Sitting at Starbucks

I sat in Ridgewood today, outside the Starbucks, reading the newspaper and killing time whilst my significant other got her hair cut. It was a nice break and the weather was beautiful, with just a touch of breeze. Good people watching for an “always writer” like myself.

The first thing that struck me was the number of people with cell phones. (I’ve resisted the siren call of that particular technology thus far, but I know my days are numbered.) It seemed like every third person going by, most of them women, was chatting away into thin air. This used to startle me, but I now realize that these folks aren’t deranged and talking to themselves (but perhaps just deranged). If the scenario Stephen King envisioned in Cell ever happened in Ridgewood, the Luddites wouldn’t last 10 minutes—the place would be Zombie City.

A gal that sat behind me chatted steadily away to one person after another. She looked professional, perhaps half-Oriental, maybe 30 years old, and was dressed neatly in a black blouse and crisp slacks.

“I’m telling you, he’s not that hot. He’s not shown me anything to justify $250 an hour.”
$250? Holy shit, I thought; for that kind dough I’d almost consider walking the docks during Fleet Week.

“I’m not into promising deliverables unless we can deliver. No, no, he’s just BAD. I mean, the village idiot could read that White Paper and understand the multi-level tier architecture; the man’s supposed to be a storage consultant.”
Hmm. I was still thinking about how many lattes $250-an-hour could buy.

Eventually the call ended and the woman was soon joined by a man and several young children. The woman immediately switched modes, and chatted happily with the children about watching Narnia that evening; gone was the chatter about ending people’s careers and pleasing the customer. They’re probably sitting around a table finishing dinner as I write this, getting ready to fire up the popcorn and sit before a high definition television with Dolby 6.0 surround sound.

I’m fascinated by other people’s lives but not envious. I respect her sense of duty to the customer, and work ethic, but I also rebel against that sort of smug, high paid, latte-sipping confidence. (Hypocritical for me to say I suppose, being that I finished my own latte just before she left.) For me it’s an interesting glimpse into a world I doubt I’ll ever inhabit, and that may not be a bad thing. I’ll contentedly roam around the edges instead. No great moral here. Just a wish to improve myself and increase my admittedly weak ambition and stay true to myself and those I care about. That’s good enough.