[Between well appreciated blog donations, selling a kidney on e-bay, and other financing activities which definitely don’t involve work as a contract killer or a Tupperware Ponzi scheme, the Curmudgeon managed to fix his truck’s transmission! In celebration, he ventured into a strange alien place called “city” during a time of madness called “now”. His goal? Hardware purchases and decent coffee. This is the conclusion of his story.]
Wandering aimlessly, I spied a chain where I used to eat. I haven’t been there since “a few weeks to flatten the curve” began 13 months ago. For a while it was presumably shut down. At the moment it’s open. It’ll be open until it’s closed again. Thus, a business will rise and fall based on obscure regulation promulgated by people who have neither the right, the authority, nor the skill to make a taco. I’d have more respect for politicians if they could make decent tacos.
I don’t know where this place falls on my mental map of “mask” and “free” territories. Cautiously, I parked, stepped out and walked past the obligatory “nanny sign” (“wear a mask because governor whoever the fuck he is said something six months about about, conform, obey, be like us, we control the horizontal, we control the vertical, etc…”).
Like a wild animal sniffing the air before entering a clearing, I scanned for signs. I noticed three Sheriffs chowing down long before they saw me. That hints that the food is tasty and I’m unlikely to get stabbed. Then again it’s not a good place to test the waters of freedom or I could get Tazed. On goes the mask which reminds me of a child’s Halloween prop. Did I just sell out my beliefs? Hard to say. I wanted a fucking taco!
At the table, the pointless fabric beard covering went off, because that’s how viruses work. There’s no ketchup on the tables, because that’s also how viruses work.
The Sheriffs were bitching about an ongoing “protest”. I listened for gossip. They were on break from watching dickheads prance in the streets. It wasn’t clear on what was being protested. It could have been racism, oil pipelines, court proceedings, the moon is in the seventh house, anything else, or nothing at all. They didn’t seem to know and they didn’t seem to care. Just another weekend of babysitting loud assholes who like to emote in teh streets. Their concern was the weather. If it warmed up it would encourage the snowflakes to flake harder. If it rained the “warriors for peace” would go scurrying for mom’s house. Rain meant they could clock out early. They were rooting for rain.
I wanted to give them a friendly ‘atta positive vibe; “Go punch a hippie for me boys”. But it’s 2021. Humor is dangerous now. Keep your head down.
They left. Presumably to get more verbally abuse from losers. Rough way to make a paycheck.
The free WiFi requested I click agreement to something. I didn’t read it. I agreed. I was connected and immediately blocked.
The page I wanted to see, which was about economics, was “hate”. Uh huh. Economics is hate and kumquats are lust. It’s 2021.
Step back and bask in our new new world. A taco joint has an opinion about Keynesian economics. It enforces these opinions lest I fall prey to incorrect economic theory while eating beans and rice.
Roll that around in your head. Repeat the last few sentences aloud. I’m not making any of this up. I once lived in a world where a taco joint didn’t have contracts with services that act as a censor. You did too. Do you remember the before times? Keep your memories safe. They will fade.
I activated VPN. A minute later I was surfing the economics page; from France.
I don’t know when I started routing around censorship but it became a practiced reflex. The same training that teaches a schoolboy to glance at teacher before throwing a spitball is part of adulthood in our infantilized society. They say of Prohibition that there was a Speakeasy in every town. Would you like to “speak” “easily”? Nothing new under the sun.
Consulting my mental “mask” / “no mask” map, I remembered a free hardware store. Same town, same regulations (none of this is “law”), but different level of uptight. A short drive later, I walked past yet another “we are required by law to post this” sign. In this locale, nobody cares.
The year old “sanitation station” made me laugh out loud:
“Hand sanitizer, for sanitizing hands”
Has there ever been a more glorious COVID era sentence? Without the sign I’d be lost! Maybe I’d shove the sanitizer up my nose, or decide to wash my dick instead of my hands.
A few customers wore masks. Most didn’t. It was all very chill.
I know a person from this very town who insists “everyone always wears a mask”. I’m not sure he’s been to this or any hardware store ever. He frequents an organic food store and a bicycle shop. Everyone at the two stores he’s been to is masked to the hilt. Thus, he concludes there’s 100% compliance planet wide. Uh huh.
The plumbing selection had stuff identically priced to the bigger chain I’d avoided. It was more or less exactly the selection I’d get from Amazon. I paid cash and rolled out.
Now for my reward; expensive coffee! It was served by one of a half dozen identical cheery masked basic college girls. Very few men work at trendy coffee shops. All people are equal so men aren’t part of the staff. (Don’t ask me, I don’t work for HR.)
I’ve mentally mapped this place as a demilitarized zone in the mask/freedom matrix. Maybe that’s why I like it?
It’s the classic American “pretend we’re elite but I’m an unpaid intern at the local college” scene. A long haul trucker who owns his own semi would be the richest person in the room, and look the least wealthy. They all have a useless degree. They’d support anything socialist. I look broke by comparison.
Ironically, here in the heart of Woke, the hive mind that terrorizes people like me everywhere they can… loses traction. They don’t even think to hassle me over PC shit because here’s the place where everything is PC. Also, they can’t differentiate between acceptable “Geezer-Poet Shabby-Chic” and unacceptable “Old School Homesteader Dirtman”.
Also, I can play in their arena in a way they can’t play in mine. I have genuine overeducated grad-school street cred and I ‘aint afraid to hit them over the head with it. Anyone who Karens me will get a rant that will remind them they’re just dumb fish in a small pond. I’ll mix Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations and Metallica lyrics in ways that will confuse their little goldfish minds. They’ll need a Google definition search before they understand enough to weep at the thought of how little they know. The scary bearded man knows mean words from old times! Or maybe I look close enough to a homeless guy that I’m invisible. Either way is fine.
Universally, they’d hate me if they knew much about me. They don’t so it’s all cool. Also, they’re inactive. They would gladly sign a petition to throw gun owners into a wood chipper but none of them is going to do the deed themselves. I suppose their plan is to tax Deplorables to hire Deplorables to exterminate Deplorables? Regardless, they’re not in any hurry about anything. The closer you get to a college the more the Woke relax and quit being assholes.
Everything is shallow and happy. The music is pleasing mush. It’s a 20 year old channeling a Bob Dylan who’s old enough to be her grandfather. Truth to power lyrics as a Boomer worship re-enactments of 1968. So long as it’s played low and quiet, I don’t care. There’s no autotuner and that’s key.
The chatter of voices is noticeably not-strident. Most don’t bother to wear masks. The ones that wear masks do so without going full Karen. Its an actual diversity of action, if not opinion.
The bulletin board has a drummer seeking a gig. There’s a bad poem about recycling. I could post selling farm fresh eggs and they’d be cool with it. If I posted about selling butchered pigs they’d wait until I left and then eventually work up the bravery to rip the sign down… anonymously. Those rebels!
Ranch trucks jostle with minivans in the drive through. College girls are yammering about their hair. College boys stuck in the friend zone are pretending to listen to them talk about hair. Several mothers are ignoring kids in baskets after a hectic day of being a mom. One sweet little kid is on her third hot coca. She’s about to go into a sugar mania. I can see it in her eyes. Cornholio!
Bearded outliers like me sitting in the corners is appropriate scenery. We give the place a little extra authenticity so we’re allowed. It’s a traditional old-school coffee shop, which means it’s in a five year old rented storefront that has no history at all.
I’ve heard there are uneasy truces between predator and prey at African waterholes during drought. I imagine I’m experiencing the same. I’m not even sure who’s predator and who’s prey here. The vegans don’t get up in my grill and I’m not open carrying an AR. I think it’s hilarious that they not only have plastic straws but disposable cups… but I’m not openly mocking them. It’s their home and also they made the right call. Disposable plastic was bad for polar bears but that when washing cups during COVID would kill them dead they decided plastic wasn’t so bad after all. A false choice among unlikely premises but they did make the call for self preservation. That’s a good start.
It’s a truce upheld by universal values; we all like mocha in our latte. Here, in the land of hippie coffee, we are civilized.
I didn’t check if the WiFi is censored because of course it is. I hit VPN, checked my blog, and started typing about freedom and squirrels. Writing fiction and “people watching” is a proper coffee shop activity. I wrote this right under the nose of the woke. A happy story about a man and his truck as they witness the strange alien planet that replaced the rational one of his memory.
…and you’re reading it right now.
Have a free day.
AC