Nonfat Nonsense

Wrapping banana bread is an activity that can’t possibly utilize all of one’s brain so, naturally, I was eavesdropping on the nearest conversation when I heard the following exchange:

“I think it should have a basic interface”

“Yeah but we should definitely have an ‘About Us’ section”

“I guess. Is that narcissistic?”

“No way! Of course people are gonna wanna know about us…the creaters?”

Woah there, I thought. Didn’t this same thing already happen?…with a certain guy named Mark Zuckerburg? I looked over at the two boys or, I guess I should say, men (although they looked more like boys in their nearly matching soccer jerseys) sitting at one of the tables. One of them was short and pudgy and the other was tall, thin and had quite a remarkable unibrow. In between them was a laptop which they both stared at intently, taking turns pointing at the screen. It was, altogether, a rather average sight at the café so, averting my eyes, I completed my highly rewarding activity of arranging the slices of banana bread on their mini-pedastal. However, after two hours of the same overly inspired banter my curiosity got the best of me.

“What are you guys doing? Creating the new Facebook?” The two seemed taken aback and exchanged a nervous glance at one another before the pudgy one replied, “Actually, yes.” But before I could even comment on this bold reply an enormous and frazzled blonde man came, literally, running into the café.

“The sun!” He exclaimed with urgency, taking both me and the wannabe Mark Zuckerburgs by surprise, “…is shining.” No one knew what to do at the point. He wasn’t even speaking to anyone in particular, just ranting like crazed preacher. In fact, if Santa Cruz had it’s own religion, this man would probably be the poster boy. Not only did he sport the ubiquitous gnarled surfer hair but, in the center of his barren, leathery chest there hung a cross whittled out of wood.

“Now tell me that ain’t a damned miracle?” He rambled on in this manner for a good minute, making everyone in the café sufficiently uncomfortable. Fortunately, after he was done making his proclamations surrounding the blessed weather, he began harassing my coworker and I, cautiously, glided toward the register to help the next customer.

“Hi there, what can I get you?” I retorted as the old woman’s shaking hands placed her black hat on the counter. She fumbled for some loose coins in her pocket.

“Do I have enough for a white mocha?” she asked as she spread the change atop the counter. I quickly counted it.

“Looks like you’ve got just enough!” I smiled, and began sweeping the change up and sorting it into the register.

“Great! Can I get a blueberry muffin, then?”

“No, ma’am. You have just enough for the white mocha. The blueberry muffin is an extra two fifty.”

“Okay, then, can I get a cookie?” I eyed her skeptically. Did she really not understand the concept of exact change?

“Sure...you can have a cookie.” Why not help the lost souls? As I slipped the cookie in the bag she thanked me and turned to leave but not before asking, “Whose hat is this?” The old woman gingerly lifted the hat from the counter. “Is this hat yours?” She asked me, truly concerned. I looked into her eyes. Poor, soulful green eyes, asking me genuinely if the hat, a black bonnet that no one under the age of one hundred would be caught dead wearing, was mine? The hat that she had just removed from her own graying head and placed so reluctanly onto the counter no less than fifty seconds ago.

“No, ma’am,” I said, immediately regretting ever having belittled her, even if only in my own hyper-active thought process. “I believe that that hat belongs to you.”