Remember Dame Edna MuuMuu? I still see her out and about in town. I even ran into her at the movie theater once. She's certifiable.
Sure enough, after three hours Monday (I needed to be out of my apartment), I got a crazy person.
Mister Vaio clunked in around 8:30 p.m. and asked for sweet tea. He was a talker. He felt the need to announce his every move.
And he did, as if the cafe was his stage and all the world - just me and two baristas, plus twenty-four empty chairs - was his audience. Maybe he had a case of Shakespeare Syndrome.
Mister Vaio: "I'm going to sit down right here."
Mister Vaio: "I'm going to go put some sugar in my tea."
Mister Vaio: "I'm going to sit down and do my taxes."
Mister Vaio: "I'm going to plug my computer in here."
Mister Vaio: "I'm going to go smoke while the computer warms up."
Mister Vaio: "I'm going to do my taxes now." [This was a repeat]
Mister Vaio: "I'm going to add these numbers."
Mister Vaio: "I'm going to take this deduction."
Mister Vaio: "I'm going to ask you a question."
I look up and he's staring at me. I pray that there's possibly another person here that he could possibly be talking to, but alas, that's not possible. I look at him and he's looking at me. I hold back a sigh and stare back. Hoping he'll go back to talking to himself.
Because talking to the talkers never ends well. Neither does this.
Mister Vaio: "Can I ask you a question?" I just look, hoping he'll shut up, but finally go "Sure."
Mister Vaio: "I just moved here a week ago - and someone stole the hood ornament off my Mercedes. Does that happen a lot?"
Not having a Mercedes myself, I shrug. I drive a recalled Toyota - and drivers tremble in fear that my gas pedal will be get stuck and we'll all perish in a fiery cataclysm. Anyway.
Mister Vaio continues "It's just $28, but I'm wondering who does something like that." I look at him - he's toting around a battered old Sony VAIO laptop, dressed in blue jeans and sneakers and carrying a Wal-Mart style faux-leather portfolio jammed with scribbled papers and notes. His taxes, I presume.
I look and say "Probably just kids." In my mind I'm thinking - "If he's driving a Mercedes, there's truly no justice in the universe.
Mister Vaio finally gets a hint that I don't really want to talk to him - I'm not unfriendly, just not interested in yapping with HIM:
Mister Vaio: "I'm done with my taxes."
He looks at me as if he expects a reaction - or possibly balloons to drop from the ceiling. I look down at my computer.
Mister Vaio: "I actually got money back this year."
Mister Vaio: "Too bad it's going into me and my wife's joint bank account."
Mister Vaio: Then there's a string of profanities as he sees something on the screen - he's apparently not as finished as he things.
Cue button-mashing and grumbling.
Mister Vaio: "I thought I was done."
Mister Vaio: "Maybe this is just some stupid survey."
Mister Vaio: "I guess I need to file my state taxes."
Mister Vaio: "I don't want to do this tonight."
And with that, he slaps the lid of the laptop closed, gathers up his things and walks out.
But not before ....
Mister Vaio: "I think I'm going to leave."
Mister Vaio: "Yeah. I'm leaving."
Ohhh. The talkers. They make good material, but the drive me slightly insane.
Lol
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