Cafe Society
I’m sitting in Zoka’s, a cafe a couple of blocks from my house, this afternoon winding up my day after visiting clients. A while ago, a guy came in and sat down on a sofa next to me without buying anything. He looked a little apprehensive, and a little out of place wearing a tie. After a few minutes, he took out his cell phone and made a call. I heard him ask, “Are you at Zoka’s?” The place is pretty intimate, so it was obvious he was looking for someone he’d never met in person. A while later, a woman walked in looking equally perplexed, and each finally realized that they were seeking each other. It appears to be about business, so no romantic tale developing here, and it’s beyond my meager narrative powers to extrapolate one for your amusement.
Yesterday, I worked most of the day in my home office after taking my mom to the airport, and wandered over here in the afternoon because I was sick of looking at all the disorganized crap piled up on and around my desk. A guy I used to work with in a lofty office in a shining skyscraper downtown walked in, bought a beverage and pulled out his laptop, not espying me as he did so. I finished up a task I was working on and walked over to speak with him. As I did so, I felt a pang of self-consciousness as I sat in my shorts, Baja teeshirt and Keen sandals while he had on a suit, tie and starched white shirt. Now, Zoka’s is a casual venue in a laid-back neighborhood, and my friend’s was the only tie in sight, but I still felt a little on the dodgy side, the “self-employed” former associate exposed in the grubby slacker existence he must have descended into. Still, we chatted amiably and caught up on mutual acquaintances (”not there any more. Hmmm. He must have taken that hard.”). As we did so, my buddy periodically adjusted his Windsor knot absent-mindedly. Finally, he reached around, disassembled the knot, folded the tie up and put it in his suitcoat pocket, his discomfort trumping mine, a rare cipher in my sartorial victory column. But, hey, it’s not about “winners” and “losers”, right?
The final vignette in my Zoka’s triptych: As I was sitting here this afternoon, I was startled to see Mrs. Perils walk past on the sidewalk, returning from a run around Greenlake and a session at the gym. She turned and opened the door, and I thought she had seen me and was coming in to harrass me. Along with my espresso drink, I’d bought an apple turnover from the sumptuous pastry case, and was loath to be discovered with it, since when I’m not making poor eating choices, I can be heard whining about my weight. Welcome, my younger readers, to clandestine trysting in one’s 50s. Before I could say anything, however, she walked past me, apparently not recognizing me, and looked over the pastry case herself. I looked around in a sort of panic to see if I could offload my half-eaten goodie plate to a chair or a table next to me, but all were occupied, and I resigned myself to apprehension and disdain. By this time, however, she had apparently exhibited the strength of character that I had not, and had walked away from the pastry case without making a purchase. I made a “psssst” sound, but she kept walking out the door and off towards home. As soon as I press “Post & Publish”, I’ll have to run home and tell her about this before she reads it. Then I’m heading for the gym. Honest.
Meanwhile, back to vignette #1, which finds this guy’s tie off as well, and a conversation that seems to be edging away from the business at hand. No time to stay around for the exciting conclusion, regrettably.
