2000-09-21

Yesterday, I'm in Starbucks working on my illustrious return to the Web, and there's this guy sitting near me in one of the comfy purple chairs that I so often covet yet so rarely get. He's kinda nerdy-looking -- SUNY sweatshirt, jeans bordering on acid-washed, unkempt goatee (unkempt in the "I don't quite know how to maintain my facial hair" way, not unkempt in the "I am such a cool rock star, I have to put on a jacket in the middle of winter" way), but harmless.

At a table next to him are two women deep in the throes of relationship analysis. "Birthdays aren't important to him, but they're important to me." Yawn. He is clearly listening to this Mars/Venus discussion, as am I. I look at him. He looks at me. I smile. Oh god. I smiled.

Thankfully, he left soon after the smile, and I continued to eavesdrop and try to think of something gorgeous to write. But then…then….he came back. Oh, oh yes, he came back. And he acted as if we were grand old friends. "You're still here?" he asked, all Rico Suave-like. "Yup." "What are you working on?" he queried, undressing me with the starkly contrasting whites and blues of his jeans. "Nothing. Just stuff." I figured if all my answers were curt and unfriendly, he would soon grab a window seat on the clue bus and leave me be.

But then, he had a laptop, too. That's what he'd left to get. Maybe he was a hip, cool Web personality. Maybe he was someone I'd spoken to months ago, and had a huge crush on. Maybe maybe maybe. Maybe. So, when he asked me what kind of "stuff" I was working on, I told him. "I have this website that I write for, sometimes. Just my daily take on the hell that is my life." His interest was not piqued. "Oh, it's not coding, then?" I felt like I'd just been mistaken for a whore (yes, again). "God, no." I said this in a manner that, in retrospect, may have conveyed a slightly too-strong sense of horror and repulsion, given the fact that it was fairly obvious that I was, in fact, talking to a coder.

It eventually came out that I was unemployed, and I made some jaunty quip about how I was trying to convince myself that giving Starbucks a buck sixty-eight to keep me productive and out of the house was a much loftier endeavor than sitting around watching Day 34 of The View. Then, as if it hadn't already, the conversation took a turn for the worse.

"I don't have a TV," he said. "I think TV makes you stupid," he said. "I'd rather do something constructive with my time," he said.

Can I just tell you how much I loathe people who think they are God's chosen people because they don't watch TV? It's fine if they don't watch it, fine if they don't own one, and, honestly, it's probably not the smartest idea to sit in front of the WB 24/7 (especially when there are reruns of Molly Ringwald-era The Facts of Life on Nickelodeon), but man, don't get all Christian missionary on my ass about it, or I'll strap you down with your eyelids clockwork oranged in front of old-school Carnie episodes and dance a happy Irish jig as gray matter slowly leaks out of your ears and onto your SUNY sweatshirt and, my god, those really are acid-washed jeans, aren't they?

Yeah, so, after the "TV bad" diatribe, I told him I really had to get back to work, and he so sweetly understood and proceeded to don his yellow, waterproof, vastly attractive headphones and code his little heart out.

I, on the other hand, couldn't concentrate on anything other than how much this guy bugged me. I finished my coffee, checked my watch, and left. It was almost time for Big Brother.

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