This is a place.

The hardest thing to do is not stare. The clothes, expensive, trendy. The hair, either too well-kept or purposefully a mess. The accessories, trying to hard yet everyone is doing it.

This is a place for my generation.

A place where it is respectable to be Bohemian, or a vagabond. A place where a poet is the smartest man in the room and a musician is fawned after.

This is a place for my generation.

A place where religion is scoffed at and book smarts reign supreme.

A place where “The Science of Sleep” is the most popular movie, and no one has seen “The Hangover.”

The place, with its winged door sign and its old church pews, is a place for my generation.

We sleep, we eat, we drink, we rarely bathe, we read, we write, we play music, we photograph with expired film.

We can do this here.

Often we eat sushi and we wear our fedoras.

Our glasses are horn-rimmed and our shoes are untied, possibly they have no use for laces.

Coffee is served, but you have to just know your order.

You can’t pretend and assume you’ll fit in.

Because you won’t.

Not even a little bit.

You’ll embarrass yourself.

It’s like a science lab, and our skirts are high-waisted.

Our water comes from a beaker and our kids wear vans.

The man to my left waits for a friend for an hour. He types, checks his gmail and waits. With his tattooed arms he reaches for his cell phone.

His friend arrives.

They talk about rehab.

He seems happy.

I hope he is.

The couple in front of me didn’t stay long.

Mom took some photos of the stroller, I assume the baby was in it.

Dad and his fedora and scarf sipped on his coffee.

They left.

Someone new just sat down. On the long pew in front of me.

Her jeans are acid washed and she reads a book.

A small mass market paperback, but it’s still a book.

The man at the counter has been there a while. His glasses are white and his shirt is blue, I think.

He reads, he writes, he repeats.

I think he is some sort of regular.

The guy in the corner is too buff for his shirt.

But he likes it that way.

And he listens to his headphones and thinks about it.

Acid washed jeans just left with her Ramones-shirtted boyfriend, figures.

New guy again.

Greg Kinnear look-alike.

Crosses his legs, sits and reads.

He is uncomfortable in the pews.

Rehab guy is from Bakersfield.

The 210, the 101.

Freeways.

There are busses outside. I can’t see them, but I can hear them.

Too-buff-guy has a friend too.

This must be a waiting kind of place.

A place for my generation to wait.

An in-between place for my generation.

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