moriya and me. It was grotesque—so much flesh, stretched out, bulging out of his blue khakis. After the first moment of shock we giggled at each other, embarrassed for him, thinking it was an accident—but then he lowered his newspaper and grinned at us.