The Transvestite on the Phone at a Coffee Shop

THE TRANSVESTITE ON THE PHONE AT A COFFEE SHOP (APRIL 3, 2013)

“Yeah, I did! Don't tell me I didn't!”

Silence. 3....2....1...

“No, you tell her that I did what she wanted me to do, and I ain't doing it again.”

Silence.

Here I am in this coffee shop, trying hard to work, to release the creativity from the part of the brain my creativity is constantly hiding in, and, on of all the days I forget to bring my headphones...

“No, I had chicken and microwave cheese”

What?

I tried to ignore it, but I couldn't.

I turned around.

There were only 4 people this morning in this relatively quiet coffee shop:

Me, a man quietly working on his laptop, the Barsita, and her.

Or him.

I couldn't tell.

In this neighborhood, every other her is a him, and some of the hims are her.

This one, though, decided that the coffee shop is the perfect place to use a cell phone

And talk into it like its a CB radio, holding it half a foot in front of her....his...mouth.

And not to be racist, but....

Well, anything that starts like that automatically sounds racist.

So never mind.

I could move.

But Im comfortable here already.

The table is the perfect size for the laptop, the coffee, the muffin, and the bag of carrotts I brought from home.

Yes, I brought carrots to a coffee shop.

“I gave him those blankets. I didn't need them. I got my own.”

Not sure what the conversation is about, and I really do not want to know.

I just look forward to the 3-8 seconds of silence in between each utterance.

Its like waiting for a geyser to erupt....but you are not sure if its going to erupt in 3 seconds or 8. And then it erupts. And then you wait again.

“You not payin'!”

I guess if I really wanted to, I could fill in the blanks and start my own conversation with her just to amuse myself.

And if I really wanted to I could politely ask her (by the way, I am just assuming its a her, but I still cannot tell), to tone it down a bit.

I mean I COULD....

“Alright I'll talk to you later.”

Silence. 3.....2....1.....

Silence

Silence

Silence

Finally.

Finally I can get on with my work. Finally I can write that great American novel.

But I'm Mexican.

The great Mexican-American Novel.

Or screenplay.

Or blog entry.

Or Facebook post.

Whatever. I can just write. In peace. In quiet. In...

“Hey, It's me. Im calling you back.”

Crap.