12.

I pass a big building on Eastlake, one of those ones thats all reflective two way glass. A building made of interrogation rooms. I see myself in the mirrored window and I remember that I still look like a crazy bum. Disheveled and unkempt. If I find a place to eat are they even gonna let me come in and order? You know when you eat at a dinner and there is always the one crazy guy just sitting at a booth nursing the same cup of coffee for the last 4 hours? I don't want to be that guy. My self esteem doesn't need that. I stare at myself confused by whats considered even acceptable to most. I never understood fashion, or clothes or bullshit like that. The line between hipster and homeless is narrow and pretentious. I'd probably be passable if it wasn't for the garbage bag full of clothes. Not a lot of hipsters roll around town with a plastic sack of sordid laundry. I eyeball my pits and it only gets worse. I've been walking for several hours now and I've started to sweat pretty badly. Just one more thing to add to the list. I'm a giant list of 'Pro's vs Con's' with hardly any pro's. I start to get into the part of Eastlake with more businesses and restaurants so I try to keep an eye open for some place open. I walk another couple blocks before I spot the open sign lit up in a small cafe. I jay walk across the street lugging my horde of crap around wondering whether or not this place will even want to serve me. I peer inside and can't see a soul so I slip inside. Thank goodness there's no hostess to stare awkwardly and wonder what to do with me. I notice the please seat yourself sign and immediately exhale a sigh of release. I book it towards an empty table along the wall. I place my garbage bag and duffel in empty chairs along the wall side the table. I scoot the chairs back in under the table as much as possible hoping it can conceal my neatly packaged shame. My fingers ache and crack with every simple movement. It's that strange kind of pain you get in your fingers when you have to help carry a couch or a TV for a long time. When all that weight is resting on the tips of your fingers. The table is sticky with what I hope is maple syrup but I shouldn't really care. I should be grateful. There's sugar, salt, pepper and honey stationed neatly on the table against the wall. Breakfast soldiers stand aptly at attention. There's also one of those little trays filled with single serving packs of jam. Strawberry and grape paste to last for days. I stick a few in my pocket. I fiddle about for awhile waiting for the waiter. I don't mind the wait, I'm just enjoying the chance to sit inside alone. The Thompson Twins, not really twins or even a duo, start to play through some unseen speakers, at first blasting then quickly lowered. Like someone forgot to turn it down before they turned it off last night. I recognize the tune from one of those CD compilation infomercials. Melodic phrasing is ushered in with some serious synth as the waitress comes out from the back. She notices me and I'm glad to see that she doesn't look immediately disgusted. She almost looks pleased. Maybe I'm the first customer this morning. A break in the monotony. She grabs me a menu and walks over my way. I try to make eye contact in a non-creepy way. It's not polite to stare. I should have told that lady on the bus that. She hands me the menu and smiles. And even though I'm sure its professional courtesy, it feels nice.