Sitting back in the corner of the café gives you an exciting vantage point to see most interactions between the staff standing on the other side of the register and the patron purchasing coffee, a muffin, or some other food or drink item. There is the yoga mom with a wealthy doctor for a husband who has nothing better to do with her day than do yoga, go shopping, decorate their 12,000-square-foot home, and go to lunch with her other doctor-wife couples who also have nothing better to do until their kids get out of school. Then it’s off to soccer, ballet, softball, baseball, or perhaps all of them at various times. She picks up her vanilla soy latte sans whipped cream or anything resembling natural sugar or corn syrup and smiles at the barista, all while donning her dark sunglasses as she walks through the doors into the glaringly bright sun back to her pristine white SUV.

Definitely a lot to be said for people watching in restaurants, cafes, bars, or airports. Public settings are fun to observe, ready to report the ridiculousness of people who don’t know they are constantly being watched. Even as an observer, you are smart enough to recognize this and see other observers as they watch you.

So you continue to look on, sitting in front of your computer, typing away, seemingly oblivious to the activity around you. You watch the owner of the café, a stick of a woman with zero body fat and gray hair struggling to pop out through the reddish-auburn but strong muscle tone, start to instruct the newest staff member, a young lady with green and purple hair, a few apparent piercings through her nose, lip, and eyebrow, making you wonder if there are any other unseen piercings. The young lady is wearing a long-sleeved shirt. To appease her boss, you wonder? Or is it by choice? You aren’t sure, but the garment appears plain, with zero designs or ink on the front. One sleeve near the shoulder has an artistic design unfamiliar to you. Even if there was something on the front, which you suspect there is not, she’s wearing a long apron draped from her neck. The gray-haired woman is stressing something meaningful with the young staffer, a particular pickup order or a menu item she added to the newly revamped menu. Whatever it is, the young lady looks distraught over the apparent reprimand. At least that’s your impression based on the girl’s body language. Watching people enough gives you a sense of their feelings without context.

You return to work, focusing on writing content designed to pay your bills. Your current project is a new story capturing the minds and hearts of those wanting to feel good about supporting an organization because their donation changes the hearts and lives of those who don’t have enough to help themselves. You finish writing the first three paragraphs when a commotion in the café grabs your attention like a pit bull with a squeaky toy. Yelling and screaming ensue, loud enough to be heard over your noise-canceling headphones. Sliding them off your ears, letting the ambiance of the café fill your ears instead of the sounds of Duran Duran’s Hungry Like the Wolf, you can hear the argument behind you.

“Get your hands off me, Dorian! You will not tell me how long I have to keep my hair. If I want to shave it bald, I’ll do it. So help me, I will!”

“You don’t have to make a scene,” Dorian replied. “Just don’t cut it short.”

“And what exactly is your idea of short?” the woman shot back. You can’t see either of them, a brick wall separating you from the action. “Because I’m getting a bob. Like it or not, Dorian. You’ll have to live with it, or I’m leaving!” The door to the salon is right behind you, and you hear another voice say, “Aimee, Tawny is ready for you.”

“Go home, Dorian. I’m doing this.” Then, you hear a slap, an open palm smacking the cheek of someone, echo through the small alcove area. All eyes of the café staff are on the action, milling around the cash register, including the gray-haired woman, everyone doing their best to look like they are busy doing something else. It occurs to you that Dorian is the one who got slapped by Aimee. Staring at your written copy, you can’t concentrate, but do you dare stand up to see if she’s okay? The staff at the café seem to be oblivious to the altercation.

“Sir, I think you need to leave.”

“Aimee. Don’t do this.” Looking over your left shoulder, you finally glimpse Aimee, a medium-built woman with long brown hair touching the middle of her back. She wasn’t as toned as the yoga mom, but still pretty. Taking a chance, you stand up and stretch, turning toward the front doors. The double doors enter the wide alcove, hosting a few tables and chairs for the café, a training and weight loss facility to the immediate right, and the salon on the left. And, of course, the café straight through the alcove roughly three hundred feet away from the entrances to the trainers and salon. Dorian is trying to walk through the doors and brush past the receptionist. His John Deere hat faces backward on his head. A John Cena t-shirt stretches across his muscly frame. Dorian’s clean-shaven baby face is bright red, thanks to the palm print of Aimee’s hand. Hearing the commotion, the personal trainers from across the way poke their heads out the door.

“Everything okay, Steph?” Both men were as tall as Dorian and probably as strong. You think this is an excellent time to get coffee, grab your to-go cup, and head to the café’s counter. Turning around, after handing your cup to the girl with the piercings, you see the two trainers come out, walking in Dorian’s direction. Watching the two men come to either side of him, Dorian decided today wasn’t the day to fight. Either that, or he was scared of these guys and not his significant other, Aimee.

“Yeah, thanks, Marcus. Dorian was leaving, isn’t that right?”

“I don’t want no trouble,” Dorian answered, his mouth full of chew. Now that piercings girl brought you your coffee, you can see the empty Gatorade bottle in his left hand, top screwed on tight so the spit doesn’t spill out of it. He unscrewed the top and spit. “Ya’ll go on back to your business now.” Both Marcus and the other trainer crossed their arms, smiling at him.

Marcus said, “We will.” He didn’t move, waiting for Dorian to walk to the front doors. After a few seconds, Dorian moved, his eyes bouncing from his left to his right, keeping a close eye on both trainers. Now he looked scared. Marcus opened the door for Dorian, letting him walk outside. Shaking his head, Marcus smiled at his partner. “Never fails, does it, Brad?”

“Takes all kinds,” Brad replied, laughing. Steph was still standing outside the salon. “Steph, let us know if you need anything else.”

“All I have to say is I’m glad you guys are right there. That could’ve been so much more ugly!”

“That dude isn’t smart enough to file an assault charge against that girl. Pretty stupid on her part, if you ask me.”
Sitting back down at the round table, you put your headphones on, returning to Duran Duran and writing. The double doors open again, and the sound is a large group of people laughing and talking. The clicking of heels on the tile is unmistakable, and most women going to the salon wear spikes. The group walks past the salon and straight to the café, the piercings girl’s face turning a bright shade of red, close to the same color Dorian’s cheek was after Aimee’s slap.

Do you take off your headphones this time? Do you take a few minutes to overhear their conversation? Taking a sip of your coffee, you put aside the writing project, turn the music off, and put away the headphones.

“I’m telling you, Carla, she can’t possibly think that’s okay, wearing a skirt like that to work. Does she think that HR isn’t going to write her up for it?”

“Aren’t you Summer’s supervisor, Jana? Just write her up for it being too short, exposing too much cleavage, and call it a day.”

“It’s not that simple,” Carla said, staring at the reader board menu over the cashier’s head. “We have to have adequate documentation proving she’s violating the rules. First, we must identify her dressing inappropriately as a distracting problem and speak to her about it as a verbal warning. Then, after that, we can write her up.” She ordered her food, and Jana spoke to Henry.

“Henry, can we do that?”

Henry, you can tell, is a small, mousy man whose pants are too short, has a pocket protector full of pens and pencils, and a button-down short-sleeved shirt with a bow tie. Pushing his glasses up, he looked at Jana, stammering, “Oh, I don’t think so.” He looked up at the menu. “Not right away. You have to follow protocol.”

“Do you have wine?” another woman asked the girl with the piercings.

“You are always trying to get a glass of wine with lunch, Harriet. Come off it already,” Jana shot back.

“Then screw this. Come on, Sharon. Let’s go to Applebee’s. At least they have cocktails.” Her heels clicked across the tile floor, carrying her short, stubby legs back out the doors with a bigger woman with big hair following close behind her. “We’ll see you back at the office, ladies. And Henry.” Her heels clomped on the tile, clicking her way to Applebee’s with a snap of her fingers.

“Maybe we should do that, too,” a mousy woman, who could’ve been the woman equivalent of Henry, said softly.

“Do as you like, Marsha,” Jana said. “I’m eating here because it’s fast – most of the time. And, more importantly, this is good for you, food.” Jana glared at the tiny woman. “But do as you like, Kathy.” Kathy slowly moved away from Jana and then bolted out the door. “Sheesh. That girl has no spine.” She turns around to see you staring at the computer. “Who’s that guy? I see him in here all the time.”

“Oh, that’s Headphones Guy,” says the young man behind the counter. He’s a lot taller than the sheepish girl with the multicolored hair. “He writes in the corner.”

“He’s taking notes with his eyes, isn’t he?”

“Aren’t we the conspiracy theorist, Jana?” A rotund woman came over to Jana, laughing at her own joke. “He’s spying on you, is he? He’s just after your personal information, isn’t he?” She laughed loud enough to be heard through the space.

You put your headphones back on, nod to the tall guy who winks at you, and go back to writing, forgetting all about the interaction.

Until today, when you are replaying the myriad conversations heard throughout the years, sitting in your corner, minding your own business, never thinking that these people, these characters, would ever have any bearing on your writing or storytelling.

Yet, here they all are. Right in the middle of the café, just waiting for someone to breathe life into them, retelling the truth of what you experienced once more. And, to think. Someday, you may be the person observed, the one being watched. Then, your story will be told through someone else’s eyes.

What will your story look like? Jana’s? Or Dorian’s?

The choice is yours. Best put your best foot forward. And make sure, whatever you do, do not look over your shoulder. Then, you’ll find conspiracy theories. Is that how you want to be remembered? Or do you want to be remembered as the guy who got slapped by his girlfriend? Or the trainer who decided it was their call to step in and help escort Dorian out of the establishment?

Whatever the case, remember that you are being watched and observed, especially over social media.

So, watch yourself!