It’s April.
WE DON’T HAVE WIFI
PRETEND IT’S 1995 AND TALK TO EACH OTHER!
The handwritten sign taped to the checkout counter of the Brooklynn coffee shop makes Hirsch roll his eyes. Granted, he was a child in 1995 and was only peripherally aware of how grownups behaved in coffee shops back then, but he’s pretty sure they didn’t just strike up deep and moving conversations with strangers.
As far as Hirsch knows, there are three reasons to sit in a coffee shop: to be alone, to continue a conversation, or to meet up with someone. He supposes a fourth is possible, in the case of unexpectedly running into an acquaintance, but that could be folded into the third reason. Talking to complete strangers seems like a myth made up by Gen X. They never did that. Before wifi, they sat and read their newspapers or balanced their checkbooks or whatever people did back then. He takes his macchiato (a real macchiato, espresso topped with a little foamed milk, not that $t@rb*cks bullshit) and sits at the tiny counter in the window. Who needs wifi when you have a decent data plan?
It's August.
Locke’s Coffee is packed. It’s like half the population of Rxobot is here. The little guy in line behind Hirsch scrutinizes him. Hirsch scrutinizes him back without bothering to be subtle. The guy’s wearing one of those little fisherman’s beanies that don’t go past the tops of your ears, a denim jacket covered in patches and pins, and a ratty black T-shirt. A few straggly white strings poke out from under the hem of his shirt next to either hip.
“The king is in the field,” the guy says meaningfully.
“Uh, OK,” says Hirsch.
The guy looks frustrated and repeats, “The king is in the field.”
Is this some kind of alternate-reality game? Maybe the guy is playing spies and thinks Hirsch is his contact. He’s supposed to know some kind of passcode.
“Sorry, man, I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“It’s a lool,” says the guy.
“It’s a what?”
“Aren’t you Jewish?”
Hirsch is suddenly aware of his chai necklace. It was a gift from his mom, which is pretty much the entire reason he wears it. It’s usually tucked into the front of his shirt. It came out on a stream before and the chat was flooded with “Navajo Moose” comments, but most of the time no one notices it.
“Yeah, but you know, I’m Jew-ISH.”
The short guy shakes his head. “You’re either a Jew or not a Jew. If you’re a Jew, you’re every bit as Jewish as anybody else. It’s your birthright. Don’t sell yourself short.”
“What can I get for you,” mumbles the counter guy, who won’t look Hirsch in the face. There’s something familiar about him. Déjà vu abounds in Rxobot. Hirsch keeps seeing people in meatspace whose faces he knows from a livestream or a video clip or even still images, and it’s like his brain can’t quite reconcile the familiarity out of context.
“Espresso and just a little foam on top,” he says. He’s learned not to ask for a macchiato here.
“Foamed milk?”
“Yes.”
He moves to the side to wait. The guy behind him orders a house brew, receives it in a large ceramic mug, and sidles over to Hirsch.
“So,” says the guy, and interrupts himself with a sip of black coffee. “It’s a lool.”
“What’s a lool?”
“Eh-lool. The month of Elul, the month before the High Holidays?”
“Oh,” says Hirsch, and shrugs. “I’m not really religious.”
“That’s fine,” says the guy. “But you should get on the mailing list anyway.” Here, this means actual paper letters delivered to your actual residence. “The Rxobot Minyan has a lot of events coming up and the more folks are aware of it, the better.”
His use of “folks” sets Hirsch’s teeth on edge. Hirsch is pretty sure this guy is gay, too, not that there’s anything wrong with that, but Hirsch has found himself in queer spaces before and felt painfully out of place with his cis-het-male self.
“Look, I’m sorry but I’m really not interested in anything to do with that. I don’t believe in God.”
At this, the little guy laughs. “Yeah, so? I don’t either. What’s that got to do with anything?”
Hirsch glances down at the white strings hanging below the other man’s belt.
“But aren’t you…” he wiggles his hand, trying to find the right word. “Observant?”
“Yeah.”
The tables are filling up. Hirsch glances around, seeing opportunities to claim a seat diminish with each second he waits for his espresso-and-foam.
“So you’re religious but you don’t believe in God.”
“Yup.”
“How does that work?”
“I’m gonna grab a table,” says the religious atheist. “If you want to join me after you get your drink, I’ve got some time.”
A little while later, a stunning six-foot-tall woman with blue-black hair down to her waist enters the coffee shop. Hirsch and his new buddy are the only men in Locke’s who don’t turn to look at her, immersed in an argument that has somehow migrated from being about the nature of religious observance to the ethics of moderating speech in online forums. Somehow, it always comes back to the Internet. Here they are, living entirely without it, but it’s still in their hearts and minds like an ex you just can’t forget about. Hirsch pulls back from the conversation to note this.
“A toxic ex,” agrees Alon. (The fact that his name is Alon, pronounced like “Alan,” worked its way into the conversation some twenty minutes in.) “And yet…”
“Think how much, like, police brutality was happening before smart phones that just wasn’t getting recorded, you know? It wasn’t getting exposed.” Hirsch knows this point will strike a chord. He can’t help but read his new buddy a little, and Alon’s ratty black T-shirt says “ACAB” on it. (It also has an image of a kitten with the subheading “All Cats are Beautiful.”)
“For sure, for sure,” says Alon. “The only reason I feel safe here without a phone is because Rxobot doesn’t have any cops.”