Hot and bothered

A lot can happen during an hour at a cafe

This post was inspired by

Sherman Alexie

’s essay, “Ode to Target.”

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I’m in a coffee shop in Florida where the chairs are painted various shades of neon. Pink seashell splatter paintings line the wall. A group of people sit at a table talking loudly. It’s hot and I’m irritable. I didn’t sleep well last night.

I order a cappuccino and a slice of banana bread. The man behind the counter is older and handsome, with cropped silver hair. He seems like he could be gay. I like that for him.

I find an empty table and take out my notebook. I’m aware of how large it is, how it occupies the width of the table. It’s a black Moleskin with a piece of tape on the front, on which I’ve written “MORNING PAGES” in capital letters.

I’m self-conscious about writing in my notebook. I’m self-conscious about being here in this neon cafe instead of in the cooler-seeming coffee shop down the street. When I walked by that place it looked popular and possibly good. But it was crowded—there was a line out the door. I didn’t know if there would be room to sit down. I didn’t know what they served. So I came here. I open my notebook to a fresh page.

As I write, I eavesdrop on the loud people. I decide they are real estate agents. For a while everyone keeps saying “MLS” and, in this context, I don’t think they mean the soccer league. One man tells another man that it’s best to learn how to fish, if you get what I’m saying.

I sense that one of the men, the one who should learn how to fish in a (probably) metaphorical way, is new to the business. He looks older than the other two. The only woman at the table tells him she is going to start a Whatsapp group, does he know Whatsapp? No? Well it’s free, and she’s going to start the group for all of her mentees. Free is good, he says.

I sit and continue to write my pages. I feel badly for myself. Where are all the artists, I ask the page. How did I end up here, listening to real estate agents talk about real estate.

The cappuccino is decent. The banana bread is fine. Made in-house, I would guess.

Two men enter the cafe. I spot them through the window before they open the door. In my mind they are a gay couple. One man is black and incredibly handsome. The other is white and a bit pasty. The white man and I are wearing the same beige sandals. The black man is wearing colorful sandals by a brand I can’t identify.

They walk to the counter and I catch myself staring. I worry they can feel it. Do they think I’m homophobic? Or perhaps racist—that I’m judging them for being an interracial couple? I have nature-themed tattoos on my arms and am wearing a baseball cap with a cat embroidered on it. In my mind this does not code me as racist or homophobic. But what do I know? I’m the one staring at them.

The white man orders an iced americano with cream and simple syrup. The cafe owner tells them he doesn’t have simple syrup so they come up with a plan to put raw sugar in the hot americano before pouring it on ice. The black man goes with an iced latte.

I am tempted to speak to this presumably gay couple as they wait for their coffees. What would I say? Nice shoes (to either of them)? Hello, I appreciate you (to them both)?

Another customer comes in and starts chatting with the cafe owner. The customer asks where the owner got the overhead light fixture and the owner mentions that his wife—oh—purchased it in an Amazon Black Friday sale. The fixture, a green plastic-but-made-to-look-like-glass chandelier, is ugly.

I tend to think everyone is gay. The other day I realized that most of the media I consume is made by queer people. On a recent episode of Zak Foster’s podcast,

Cody Cook-Parrott

talks about how, when they came out as non-binary, everything became gay. Even the fact that Cody is dating a man is gay, because Cody is not a woman.

I’ve been in gay relationships and I’ve been in straight relationships. I’m aware that I’m committing bi-erasure in that last sentence—a good bi person would tell me that, because I’m not 100% straight, my relationships are not 100% straight either. Ergo, some would say I’ve never been in a straight relationship.

In that same podcast episode, Zak Foster says he would prefer if we got rid of gendered pronouns altogether. I tend to agree. My gender presentation has fluctuated over the years. Once, during one of my more androgynous modes, I was called “sir” by someone asking for money on the street. Now I mostly get “ma’am.” I dislike both.

I like how in Vermont, where I lived briefly, and in Alaska, where I live now, most women look like lesbians. Which is to say that, at least in New York, where I’m from, they would be coded as such. They wear Carhartt work pants and turtlenecks, give themselves boxy haircuts, and rarely put on makeup. It turns out most of them identify as straight. It’s nice to feel like I fit in, visually.

In response to Zak Foster’s wish to be free from gendered pronouns, Cody Cook-Parrott makes a good point, and one that I’ve been told, too: some people crave being coded squarely within one side of our current gender binary. Some people enjoy being called “sir” or “ma’am.” Some people work hard to establish themselves as a he or a she. Even if I feel differently, I want those people to be seen in their identities, too.

Cacti have the wildest genders of all. 35mm in the Mann Leiser Memorial Greenhouse, Anchorage, April 2023.

Back in Florida, the presumed-to-be gay men get their coffees and leave. I don’t say anything to them. I feel shy, like how I used to be. What makes me want to hide again today?

I have barely a sip of cappuccino left but still another page to write. It’s so hot out. My pale northern skin is inflamed. Maybe that’s what the gay men saw: a geographical misfit sitting in front of a massive notebook and a half-eaten slice of banana bread, glancing furtively from under a baseball cap. Maybe they didn’t see me at all.

These thoughts are starting to rise to an embarrassing level of narcissism. Like a vastly inferior Annie Hamilton New York magazine article, but without the benefit of selling something. Without possessing even an ounce of capitalistic value.

The real estate meeting seems to be wrapping up. The four of them take a photo together and then the men leave. The woman walks to the counter and thanks the cafe owner.

Everything was delicious, she says. I thought we’d have more of a showing today but a few people canceled last minute.

Glad it worked out, the owner says. Feel free to leave a review online.

The woman tells him she will. She walks to a table in the corner where a young boy and a teenage girl have been sitting quietly, impressively quiet for the boy’s age. The three of them leave together. The cafe is calm now. Only one other couple sits by the far window.

I finish my morning pages and close my notebook. I bring my dishes to the counter. The cafe owner asks if I want to take the rest of my pastry to go and I say sure. He brings me a bag and I spill a few crumbs on the faux marble as I slide the remainder of the loaf into the wax sleeve. Everything was good, I say, thank you. The owner does not ask me to leave a review.

I walk outside and see that there’s no longer a line at the popular place on the corner. I stop in. It’s adorable. There are several long wooden tables. Everyone in there seems like maybe they could be an artist.

I stand at the counter and eye the acai bowls. My life could be so different here, sitting at a wooden table devouring cold pulverized fruit. But that’s not what happened. The morning is over. It’s time to go. I step out the door and into the heat.