Some days, I go to the coffee shop outside the movie theater to flirt with the barista.
“So?”
“I haven’t read it yet.”
“But you get it right? The opening lays out the central claim concisely?”
“I haven’t read it,”
“You still have my flashdrive?”
“It’s around here somewhere.”
“Look,” I leaned in as if I were telling a secret, doing her a ‘favor,’ “The contents of that flashdrive will change Psycholinguistics forever.”
“Excuse me. I have a customer.”
I didn’t take my eyes off of her.
“I’ll get you your flash drive.”
“Fantastic,” I said looking down.
“Last I saw it, it was in here,” she said holding a container.
“The ice blender?”
“I hate to say this. You seem like a nice guy. But you have to stop coming in here and talking to me.”
“Hundreds of hours of work, just to be poured into a Goddamned Latte!”
“There is someone out there for you.”
“Who was the last person who ordered a Latte?”
“I’m a Libra, you’re an Ares.”
“Hey,” I said pointing to her co-worker, “What was their name? The name of the cocksucker who is drinking up my Thesis?”
“Gabe, I think. White shirt. Was carrying a book. Left about a few minutes ago.”
“Okay, this is the situation now. This is a robbery. I want your palms flat on the counter. Now. Now!”
I hopped over the counter, spilling stinking Kombucha on the hardwood. I reached into a cabinet, grabbing a ziploc, shattering an antique Edison light as I stood up.
“Where is the rice?”
“There.”
	“Show me all of the recent purchases.”
	“I can’t do that,”
	“I think you’re forgetting something, that this is not a pleasant exchange between customer and employee,” I grabbed the male barista by the back of the neck, “this is me getting my life back, after it was poured into a fucking coldbrew!”
	“Okay. Okay. I’ll get it for you.”
	A receipt printed out with names and credit card information.
I ran out of the coffee shop with an air of bombastic insecurity, saying “Goddamnit, Goddamnit,” under my breath. I went out into the beautiful street.
I was at a complete loss. I checked the white pages and there were hundreds of Gabe Matthews listed in the city. I would have to cold call each one and explain my situation. This was impossible.
I Googled “Gabe Matthews [city name].”
Gabe Matthews-2017-Baseball
Gabe Matthews Facebook
Gabe Matthews Attorney
	I clicked on the Facebook link. There was only one Gabe Matthews who appeared to be under 40, which luckily for me, was just what I was looking for. No old person with any self respect would go into that coffee shop.
	I scanned his profile. He was a recent graduate of Purdue. His degree was Mechanical Engineer. He was getting several hundred thousand a year.
	I spent the next five minutes frantically refreshing his page, hoping he would check into a location. No luck in that department, so I decided to look at any events he might be attending. Yes! 11PM, fiction workshop. Fiction workshop? An Engineer at a Fiction Workshop? Whatever. It was at a library down the road from the coffee shop. Thank God. He was not going to chug that coffee, no, he was going to savor every drop to make it through the hell of that workshop. Everyone at workshops savors theirs coffee. I’ve seen it countless times. It was as if the real contest was not who could write the best, but who’s coffee could last the longest.
The corner of the library was crowded with the homeless. I caught smells that should not exist. Malt liquor, sweat, and shit. That was the flavor in the air. It was even worse inside. They were everywhere, nestled in snug corners of the library, tapping away at rented ipads, flipping through magazines, and sleeping.
	“Excuse me. Do you know where the fiction workshop is taking place?”
	“Up the stairs on your left. Follow the hall to the end. It’s the last door on the right.”
	“Appreciate it.”
	“You know it doesn’t start until 11?”
“Oh, of course. I just wanted to get into the room early. You know, get the good seat.”
“It’s a roundtable discussion.”
“The one near the door. I have IBS. Always getting up and down.”
“You look like a new member. Have you paid your dues?”