This morning, I got up early and took my laptop to my local diner to edit for a couple of hours before work. It’s just that time of year, still.
An MTA bus driver came past my table in the corner on his way to the bathroom (my local diner sustains itself by allowing the bus drivers idling between stops to come in and use the bathroom for free—I think the drivers support them on the other end with take-out orders at breakfast and lunch).
This driver stopped in front of my table and said, “Hey, you got a good WiFi connection here?”
“Oh, I’m not using the internet,” I said. Maybe a little irritably—I was concentrating.
“Oh!” He looked a little surprised, then disappeared around the corner to pee.
By the time he made his way back a minute later, he had had a chance to figure out what I could possibly be doing in public with a computer if I wasn’t on the internet. He leaned over the chair opposite me, tapped the table with a notion of conspiracy, and smiled through his bushy handlebar. “I hope you’re writing some good stories.”
I smiled back at him. As he left, I said—under my breath, just so I could write it down here later—“I wish.”
1) He probably thought I was much younger than I was. The winking go-get’em-tigerishness of it all. Or maybe not.
2) How sweet, that in the event I (or some other person like or unlike me) were to take up writing stories, this one bus driver would be rooting for them.
3) Shoring up by philosophy of 21st-century creativity—it is a truth universally acknowledged that a young wo/man in possession of a word processor must be in want of a book deal [if s/he is not in want of a high-speed connection to Facebook] [or let’s be honest, s/he probably wants both].