One of the great delights of sitting at the window of the coffee shop is the bakery across the street. There is steady traffic through the disappointingly ableist entrance, not surprising here on Walnut, where accessibility was an after-thought. The view of the interior is blocked by the seasonally appropriate decor at the front window, currently big red and orange maple leaves. Patrons leave with boxes, bags, and occasionally a treat folded simply into a piece of bakery paper. 

Sometimes, they sit on a nearby bench to peek into their treat container, a likely event when they shop in groups. They lean into each other so they can peer together into the container and gently select their preferred treat. Just now, a couple leaves the store, holding a plastic container filled with orange jack o’lantern sugar cookies. She offers him a cookie. He reaches in, gingerly selects one, and takes a huge bite, nodding even before the cookie can have hit his palate. It’s going to be a good cookie. He already knows this. 

A heavily coiffed older man enters one of the expensive clothing boutiques. His hair is more salt than pepper, worn in a vaguely pompadour style. His jeans are black, with a thick, probably plastic, black chain clipped to his belt loop and, one assumes, his wallet. He’s wearing a leather vest over a short sleeved shirt and black Doc Martens. The man is feeling his style. If the Insta account, keeppittsburghdope, were here, there would be a photo shoot for sure. 

Three young men are standing on the street corner and are they ever trouble on two legs, the blonde in particular. He just took a “secret” hit of his friend’s weed pen. I watched and laughed when we made eye contact. Yes, my dear child, I saw the whole thing. He nudged his friend to hand off the pen and pulled him across the street. Hopefully, they aren’t running from me. I couldn’t give less of a damn what he puts in his body, though I do find his lack of discretion incredibly funny. It’s like that drunk person everyone knows who thinks they’re good at whispering.

There’s so much joy on the street today. It’s muggy but sunny; perhaps the mood is a result of the unexpected break from the rain. A young couple just sat outside, directly in front of me. Their pictures are probably on Merriam-Webster next to “young love.” It’s to be hoped they leave soon, though. They are staring at each other and awkwardly caressing acceptable-to-touch-in-public body parts. I love young love but I don’t really want to be looking directly at some aspects of it.

Earlier this week, I was talking with someone about Frida Kahlo as we studied one of her many paintings, the particular one of Frida in a vibrant red dress reclining in a verdant tree from the Mexican Museum of Modern Art. He kept saying Spanish and I kept saying, Mexican. Finally, he turns to look at me and says, “I do know the difference.” Clearly, he doesn’t know the difference if he thinks Frida Kahlo was Spanish. Yes, her mother was Spanish but Frida was extremely clear, her entire life, about her commitment to Mexico. She even changed her own birthday to coincide with the Mexican revolution. I’m sorry to have to report that my shovel slipped and knocked him into the six-foot hole I was just randomly digging in the middle of [REDACTED] forest. Hopefully, none of you needed anything from him.  

You’d have to be here to experience the joy I just felt watching someone ride a scooter down the street while wearing a stuffed turkey hat over his helmet. At the exact same time, two young Jewish men are walking by, saying “Shana Tova” to the people they pass, including the young woman wearing a baby on her chest and carrying a cold drink. They’re so busy sharing greetings that they completely miss turkey-scooter. 

A large “off road” pickup truck has just parallel parked in front of the coffee shop. He only backed onto the sidewalk twice. Don’t judge him; trucks are tough to park. I don’t think he’s a contender for this weekend’s parallel parking contest. Yes, the contest is real and the winner gets, among other things, a gold (painted) parking chair. Also on this weekend’s agenda is Johnny Cash Day at the Elk’s Lodge, the same location as the Banjo Club nights. Johnny Cash Day usually sells out pretty quickly; if you don’t have tickets, you probably aren’t getting tickets. 

Ran out of battery power and am now working in the back of the coffee shop, attached to a wall by a cord. I’ve been writing for hours and am taking a break now, by writing something else. Hmm. Perhaps I should take a break by taking a walk? A better idea but one I’m not following up on until I have finished editing Chapter 12 of my manuscript. It’s a…um…it’s an intimate scene, let’s say, which is a bit awkward because my screen is not currently facing a wall. Anyone walking by could potentially see some references to body parts and dangly bits and…well, it’s awkward when I’m plugged in. (That’s what she said.)

A cute guy MY AGE just sat down next to me, making this even weirder. I wouldn’t have thought that was possible but then again, ten years ago, I wouldn’t have thought I’d write what I’m currently writing. I’ve turned a little on my chair to hide my screen. Today-me would like to travel back in time to suggest one of those privacy screens to a-week-ago-me.

Much love.