Sunday Morning Coming Down

Luna Cafe is my Sunday morning sanctuary. On this particular morning, the air was rich with the scent of roasted beans, and the atmosphere shimmered with goodwill to all. I was blissfully entombed in a podcast about the geopolitical history of competitive cat herding. I never knew that cats had such strong opinions about being herded. 

It was the calm before the storm—a moment of peace so fragile, you could hear the distant clink of a teaspoon.

Then, the silence was not just broken; it was vandalized.

A voice erupted, a deafening, gravelly baritone like a drill sergeant auditioning for a heavy metal band. I immediately located the source: a gentleman on the sofa, clearly listening to his smartphone's audio at a volume that could reach low-earth orbit. 

My previous tranquility was detonated with an energy level measured in megatons! Princess Amy immediately took advantage of my vulnerability and encouraged me to ratchet up my moral superiority to eleven. But who could fault her for that? The nerve of the heathen! The utter, complete, and terrifying lack of social grace!

My blood pressure spiked, and I instinctively knew what I had to do; the mothers of Shady Grove trained their sons well. I fixed my gaze past the innocent couple sitting between me and the reprobate and delivered my most potent weapon: The Look.

It was my signature, high-voltage look meant to imply: "Seriously, some people simply don't deserve the privilege of existing in a shared public space." 

At that moment, the couple sitting at the table between us caught my eye. It was obvious they had seen The Look, and I expected them to silently nod in agreement, forming a brief, sacred pact of civilized folk against the barbarians. But no! 

"What?" the man demanded, his voice laced with the kind of aggression usually reserved for parking disputes.

I was trapped. My superior, judgmental facade crumbled into fine powder. I tried to explain, "Oh, sorry," I said. "I was actually judging the other guy, the one with his phaser set to disrupt."

Just as I was melting into a puddle of shame and espresso, a drum machine kicked in. The gravelly voice I had judged so ruthlessly finished its declaration—"...and now, the newest hit from The Decaf Disasters!"—and the cafe’s actual sound system blasted a shockingly loud 80s synth-pop track.

The voice I'd heard was the pre-recorded intro for the cafe’s music track. The quiet man on the sofa was just sitting there, sipping his latte. The only inconsiderate person in the entire room was me. 

I had publicly accused a volume button of a crime it didn't commit, and now I was embedded in a room with a couple who definitely thought I was just shy of dangerous.

As I gathered my things to leave, staying felt about as comfortable as a pair of skinny-legged jeans, Princess Amy spoke again. 

"Well done. You've managed to publicly shame an innocent man, wage war against a sound system, and demonstrate exactly why hermits choose to live in caves rather than cafes." 

She wasn't wrong, even though my performance was partly her fault. I'd entered Luna Cafe to be safe from the slings and arrows and daily life, and I was walking out having learned that sometimes the barbarian at the gates is actually just me, armed with righteous indignation and a catastrophically misdirected glare. 

As Shakespeare might have said, "Judge not the volume of others, lest ye be judged for the selections in your own Spotify playlist."

Maybe not worded in a way the Bard would have appreciated, but I'm certain he would’ve agreed with the sentiment. 

I made a mental note to make amends to the couple on my next visit, though I suspect they've already added me to their mental catalogue of "Reasons We Should Make Coffee at Home."