I regret having come here.

I came here because I have time to spare and this is convenient, so this is where I come once a week for computer time and a cup of hot tea. I consider it an indulgence, but then the other day I had lunch with a comical friend who buys about two cups of Starbucks a day and averages $300 on coffee a month. I can afford $1.44 a week in tea. No wait, $1.58. The price went up since the last time I came here. This won’t ruin my day.

What will ruin my time here is my choice of seating. Usually this place is less crowded, and I have the best booth in the back corner to myself. I face the door so no one can spy on me while I scroll through Facebook or check my bank statements. (For some reason, this is the only time I remember to check my bank account. Sometimes I worry that logging into Bank of America on a public network isn’t entirely a good idea. I do it anyway.)

But today, a middle-aged man is sitting in the booth that is shared between a couple of two-tops. I’m disappointed and almost settle for another seat, but I then realize I’ll be invading someone’s territory no matter where I sit, so I might as well take the table next to this normal enough looking man. A polite, almost apologetic smile on my end to show I come in peace, though I secretly think to myself he should be apologizing for sitting in my once-a-week seat.

The longer I sit here, the more annoyed I am.  For some reason, the sounds of cash registers, espresso machines and voices calling out orders don’t phase or bother me. They’re easy to drown out. But the guy next to me is now on his cell phone, and suddenly I’m unable to think. I’m not listening to anything he’s saying– just the droning, inconsiderate tone of his voice. He makes no effort to keep it down for the sake of anyone around him. He hangs up only to dial another call. I catch an expletive here and there and am overall unimpressed.

A couple of times, I thought I saw him glance in my direction, more specifically toward my computer screen. Not surprising (I do it, too), though not welcome. But the more he does it and the more he talks, the more I want him to see that I am, in fact, writing about him, and how my petty hatred toward him is starting to grow. But my font’s not very big.

Can you read it now, asshole?

I’d be writing about something else, maybe, if my thoughts hadn’t been overridden by whatever business this guy is discussing. I always wonder what motivates people to bring their work here. I’m just blogging. And I realize how utterly unoriginal it is to be blogging in a café, but again, it’s for convenience. Mr. Schmuck over here is obviously doing soulless work, but what about the guy in front of me? He’s got headphones on, but every now and then he throws a pointed glare in Schmuck’s direction. Schmuck is oblivious or uncaring, or both. I’m reminded of the the UCLA student, Amanda Wallace, whose racist rant about Asians on cell phones in libraries has gone viral and overall just looks very bad. I convince myself that this is not at all the same thing.

He stood up just now. Still on his cell phone, he has wedged his way out of the booth and is standing about two feet away from me to stretch. I could cross my legs and– accidentally– kick him. At this point, I really want to. You going to bend down to touch your toes, too? That would give me a better target for kicking.

“Excuse me?”

I figure I’m about to be apologized to– asked for forgiveness and given the chance to be the redeemer of Mr. Schmuck who feels just terrible about having disrupted my life for the past hour or so with his meaningless cellular exchanges. He gestures to his computer on the table top.

“Can you watch this for a moment?”

I say sure and am immediately disappointed with myself for not conveying more virulence with my inflection or body language. I’m asked for a favor by a man who has temporarily served as a the biggest irritant in a five-foot radius, and all I can awkwardly muster is a monosyllabic response.

He leaves, and I continue to write mean-ish things without being over-the-top ’cause that’s not my style, yo, and he comes right back, earnestly offering to get me something at the counter for my trouble. Again, I only manage a couple of words along the lines of “no thanks,” and I silently blame my apparent inability to speak in complete sentences on the fact that I got fewer than four hours of sleep last night. Guilt rushes over me for having thought mean things at all (I could’ve gotten a free bagel!), but then I decide no– he’s annoying, I’m impatient, and that’s okay.