Mom’s card didn’t work.
Dad’s card didn’t work.
So there I am, at Watergate, a delightful little chimera that’s half bookstore, half café.
Smiling and laughing like a man who didn’t just get financially ghosted by his own parents’ banks.
I’m seated at a table, nibbling on the expired sandwich Elaina the Angel bought me (still delicious, might I add), writing, researching, and trying to figure out how the hell to access money, or at least borrow my way to shelter.
Honestly? I was enjoying life.
Truly, deeply vibing.
Enter: The Cashier.
She walks over, clipboard energy in her voice.
“As you can see, we’re slow right now, so you need to buy something from the café if you want to sit here.”
Now, I could’ve engaged. And normally I would've. The whole "I've got something to prove" bit. But not this time.
I could’ve gone full Socratic seminar on her logic.
“So… when you’re busy, you kick people out to make space. But when you're not busy, you also kick people out? Because… reasons?”
But nah. Too busy enjoying my sandwich and the divine comedy of life.
Still, I tried the empathy route.
“Look, I’m actively trying to access money. I’d love to support the café, I truly would. Right now, I have no wallet, no working payment method, and not even a functioning phone. Just me, this expired sandwich, and a prayer.”
She didn’t budge.
She was plugged in—like Matrix-level, under-the-thumb, “rules are rules” energy.
“It’s policy. The manager makes me.”
“Can I speak to the manager?”
“They’re not here.”
“So… who’s the problem?”
“They’ll know.”
“…But they’re not here?”
“There are managers from the bookstore walking around.”
Ah, yes. We are to fear the elusive phantom managers.
Like mythical corporate specters, gliding silently through the shelves of Waterstones, watching over cappuccinos and copy paper alike.
So I smiled.
I laughed.
I apologized for getting in her hair
(during what was clearly a very stressful moment:
A nearly-empty café, haunted by the ghosts of middle management.)
She suggested I try the library instead.
Honestly? Bless her.
Because that’s where I found Julie.
My one true love who helped me in a time of need.
and let me use her phone like it was no big deal.
(It was a big deal.)
Oh, Julie, she’s got me shakin’ like Shakin’ Stevens.
If you ever want me shakin’, weak in the knees, shit, even on my knees, like Stevens about you…
well, help me find a phone like Julie did. (Metaphorically or literally. I’m not picky at this point.)
And maybe, just maybe, there will be a song named after you, too.
So here I am,
the York Explore Library,
where expired sandwiches are welcome,
people are kind,
and no one asks me to buy a muffin just to sit down.
So...
Cheers to patience.
Cheers to doing nothing.
Cheers to public libraries.
And cheers to learning the real meaning of "Watergate."
(Too soon?)
P.S. What I wanted to say but didn’t, because....GrOwTh.
There’s a time and place for dismantling flawed logic in public, but that time was not mid-expired-sandwich during my quest for food, dignity and winning peace.
Or at the expense of the poor cashier who didn't even realize she was plugged in.
Besides I couldn't let her ruin my smiley, laughy time. She didn't deserve it. Nor the ghost manager.
So instead, I bit my tongue. But for you, dear reader, here’s what I saw beneath the surface:
1. Contradiction 101
If business is slow, logic says:
- Encourage people to stay.
- Create atmosphere.
- Maybe even convert curious loiterers into paying customers.
Instead?
They asked me to leave because it was slow.
So, let me get this straight:
When it’s busy, you clear space.
When it’s slow, you clear space.
So… when exactly can someone sit down?
2. Circular Reasoning at Its Finest
Me: “Can I speak to the manager?”
Them: “They’re not here.”
Me: “So who’s enforcing the policy?”
Them: “They’ll know.”
Ah, yes. The invisible tribunal of corporate policy.
A loop of logic so tight, it’s strangling itself.
No critical thinking, no nuance, just fear of the Great Manager in the Sky.
3. A Compassion Blackout
I explained my situation, politely, clearly.
I wasn’t rude. I wasn’t disruptive.
Just a person, in a moment of vulnerability, asking to sit.
But instead of humanity, I got a script.
No empathy.
No discretion.
No flexibility.
Just… “policy.”
4. Authority Without Presence
She cited “the manager” as her north star.
But when I asked for them? Poof.
No one in sight.
Just the echo of someone else’s fear.
And so the policy stood, not because it made sense,
But because someone, somewhere might notice her showing mercy.
And that risk? Apparently too great.
So what was she telling me that I didn't care enough to explain....
A rule..
with no logic,
enforced without thought,
by someone who couldn’t question it,
on behalf of someone who wasn’t there.
A system with the illusion of control without coherence or compassion.
And that, my friends, is why I left the café with my expired sandwich, and my soul, intact.