To the Retiree Working at the Barnes and Noble Cafe on 86th Street:

First off, I'm not sure why I'm even here. The coffee shops in my neighborhood are legion, and don't play Michael Buble' more than seven hours a day. But Parisi Bros. Bakery in Astoria doesn't have free wi-fi, or comic books or copies of “Art Forum Magazine” to read if I get bored from writing (which I'm only doing at 11AM because I have no real job).

That's right, I have no real job. But you sure do! You trot around purposelessly behind the counter, your rhythm broken only by collision after inevitable collision with your teenaged co-workers. When there's a lull in service you look past me through your glasses: “MAY I TAKE AN ORDER FOR THE NEXT CUSTOMER ON LINE.”

One: that is an extremely stilted way to say “Who's next?” or “What can I get you?”

Two: I am the only person in line, so I surmise that you are parroting the Barnes and Noble Cafe orientation video. Chill out, lady. I think even the most hidebound Barnes and Noble Cafe Customer Service Wallah would be okay with you adjusting your tactics for a more intimate situation.

But no matter. I'll order, in spite of your obvious strangeness and autistic devotion to "the script."

“I'll have a decaf and a bagel with cream cheese.”

This is my lunch.

Now you look at me, in the eye, and I feel my scrotum shrivel. Your smile reminds me of those sculptures people make with fruit peels. It's small, too small, and you seem to have trained yourself to peel your lips just to the edge of your teeth.

“YOU GOT IT. BAGEL WITH CREAM CHEESE. AND A DECAF.”

Why so strident, obviously crazy old lady? Again, I am the only person in line. The cashier can hear me order. And besides, I'm going to tell her my order when I pay, which will be in one second.

“Linda, can you run the register for one minute? I need to do something,” the cashier asks, quite nicely.

I'm going to assume that she's been holding it for the morning nanny rush and really needs to hit the head. Awesome, because this means that you'll be able to ring me up, and you just took my order. Everything works out!

“SURE JUST A SECOND. I AM MAKING A BAGEL.”

“Well, I just need a minute.”

The cashier gives me a look that says "I wonder if they'll mail my MFA to prison."

Poor urine-filled cashier. She just wants to pee, but you're to busy to help her because you're manically holding your two serrated slicing knives in hand, trying to figure out which one to use. Knives still in hand, you rush over to the register, knocking poor urine girl off of her post, but not to take her place.

“ALL I HAVE ARE PLAIN BAGELS IS THAT OKAY.”

“Fine.”

"EXCELLENT CHOICE SIR. ONE PLAIN BAGEL--WITH CREAM CHEESE--COMING RIGHT UP."

You are so proud of your customer service that you barely resist flinging one of your slicing knives at the toaster in triumph.

“I just need a min--”

“SURE. LET ME JUST MAKE THE BAGEL.”

Urine Girl rings me up. You bound over, and hand me my “BAGEL WITH CREAM CHEESE. HAVE A NICE DAY SIR.”

I return hours later. You are still working. Is this your last day on the job? Your first?

THANK YOU,
JOE