In order to avoid becoming a complete solitarian this winter, I've been forcing myself to spend a few hours a week at Gorilla Coffee, where I sit amongst the living, drink overpriced herbal tea, and write these pretty words that you're currently reading.
One afternoon, the cafe was unusually crowded, so I agreed to share my table with Jim, a gentleman who was in need of a place to sit. He set his coffee mug down, settled himself into the wooden chair adjacent to the table, and complimented my Wonder Woman notebook. I thanked him, and then became engaged in a half hour-long conversation about the Beastie Boys, monster trucks, and the Yiddish language...overall a completely non-flirtatious and wholesome exchange.
As I was readying myself for a graceful exit, Jim mentioned that he was going to sell his LPs, including some Beastie Boys albums, but if I was interested, we could meet again at the coffee shop, and he would bring his unwanted records for my perusal. Since he seemed harmless enough, coupled with the fact that I find it nearly impossible to pass up free shit, I gave him my number and left quietly.