It was full of teenage kids, most of whom were texting, tweeting, or otherwise glomming onto the free WiFi the Raven offered. Few of the kids were actually speaking directly, but for all I knew, those sitting across the tables were texting each other via synchronous satellite to achieve a communications gap of two feet. Grown people do that these days too, not just kids. I guess I was either born too soon or too late to want in on the excitement.
Some of the youngsters dressed punk, some like hippies, some like whores and pimps. I was easily twice the age of anyone else and got plenty of stares. I’m sure I looked like an undercover vice cop. Or a father searching for his wayward daughter. Or more likely, a dirty old man searching for someone else’s wayward daughter. Regardless, I wasn’t very welcome and I could feel harsh eyes on me as I stood there sipping the hot bitter liquid.
One feature of the Raven I’d heard about was their graffiti collection. Each table had a small jar with felt tip pens of various colors. Patrons were encouraged to write on the walls, fill them with poetry, jokes, wisdom of the ages, or rude commentary, the principal difference between wisdom and rudeness being the advance of time and use of the word fuck. I looked at a few of the offerings on a nearby wall but didn’t learn much. The jokes I already knew, and many of the more difficult words like “your” or “its” were misspelled.
Cheryl came in as I finished my coffee. Some of the other kids called her name and she waved to them. There were smiles throughout, so I guessed she was popular with her peers. I bought her a Diet Dr. Pepper, God only knew what that tastes like, and we sat at a table a bit removed from the others.