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Java of the Damned: Laptops in Coffee Shops
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4747 Reads
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 This morning, two little slices of hell brought to you by Ryan at Los Anjealous and - by extension - me.
Ryan dragged himself to Insomnia Cafe for some joe, and walked out with a wicked case of stinkeye ...
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1:10am. You walk in. Every single table is taken by a writer with a powerbook. Every single writer now looks up at you, silently judging you and determining in a fraction of a second your importance in the industry. This is a fine crowd�you do at 1am. You wave to the room. Heads dip back to LCD screens right and left. You make your way to the counter. Some skinny chick is serving up coffee. When the stereo isn�t quietly creaking out some tastefully-selected CD (Waits, Dylan et al�no Starbucks� Ray Charles this is a very serious joint), the place is library-quiet. Pin drop quiet. Every single writer hovers over a laptop. Most are running Final Draft. A few writers watch DVDs with headphones. They are the rebels. As if on cue (ha), the writers sporadically stare solemnly at each other and whoever walks into the place. This is natural. Accept it. Maybe they aren�t looking at anything at all. Maybe they�re looking inward. Maybe you�re simply witnessing genius at work.
You quickly realize there are no available seats without crowding a writer. The writers continue to stare at you as you order coffee, looking for an available seat. Any seat. A section of floor. They keep staring. This makes it worse somehow. That corner by the window. They keep staring. This four inches of bar top in the corner - wait, that�s taken too. How long can you hover at the counter? It can�t last. The game continues. You grow uncomfortable. Nicely told - It sounds like final exams week in my old college library, a demonic pressure-chamber that magnified every tiny distraction into a nerve-shredding cataclysm.
The current hell: SBC still sucks, and I'm still writing at the local Starbucks, a demonic pressure-chamber that magnifies every tiny etc.
After SBC wasted two weeks of my life and gave me an installation date for DSL, they sent me an email that morning declaring that they were refusing to provide DSL service because I "did not fit their credit requirements."
Translation: I have spotless credit, but I refused their request to submit my Social Security number.
After a good, healthy bout of Teamster-grade cursing, I then went ahead and submitted my SS# to their competitor - desperate to get hooked up so I could get back to my crammed-with-cartons home office - and signed up with DSL Extreme. They gave me a hookup date of Jan. 9. A longer wait than I'd like (2 weeks) but what the hell, I was a prisoner.
Two days later, just to wash the reek of Arabica from my head after 2 hours at Starbucks, I logged into my DSL Extreme acount status page: "Order: Complete."
But at home - no signal coming into the DSL modem. When I called, the helpful tech said, "Oh, it's all set up on our end. We're just waiting for SBC to provision the line."
Well, you woulda smacked your forehead with the phone, too.
I checked in on it throughout the day, and finally called DSL Extreme at 7:30 p.m., after the close of business. What gives? I asked.
"Oh, they have up until midnight to turn it on," said the tech, insisting that he'd never heard of them failing to meet an activation deadline.
11:30, still nothing, and I crash for the night.
This morning the modem's still dead, dead, dead.
I get on the horn with DSL Extreme and in my nicest at-the-end-of-my-rope voice, ask them to look into it: The tech puts me on hold for three years, and comes back to report, "SBC says they have trouble with the line, and they need to work on it. They've pushed back your installation date to the 12th."
It's nice here at the Starbucks. The people come and go, from their comfortable homes to the charming baristas for a little jolt, and off to their charming offices. The music filters softly from ceiling speakers - Jimmy Cliff's chugging riffs to jump-start the morning, nameless light pop for the midday crowd, a little Billie Holiday to soothe the night owls.
Local color abounds: Parents tote shrieking toddlers to the bathroom for diaper changes, a pregnant woman in the easy chair behind me hungrily butters the large bagel perched on the laptop tucked beneath her swelling tummy.
Bums sneak in and swipe napkins. One sings along with the doo-wop soundtrack in a lovely bass voice. When the PA plays "Soul Man," a tattooed cyclist whips out a harmonica and jams along.
And all around me, serene and relaxed, people surf aimlessly on Powerbooks and Vaios, sipping from paper cups. I've never seen anyone writing more than a dozen words.
I barely notice the over-amped air-conditioning breathing on my neck, the unrelenting glare on my screen, the shortage of seats near power outlest.
The muzak, the byzantine polysyllabic code of the baristas' cries, the hiss of the espresso machine - all is but a dull roar, barely scratching my placid concentration. I am one with everything.
... but ...
Can you be convicted for wanting to murder a utility company?
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| Posted by: Mack_Reed on Tuesday, January 10, 2006 - 10:02 AM
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