Lock Out

Marissa was so agitated when I walked into the coffe shop this morning I thought she was about to melt.

“I am so upset right now!”

My first thought was a wee bit on the unsympathetic side. Good grief what is it now, I mused. This young woman is never short on drama. But what I said was, “What’s wrong?”

“I locked my damn keys in the car. They’re right there in the ignition. I can see them. I don’t know what I’m going to do, I ain’t got money for a locksmith. And when I get out of here at 9:00 I got to take my husband to work and go get my hair done. I am so stressed out right now you don’t even know.”

“Do you have a spare set of keys?” I don’t know why I persist in asking logical questions. I should know by now logic rarely rears its head around Marissa the Barista.

“I do, but my husband gave them to me and I don’t know what I did with them. He should have known better than to put me in charge of something like that. I’m gonna bust a window if I have to.”

“Locksmith is cheaper than window repair,” I said. That wasn’t exactly what she wanted to hear.

Other people started chiming in.

“What about a coat hanger? You got a coat hanger?”

Marissa scoffed. “What do I look like, a back alley abortionist?”

That shut everyone up for a second.

“Call the fire department,” said the young lady waiting for the Amtrak. “In New York they do it for people all the time.”

“Well down here in Virginia if your baby ain’t locked in there all they tell you is good luck,” Marissa said. “Y’all don’t understand, I’m losing my damn mind here.”

The guy from Chicago (medium coffee, two squirts of hazelnut, room for cream) who knows everything about everything said, “You know that’s the problem with the world today, everyone wants a piece of the pie, you’ve got taxes and fees and such coming from every little pissant government agency, there’s no freedom anymore we’re just getting taxed to death. No more taxes, that’s what I say!”

Marissa stared at him across the cash register. “I don’t know what that’s got to do with my keys being locked in my Pontiac.”

From down the track I heard the train whistle and everyone except me startes heading out the door to line up next to the track.

“Good luck!” “Have a nice weekend!” “Call a locksmith!” “No more taxes!” they said as they slung themselves out of the door. It was just me and Marissa again.

“You know what the worst part is?” she asked.

I shook my head.

“My blunt is in the car. I’m seriously going to go  crazy if I can’t smoke that blunt. You know what I’m saying? Hey let me ask you this. You think my baby gets high off my breast milk?”

I slow blinked. “Ah. I know THC  gets transferred to babies through breast milk. I don’t know if they get high but I’d say it’s probably not a great idea to smoke while you’re still breastfeeding. Does your son act like,  lethargic? Have increased appetite? Groove to some Phish or Pink Floyd?”

“You are stupid for that, you know?”

I looked outside. The bus had just pulled up. “I gotta go,” I said, “but I sure hope you get your keys somehow. Oh and no more taxes!”