Below is an excerpt from my Novel In Progress (NIP, if you will)! Tobin, 27 navigates queerness, identity, dating and her career in D.C., throughout the COVID-19 pandemic. She uses she and they pronouns. I’m playing with how first person sounds, so let me know if you think this reads better than third! You can read another chapter here.
*This chapter is UnEdiTEd so pls b kind!!!
The music is too loud, even with my headphones on I can hear SZA blaring through the surround sound speakers. I swear the tables are trembling but it’s probably my increasingly poor vision and mind playing tricks on me. The threads on my clearance baby blue Madewell sweater prick my skin and I don’t know why I keep wearing it other than the fact a Super Hot Queer once complimented me in it and I’ve been riding that high ever since, hoping that one day it will miraculously be itch-free.
My skin crawls and I fight the urge to rip it off in the middle of the coffee shop (both my skin and the sweater). No one else in this establishment seems to be bothered by the “club” raging at 9am so I take a deep breath and tell myself it will be okay.
I glare at the person in front of me ordering six complicated specialty drinks. Why, god? Why? What kind of fresh hell is this? She’s wearing that expensive "cloud" sneaker that has taken over major cities and an ugly white curly poodle glares back at me by her side. I’m almost shocked the poodle doesn’t have a Louis Vuitton bag and sunglasses of her own. By the time it's my turn I'd forgotten why I'm even here in line in the first place or that Hour-Ago Tobin had manifested it was the day to try a new caffeinated concoction. I black out and order my usual: iced vanilla oat milk latte and hope the oat milk isn't that cheap, watery shit that some brands sell.
I brace for the inevitable: a $7 latte. My bank account quakes and rivals my insatiable need for a sweet treat to endure the day.
"Would you like a cookie to go along with that?" the barista shouts over the music. What am I, a child? Wait, don’t answer that. He has a slight scruff of a beard and hazel eyes with round rimmed glasses and dons a Vineyard Vines shirt. Do they even still make those? Definitely a former Frat Boy but if I were into men, I'd actually think he's kind of okay looking -- someone my parents would approve of (except for the fact he works in a coffee shop. They’re those kind of people).
"Oh!" I chirped. "I'd love one."
He smiles knowingly.
"Wait, is it free?" I question, narrowing my eyes. Alex and Sam say my poker face is nonexistent and that I need to work on controlling my facial expressions in public settings. Too late.
He lets out a laugh that lets me know my question is absurd. "No? Why would it be free?"
"Well why would you ask it like that?” I blurted out, my awkward chuckle emerging. Some have reported it sounds like a dying toad. “I mean uhhhh, sure." I mentally recoil as $6 is added to the total and tap my credit card.
Nothing is free these days.
Alex and Sam are camped out in the back of the shop, tote bags and backpacks strewn around the table and are hastily tapping away on their electronic devices. Today’s a chill Friday which means we occasionally can all work from home. Aka coffee shops. Sam looks up and grins at me.
“Hey champ!” they say, taking out an Airpod. “What did you get?”
I set down my overpriced latte and cookie and take a seat next to Alex. She looks very focused on whatever’s on her computer and gives me a quick hello. It was still So Loud even back here and I could feel the sweat dripping down my back.
“Just my usual,” I answer. “The barista almost gave me a free cookie, well, not really…” I glanced back. “He kind of assumed I thought it wouldn't be free … but it’s a Friday … never mind.” Neither friend look particularly bothered by the music – or the room temperature – and I wiped some sweat from my brow.
“That’s sad. Cookies should always be free on Fridays,” Sam affirms. Alex finishes typing and yawns into a big stretch.
“Hellooo, Tobe! Ugh, I have soooo much to do today. And I don’t want to do any of it!”
Sam nods. “That sucks. I don’t really have too much to do, just a meeting in an hour with Mike.” We all groan. Damn Mike. Sam’s boss is notorious for being a micromanager, even though Sam has worked there for years. “Are we still on for meeting up before the pregame?”
Suddenly, something rumbled in my stomach. Oh god. I fan my face, attempting to get more air and glance around for a fan to turn on. Zero. Alex and Sam chat logistics for tonight’s activities before suddenly both turning toward me.
“Woah, are you okay, buddy?” Sam asks. “You don’t look so good.”
“Uh, yeah, I’ll be right back.” Fuck fuck fuck. Did the barista not hear OAT-milk? Luckily the bathroom in Emissary was just steps away and I was welcomed by an empty room with a loud fan. There were four stalls in it and an industrial/ horse trough style sink. Interesting interior design. The bathroom is quieter and plants line the walls. I run into the closest stall and rip off my pants, barely making it in time and experience what I would imagine the equivalent of what meat going through a meat hose from Taco Bell would feel like should one care to imagine.
The devil works hard but my lactose intolerance works harder.
After I finish shitting my brains out, I spend an excruciating three minutes of attempting to flush the toilet and wait for the water to reset (it didn’t). I decide to take matters into my own hands, checking on the other toilets and to my surprise three others are also clogged. Fantastic.
I glance at my phone.
Alex: Are you ok???
Sam: Let us know if you need anything.
Shit. Literally. How long have I been here? Bathrooms are like grocery stores or shopping malls — a time suck. It could have been five or twenty five minuets for all I know.
I take a deep breath. At least I can hear my own thoughts in this room. Maybe I’ll work in here today. Except for the clogged toilets. Right. Maybe I can fix this? I peer over the toilet and open the top of the toilet basin, where the water sits. Isn’t there a trick where you can pull the lever and drain the water so it can flush easier? Something like that? It’s worth a shot. The thought of admitting to the fratty barista that I may be responsible for the state of these toilets is mortifying, so I give it a go.
I pull up on the plug, expecting it to magically solve all my problems and it may have added a few more to my plate. What is that song? 99 problems but a bitch ain’t one? Well, this is one hell of a bitch.
Water suddenly gushes from the toilet bowl up to the rim and I watch as my digested breakfast floats dangerously to the edge. I slam the plug and the toilet top shut but water keeps flowing from literallygodknowswhere behind the toilet pipes. Suddenly, the floor seeps with toilet water and a low gurgle emerged from a neighboring toilet. My eyes shoot open wide as they can, which isn’t very wide if you can imagine.
Mother. Fucker.
Should I go tell the barista that not only am I responsible for the putrid sewer smell coming from the bathroom but that I also flooded the last working toilet on the premises?
“Tobin? Are you okay?”
I whip my head around to see my friends: my new sweet, sweet queer friends and their faces of pure horror as they witness the scene of the crime.
“Ohmy GOD,” Sam screams. Alex looks like she might vomit.
“Yeah. . .” I think I have fully now disassociated and simply accepted that I will most likely never see these people again, or this coffee shop and will now have to move out of D.C., maybe to the woods and find a nice badger to take me in. That sounds about right. No more society for me.
“Everything’s fine! Go back to the table!” I waved them away and they slowly back up out the door. “I found it like this,” I tried to lie. “And am just trying to fix it!”
“. . . should I go get someone?” Alex questions. She desperately looks like she wants to leave but stays out of solidarity. I think we all know the answer to her question.
“Yes but say it was already like this!” I shriek. “I was just trying to fix it.”
“Bathrooms are like grocery stores or shopping malls — a time suck.” Nothing truer has ever been written
whole and oat milk sounding too similar is a dangerous game 😭 loved this & dw tobin we’ve all been there!!!!