Guilty

Reason #147 why I occasionally feel guilty because I am a bad person:

My current set-up at home is such that I often go to the cafe at Borders to work on writing projects. I spend money so I don't feel guilty about taking up the space, not that I should anyway because I spent hundreds of hours underpaid on the clock for this place when I worked here, so I figure they can put me up and let me jack their electricity for life as kind repayment.

I love the concept of "The Third Place," and for me bookstores and coffee shop-type places are that spot. It's where I've fallen in love with ideas and people, made some of the friends who sustain me, and also where I escape from my peculiar version of reality. I can plug into a laptop, an iPod, and somehow to myself. Occasionally I invite other people along for the experience, but mostly it's just my thing. Scattering my ashes indoors would be gross, but this is where I'd hold my own personal wake when I die, so I'm hoping my family will be down. I should probably tell my sister, at least.

The thing is, that although I know it's not a library, there are sort of unwritten rules of engagement in spots like this, that differ depending on the day and time. You do not come here to rock out. You also do not come here to drink, or to get disorderly or in any other way ridiculous. It's not a diner and it's not a bar, and considering the extensive amount of caffeine consumed, it's generally a pretty chill environment (there are exceptions to this, and that's cool too. I've been in a few party-centric cafe environments, but that's generally not my thing.)

One evening a few weeks ago I was working on something or the other at Borders, in a room full of people who were basically doing the same thing. Nursing, pre-med and other kinds of science students always proliferate, who you can identify by their anatomy coloring books and the looks of total misery on their faces. Lots of freelancers hang out, too, in a variety of fields from what I can tell from passing by laptop screens. Of course, the usual suspect writers and designers are here, because who can afford or really needs office space at this point?  I guess I consider them my tribe.

Anyway, into this space walked a family, with a relatively chill little person, probably two or three years old. He was chill, at least, until his mother (perhaps grandma, I couldn't tell) placed the XYLOPHONE that she had apparently just purchased for him on the table, gave him the mallet, and bade him to BEAT THE LIVING SHIT OUT OF IT.

I couldn't believe my eyes or my ears. All around me, heads shot up like prairie dogs out of their holes, jarred out of whatever their thought process or muttered conversation might have been, to the dissonant clanging on a substandard XYLOPHONE. (Did I mention xylophone? And why Borders sells them is another question - and rant - entirely.) The child produced terrible noises from this thing for a few minutes, oblivious to the death stares that should have been totally directed to his caretaker and not him, because what did he know? And then he stopped, clearly losing interest.

"HERE!" she bellowed, shaking the mallet (I think that's what you call it? I used to know but I can't remember and obviously am shaking with such rage from remembering this that I can't be bothered to look it up.) in front of his face, and forcing it into his hand again. He resisted for a minute, and then I guess decided that if Mom thought it was such a swell idea it must be, and hey, she was encouraging him to make noise, so BAMBAMBLANGBLANGBAM, there he went. This went on for probably fifteen minutes, in a room that had been previously collegially busy, with people coming and going, but by no means had the monkey with the cymbals arrived yet.

Why would someone do this? I just don't understand. I don't know if people just don't care if they disturb people, or they have a point to prove, or feel that people shouldn't go to coffee shops with any expectation of peace, and that it's a spot for spontaneous, horrible expressions just like any other. I have no idea. And as I sat there and looked at this child repeatedly grow tired of this toy and put it down, and his mother essentially entertain herself at his and others' expense by making him cause a racket, I felt terrible for how irritated I was. I felt like a cranky old lady who was thinking things like, "MY parents would never have done that" (because they wouldn't have. It just wouldn't have happened in my universe) and "MY child would never do that" (because he wouldn't. Are you kidding? Noise at home: cool within reason. Noise where it makes strangers hate you, BEFORE it's school-sanctioned? No dice.)

I write this because I'm sitting here again (and yes I know I'm the one with a problem, thanks), and a nearby grandfather is standing in the middle of several people who are studying, incessantly shaking a rattle that must have been produced at General Motors, because it's almost as large as an automobile. The baby doesn't like it, and is screaming because he hasn't yet grasped the great gift it is to sit in a bookstore cafe, TOTALLY STILLL, because he appears to be a year old and ought to be somewhere where he can crawl around and do his thing. This person has no concept of the people in his environment, or he doesn't care. His arm must be getting tired by now, but I think he's just fucking with me, personally? Don't you? Because it's all about me. And you. So next time you think to bring your random musical instrument to the bookstore (of, for God's sake, that stupid Bluetooth device that makes you talk to the CEILING, REALLY LOUD, so I have to hear all about stuff I really don't want to know and I'll hate you so much against my will that I imagine you disintegrating into the floor) please don't. Please.