(notes from the week)
“It was like he got strung out on RedBull and reenacted fucking Grand Theft Auto,” the man behind the paper cupped double espresso stated as he described his attack, wildly gesturing in outstretched arm movements. I would place him in a business casual mid thirties, but he’s wearing neon high-tops, and there are fun-size candy bar wrappers on his table. The uniformed detective took off his aviator sunglasses and folded them onto the table. He pulled his hand downwards across his face, over his mustache, pausing in contemplative gesture on his chin. Naturally. As one might expect from an officer.
I can’t turn away. We’re the only three in the café. If I were heartless, or diligent, I would have access to this gentleman’s social security number, home address, birthday, allergies, and prior record information. As it is, I sit with my headphones plugged into my computer with the sound turned off, snacking on a Cliff bar as I take in the live show. I’m wondering how this story pieces together, if the victim will be asked to be a part of the reenactment for COPS, how long that mustache has been there, and whether either of them would mind waiting two seconds for me to get a refill.
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