Sunday. I’m all excited. I head to Caribou to edit my book, Concrete Boots. I’ve had a dream of doing this. Of Caribou someday being “my office.” I wake up in the morning and instead of going to work I go to Caribou. And I write. For a living.
So even though this is still a dream at this point, and Caribou is not my office, and it is rather Sunday and not Monday, I head to Caribou.
I have my pink Dell laptop, my manuscript, a red pen, and myself; donned in black yoga pants and a grey and white striped V-neck sweater from Express. My hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and my make-up is done lightly – appropriately – for a weekend at eight in the morning.
I kiss my husband and my baby good-bye, and I head off …. To write…to edit…to be. Ahhhh this is heaven, I think. I feel very Carrie Bradshaw.
I arrive at Caribou and it’s empty, besides two others, and I order a large non-fat mocha. I select my seat and start to take out my writing items. I’m smiling. I’m happy.
Sipping my non-fat mocha I start to read over manuscript notes from my two awesome cousins, Tami and Lucy, as well as my own notes, to put it all together to finally perfect this masterpiece.
I’m on a roll…chapter one down…and into chapter two and making some progress.
And now it’s 10 o’clock. And busy. And loud. And so not peaceful. I’m distracted.
I’m looking around. Where am I sitting? I’m in the bum corner. I’m sitting amongst the bums. They are scruffy and dirty with backpacks. And they stink. And they are loud. How did I not notice this?
Well, I did notice the bum family come inside because they were screaming at each other. A man, a woman and a son, maybe like 20 or 30, who had to have been on something. He looked wasted. The man sits down at a table near me and loudly insists he MUST sit by himself. I’m pretty sure he was looking at porn on his laptop. Yes, I forgot to mention, this bum had a laptop! Crazy world we live in! Maybe he’s a classy bum?
So, the woman (his wife?) sits with me. I was sitting at a large table, just taking up one side, because it was near the outlet. She didn’t bother me much; she just drank her coffee and did her own thing. Every time she’d try to go over by the man he would start screaming at her, and I would look up.
“Get away from me, woman! What are you doing over here?” He yelled. This is why I was pretty sure he was looking at porn. The son, sitting there but not looking at the computer, would laugh with his cashed eyes.
Wtf is with these people? I thought. I felt bad for the lady. I wanted to tell the laptop bum to shut the fuck up and leave her alone. But I tried to mind my own business.
So, I keep getting distracted by said bums, as well as other bums, who must have Caribou in Downers Grove on their list of hang outs on chilly Sunday mornings.
Now, I’m not a snob, well, maybe I am, but I’m sorry, I don’t want to sit and edit my book amongst a bunch of bums – or people really – and here’s why.
I’m sitting at the large table editing, and suddenly I have to poop. SHIT! – quite literally – lol – What am I going to do? I think.
Obviously I would take my Juicy Couture bag into the bathroom, but what do I do with my pink laptop? What do I do with my manuscript? Do I pack everything up and take it in the bathroom with me? Surely someone will take my spot! Oh the dilemma.
Can I possibly ask someone to watch my belongings? I look around. At the bums. They would sell my lap top for a forty of Miller Lite I’m sure. FUCK, I think, I REALLY HAVE TO GO POOP.
Like I can’t even concentrate at this point.
I text my hubby who says, “Don’t you dare leave your stuff.”
Deep breath. What the fuck am I supposed to do? I want to keep working for another hour so I guess I’m going to have to hold it. This sucks. What happened to the days of good and normal people??? People you could trust? Can you trust no one anymore?
Frustrated (and with a tummy ache) I get back to editing. And then another bum comes in.
And you know what – tangent here – don’t anyone comment to me telling me how bums are people, too, and the poor bums, or how the bums need some place to go….I know all this. I empathize with the bums, as I’m just a pink slip away from being a bum. But, if I were a bum, I wouldn’t spend my Sunday sitting at Caribou looking at porn on a laptop while I yell at my (possible) wife! But, that’s just me, what do I know? Further, I would be a classy bum. I’d be the only bum I know carrying a Juicy Couture bag! Hmm…maybe I would sit at Caribou and look at porn? What else is there to do?
But, back to my story. So, this other bum comes in. Caribou is now packed. I’m sure there are non-bums all over, but I like I said, for some reason I sat in the bum section. She stops in front of me and says, “Is someone sitting there?”
Against my better judgment, I say, “Nope, you can sit down.”
Where does she sit? I’m not even joking, right on top of me. She’s literally breathing in my face. Crazy bum lady is wearing orange sweatpants with stains and a blue sweatshirt. She has a black stocking hat on her head. She pulls her hat off and her hair sticks straight up at the ceiling.
Don’t judge others, I think. But, it’s her breathing on me that really bugs me, not how she looks like a crazed maniac.
Then she starts coughing. Repeatedly. ON ME.
What the fuck is with this woman? I think. I really want to beat her ass, and I’m quite sure I can take her. Who does this? Seriously. Who. Does. This? I almost feel like she’s doing this on purpose. She’s trying to drive me away! No way is she driving me out of there! Fuck that crazy bum lady.
But, seriously. Who sits down at a local coffee shop, on top of someone else, breathes all over them, coughs all over them and completely disturbs them by reading their newspaper out loud? She didn’t even order a coffee! You don’t even want to know what happened next.
THE BUM WIFE GOT UP AND WENT TO SIT WITH THE CLASSY LAPTOP BUM HUSBAND!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I’m not even joking. My only bum friend left me – alone – with crazy bum lady with her hair sticking up at the ceiling and coughing all over my pink laptop, and even worse, ME.
The bum husband yells at his wife again. “Woman! Get out of here!” (See, he had to be looking at porn, right?)
She yells – seriously yells – “I had to move. That lady over there is coughing all over me.” She points at crazy bum lady.
Crazy bum lady laughs.
The crazy bum lady looks at me. “I like your sweater,” she says.
Am I like on TV? Am I being punked? I wonder.
A minute later she says to me, “I like your ring.”
What is this? Why am I being harassed at Caribou on Sunday morning while I’m trying to live out my Carrie Bradshaw dream? Why God, why?
I finally resign to the fact that I’m being driven out of Caribou by this crazed maniac bum. But, whatever, bums or not bums, they’re people. And damn are people fucking annoying.