So I'm back at the cyber café and got a seat where no one could stare at my laptop screen over my shoulder. I am polishing the latest screenplay -- sort of a “Sex and the City meets Ugly Betty” comedy.
All is well until this tow-headed 3-year-old comes running through the place on an apparent Ritalin withdrawal. He plops down next to me and starts jumping up and down on the bench, then tap dancing, then slamming magazines all over the place. And, the smell suggests the little guy is not housebroken.
I and a few people seated nearby watch as he starts doing handstands on his table. I can see an injury coming.
The kid gets bored and runs over to his mother who says, “Go back over there and sit down.” I’m thinking, “Why, Lady? What’d I ever do to you?”
This continues for several minutes before she finally comes over and brings him a root beer and a cupcake with a strawberry baked inside and about 1½ inches of pink icing on top.
Great... just what the kid needs. More sugar!
The kid impulsively jumps up and starts to grab some books on a nearby shelf. The mother says in a deadpan monotone, “Sweetie, don’t touch anything with those dirty hands.” He returns to the seat and goes up and down, up and down, up and down! Every time he plops his rear end down, the dirty-diaper smell wafts my way.
I consider leaving when a couple Asian girls come by wearing halter tops and Daisy Duke shorts. Okay, maybe I’ll stay and enjoy watching them... if only I can go for 15 minutes without breathing.
The kid’s mother seemed oblivious to the smell, and just droned on in her monotone as the sugar leeched into his bloodstream and he began hyperactive fidgeting... which included sliding closer and closer to me.
This is some sort of existential test, isn’t it?
Finally, the kid exits with his mother and the PH balance of the atmosphere slowly returns to normal. Now, I can stop writing this real-time blog and return to polishing the screenplay.