Rex Harrison & LIRR Retirees

overheard at a coffeeshop

Hi there,

Whenever I head to a coffeeshop for what I confidently foresee to be the productive session to trump all productive sessions, I instead find myself surrendering to what I now call the work-eavesdropping balance. Solo coffee shop sittings inevitably make for some interesting overheard conversations, whether we want them to or not (even noise-canceling headphones can’t tune out certain individuals’ voices or enthusiasm). More on some recent eavesdropping moments soon, perhaps—but for this issue, I’m sharing something I wrote for the former “blog” iteration of Twirlable Pasta 12 years or so ago. It’s the recap of a conversation overheard at the erstwhile Amy’s Bread on Bleecker Street. Hope you enjoy this trip down my written memory lane—which is, as you’ll see, also a collective trip down the memory lanes of some seasoned café congregators. 

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If you’ve ever sat alone in a café, you know that at one point or another, your ears will inevitably latch onto nearby conversation. Cafés serve as meeting places for people with all kinds of agendas. For this reason, they can provide a wide array of eavesdropping opportunities. There’s the job interview, first date, lunch-break business proposal, SAT tutoring session, college group brainstorming meeting, and, more often than not, the drone of mindless banter, one decibel level too high. While a couple of coffees or teas form the common denominator at a table no matter who its drinkers are, what most of today’s café clientele also share is the likelihood to be as involved with their iPads and smart phones as they are with their coffee and company, if not more so. [2024 note: I guess this was still a shocking enough concept worth commenting upon in 2012…]

It was therefore particularly refreshing to sit by a trio of coffee drinkers at a West Village café last week whose meeting was anything but gadget-dependent.

Photo by daan evers on Unsplash

An elderly man and woman occupied the table next to me, and were soon joined by a man who placed his cane on the nearby radiator before dragging a chair to their table. I was absorbed in my own work until the haircut of one of the men caught a barista’s eye, revealing the group’s status as regulars there.

“You’re creating quite a stir with that haircut!” the woman at the table remarked afterwards. The man informed her and his other companion that the service had cost him $40, also making sure to add that it could’ve only cost $20 “if you want less scissor.” He’d gone for his haircut in Chinatown and had run into a friend on the bus ride there. “How is he still able to take the bus?” the woman wondered of this acquaintance. “It’s amazing he even gets where he wants to." 
"Sometimes he doesn’t though.” They laughed.

“So who had kids with Jane Fonda?” The man with the cane suddenly had a desire to know, and now the discourse turned to topics covering Rex Harrison vignettes, the 1964 French film, The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, and a “Scandinavian seductress” who supposedly starred in the James Bond movie, Dr. No, whose name no one could remember. (Resorting to mobile-device dependency in typical clientele fashion, I deduced from a Google search that they were referring to the Swiss actress, Ursula Andress.) They chatted amiably about books, a friend’s daughter’s article in the New Yorker, and another actress who at 60 was apparently still beautiful. Their discussion of current events covered the latest Republican caucus, and became particularly impassioned concerning the news story that 90% of LIRR retirees are on disability. “Are you following the latest?” the woman had asked.

Now, my neighbors recalled their youth. The man with the haircut remembered his first job in New York right after graduating from Brown in 1951. Minimum wage had been 40 cents an hour. “Imagine!”

The conversation made a drastic switch to modern-day technology. The same man took out a basic touch-screen cell phone, impressing his friends. He didn’t really want a touch screen (“This thing is driving me crazy!”), but his old phone’s screen had suffered from too much glare in the daylight. He admitted he was embarrassed that he was unable to do things that his grandson could do easily. The other man, however, had no cell phone and was happy that way. Regarding computers, the man with the phone had been a radio operator in the army but couldn’t type anymore. The other had taken a typing class in high school but was aware that he still made mistakes often. The woman, without acknowledging her typing abilities, lamented over how both Frank Sinatra and Tony Bennett abridged the lyrics of the song “Bewitched” (“They sing two verses….there are ten total!”).

The touch-screen phone began to ring. “Oh shit!” The man’s companions giggled at his use of a curse word. “I don’t know how to answer this thing.”  When he was finally able to navigate the screen and answer the call, it was on speakerphone. The voice at the other end was distorted and all three of them leaned in to decipher the caller’s words. He responded generally in the affirmative, assuring the male voice that he would see him later. “What’d he say?” the woman asked after he hung up.
“I have NO idea! You heard whatever I heard.”

It was now nearing lunchtime, and they each pondered what they would eat at home. Peanut butter and jelly or a ham sandwich? The man who came in with the cane decided on ham. The woman asked him if he planned to put mustard on that. No, he’d be having it with mayonnaise. “Was your mother a fan of mayonnaise?” he asked her. “It’s not a Polish thing, is it?”
No, not really, she said. Her mother didn’t like it and neither did she. She preferred lemon juice and capers with her sandwiches: she was watching her cholesterol.

The three got up to leave, making casual acknowledgements to meet back here the next day. “You alright?” one of the men asked the other, who was getting up slowly. He gave a laugh. “The days of my being okay have long gone.” He went to get his cane from the radiator. Smiling, he turned to his friends as they headed out the door. “As Dylan Thomas said, ‘You don’t go gently.’”

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Have a wonderful week, and until soon,

Insia