Cookie O’ Clock

I love visiting coffee shops. I found one in Brooklyn I particularly like called Normans. Though it’s not really a coffee shop so much as it’s a work space that sells Caesar salads garnished with Chinese radishes rather than Parmesan Cheese.

“Do you have oat milk?” I asked the cashier who is also a barista.

“Yes, of course,” he replied.

Oh, of course, I thought. This is Williamsburg and the people here are wearing beanies even though it’s warm out today.

I’d come to work on my satire blog, and maybe even my writer’s portfolio, if only I could find the ability to concentrate long enough to get through even one cohesive task on my list. And by list, I mean jumbled bullet points in my brain.

My blog is just for kicks, something that makes me laugh. I write satire, not to be confused with sarcasm, as satire has an ultimate goal and a higher meaning than the ridicule found in sarcasm. And no I don’t want to get off my high horse. Though I didn’t go to Harvard, or Yale, or even graduate college with above a 3.0 GPA, I happily consider myself something of an intellectual, with no bone to back that happy assumption. I read philosophy books ⅓ of the way through, and watch animated YouTube videos on French Existentialism, and so I pat myself on the back for half understanding ideas that someone else thought of a long time ago.

Lately, I haven’t been able to make myself laugh. I’ve tried for days to come up with something for my blog, but nothing I write seems funny, or even interesting. I focused on the Fyre Fest documentaries, maybe too much. I had one bit about Andy King leading an HR meeting, and another about hosting my own Fyre Fest at Pablo Escobar’s alleged “Days Inn Motel,” But nothing fleshed out in a way that I felt good about.

As I picked a seat to work in at the coffee shop, I  recalled a previous dinner with my friend, Natasha. Natasha is one of those people who actually wants to hear you talk. She is a treasure chest of a human being. Unlike me, just waiting to hear the sound of my own beautiful vocal cords rub together again, Natasha truly listens.  When I told Natasha about my creative block she suggested that I write something personal.

“Maybe you should write about yourself, not external events. You don’t have to always be funny or smart or topical. Plus I think the majority of people don’t get what you’re writing about anyways.”

She had a point. I believe she was nicely trying to say, “The majority of people don’t really care what you write, so you might as well write something that represents you.” Which isn’t to say anyone would care more about a personal blog post. I actually think people would care less.

My blog posts that dive deeper or cover political topics get few likes, other than from my mom’s cousin Kristen, who like me, never grows tired of bashing Donald Trump or the NRA. To contrast, my most popular blog was the most simple, “How to win New Years if you’re single but also tired and don’t feel like going out.” The relatability of it seemed to win over even my most estranged and Republican followers.

As I sipped my oat milk cappuccino in Normans Cafe, I tried to write something personal. Eventually, a conversation sparked with the woman next to me, though we weren’t discussing problematic issues with society, or our personal lives.

“Can you watch my laptop, I’m going to the bathroom.” I paused and looked around at the sea of MacBooks, and polished nails. “Actually, you don’t have to watch it, if you don’t feel like it. No one here is going to steal this.” I gestured towards my gray HP, covered in old stickers and scratch marks.

She laughed, “ No one would steal my laptop either, it’s 6 years old.”

I glanced at her Mac, and then over to my HP which was held together with duct tape,  “Well I might.”

Once I returned, my neighbor asked how long I would be here. She urged me to stay at least until 3 pm, “I call it Cookie O’ Clock,” she said.

This name intrigued me. She went on, “Everyday at 3 pm, the baristas come around and pass out free cookies. It’s a fun time. People stop working and we talk about the cookies, there’s a real community vibe.”

I assured the woman I would be here for Cookie O’ Clock. I wondered what we would talk about, and hoped it would not be, “Oh man I thought these were chocolate chips! Raisins are so lame.”  Then I remembered I had a phone call scheduled exactly at cookie time. Given only the people at this particular coffee shop were in cookie time zone, I doubted rescheduling would go over well.

Eating cookies and talking about them seems a bit pointless, but in such a turbulent world  maybe discussing sugar and flour is all we have left to give each other. The same reason we share videos on Facebook of a cat sitting on a dog’s head, both unbothered by the other’s presence. There is something uplifting in simplicity.

I thought about this as I spoke on the phone, all the while eyeing baristas for fresh cookies. But the cookies never came. When I got off the phone, the cookie lady was confused, and seeing my puzzled glances, perhaps felt bad for misleading me. But there was no need for that. I could tell she was thrown off by the lack of cookies as well.

“What’s up with our cookies?” I asked. I was genuinely snacky, and thus genuinely annoyed these cookies were perhaps a tall tale. Nothing seems more pointless than talking about something that will never come- like a pipe dream- though today we might call this a social delusion, or an avocado’s wish. My delusions demise was comparable to a boring version of the book, Of Mice and Men, except instead of being idealistic like George and Lennie’s Rabbit farm, it was minimalistic. Cookies, for Christ sake. I suppose the end of our time together would not result in me shooting my fellow cookie enthusiast in the head, which for that difference we can be thankful. The stakes were less high.

As I thought about the gunshot scene from Of Mice and Men, I realized I wouldn’t be so lucky to be the George to our duo, sharp and informed. If anything I was the Lennie. Quick to believe the pipe dream, and very out of touch with my giant body. As someone who is 6 feet tall, and what a kind mother would describe as being “big boned,” I have on more than one occasion stepped on, or run into things that were destroyed by my impact.

I recalled the high school memory of running into a girl who was running the opposite direction as me, both of us not looking where we were going. She was carrying her french horn, and I was carrying what Soulja Boy would refer to as booty meat. The mass of my thigh collided with her brass instrument on a hot summer’s day and resulted in a horn quesadilla.

“Well try stretching it back out again, like a fan,” I said and made the motions with my hands. The marching band instructor later expressed his distaste at the horn of her instrument being compared to a beloved Mexican dish.

As I think of this Lennie like behavior, my George begins packing up her things. “Well, I’ll be back tomorrow.” She says. “I’m sure the cookies will be back too. Maybe I’ll see you.”

I smile at the Cookie Queen. “Oh, you will. We won’t be fluked again.”