In case you’re wondering, right now—at this very moment—I am the weird guy in the coffee shop.
I’m sitting inside a little St. Paul joint named Quixotic. There are a bunch of tables, chairs. A glassed-in quiet room. I dig it.
But, again, I’m the weird guy.
My weirdness commenced as soon as I entered. I ordered a drink and started chatting with the barista. In these moments of forced conversational interludes I tend to forget that I’m an ancient 45-year-old piece of decaying crud, and that the 22-year-old behind the counter sees me as such. So asking about her hat, or the movie theater across the street, only comes off as odd.
Anyhow, I then found a table. But I didn’t like the table—too close to the door. So I relocated to another table. But I’m here to interview someone for Two Writers Slinging Yang, and a space opened way in the rear that appealed to me. So I grabbed my shit and moved again. Only the wifi wasn’t strong in the rear. So I grabbed my shit and returned to the previous spot. Two women were at the adjacent table, and while they didn’t glare, I know they were thinking, “Weird guy’s back.”