INT. COFFEE SHOP – DAY
Disheveled woman dressed in yoga pants and hoodie enters ramshackle coffee shop. It’s a slow-motion scene, reminiscent of a Scorsese film, as the Rolling Stones “Paint It Black” plays in the background.
I see them all looking at me slack-jawed, the citizenry of the Coffice. They watch as I find my favorite table next to a power strip and slowly, slowly reach into my computer bag. There is a collective gasp as they are all blinded by the sexy, shiny new MacBook Pro I unveil.
Oh, I know they have all been mocking me with my archaic and filthy old Toshiba. Undoubtedly taking bets behind my back on which super virus will be unleashed by my sticky keyboard.
But no, not today. Today I stun them with my firepower.
Put your single soy cappuccino away, little barista. You think you know me? You don’t know me. Give me a double espresso with a Jack Daniels back today, small purveyor of the bean.
Behold! On this magical contraption, I will become a famous writer – a national treasure the likes of which has not been seen since….uuummmm…..I suppose I should read more.
Yeah, so I got a new computer. And I have a bit of a hard on for it too.
I’ve been tied to the PC world for what feels like an eternity so getting to join the hip, young world of THE APPLE (said with reverb) is a better means of aging denial than getting a tattoo or a piercing….or hormone replacements.
Lest this turn into some Apple commercial (though, call me if anyone wants to do that) let me enlighten you on my insecurity about EVER being uncool.
I’ve always thought that I was a very cutting edge and hip person. My guess is that most people who are decidedly NOT cool think the same thing about themselves. So, trust me, I know I may well fall into this category.
Working in a Coffice is where you see the coolest people IN THE WORLD. They are unshaven, unwashed, hopped up on “the bean” but are working their stubby little fingers to the bone to do something spectacular.
If they didn’t believe this, they’d be sitting in an office cubicle with much better hygiene.
They are artists, entrepreneurs, writers, developers, and drug dealers who are working outside the system, thereby flipping off “the man”. I love these people down to the tips of their dreadlocks and feel like I am always trying to be worthy of their acceptance.
Let’s paint the scene of a REAL Coffice.
A true Coffice is an old gas station with a small Guatemalan in the back room roasting beans.
The baristas are only slightly higher than their clientele and can also give you a tattoo in the back by the bathrooms on their breaks.
The manager spins vinyl at local raves on weekends. (They still have raves, right? Is that what the youngsters are calling them?)
So, rest assured, if you are at any coffee shop that has anything better than a spray painted piece of plywood as its sign, you are not really at a Coffice (always capitalized, by the way).
Coffices push me to create some new idea, thought, sentence, whatever. Thereby, rendering me immortal.
That, and it always seems to provide the perfect soundtrack to my life.
INT. COFFEE SHOP – LATER THAT DAY
Disheveled woman packs up her creative magic box as the spell is broken and, amidst many jump shots of admiring eyes, leaves to the sounds of “Stuck In the Middle With You” by Stealer’s Wheel.
FADE TO BLACK