Tales from a Marina Cafe

Squat & Gobble

2263 Chestnut Street (The Marina)

Tuesday 7/13/10 2-3 pm

Notes:

I set out to hoodmapp The Grove, notebook in hand but as I walk down Chestnut Street, I am overpowered by the smell of bacon. As I look up at the sign, I chuckle. Squat & Gobble had officially got my attention.

As I walk in and scan the room, guys in argyle sweaters and attractive girls with colorful tank tops surrounded me. The shoe apparel of choice seems to be flip-flops. I step up to the counter and order a side of extra crispy bacon and an ice tea.

Two college age girls sit across from me eating matching salads. They both are wearing colorful tank tops, one purple, one pink, and Diesel jeans.

I check in on foursquare and take note that Hank L. is the mayor here. I laugh as I spot him at the corner table. He is doing a bang-up job.

The matching salad girls talk about their boys. Purple tank top states loudly, “ I was like if he doesn’t want to make the time for me then, NEXT”! Pink tank top nods her head in agreement as she takes a huge bite of her Mexican Chicken Salad.

I pause and smile. Simple Minds, “Don’t You Forget About me,” the theme song from The Breakfast Club is playing. I think about John Hughes.

Three stereotypical Marina boys sit at the center table. They are wearing button-up shirts, shorts, and flip-flops. All three still have their sunglasses on even though the lighting in the café is dim. They are talking loudly about last night’s adventure. They seem fuzzy on some of the key details.

A girl enters. She looks like a young Kate Moss. The three Marina boys watch her strut to the counter. They whisper and laugh. I am glad I can’t hear what they are saying.

David Bowie’s “Suffragette City” is playing in the background.

An attractive athletic guy enters. Mid 30’s, skinny jeans, black t-shirt. He walks over towards Kate. He kisses her on the forehead. The three Marina boys turn back to their breakfast disappointed.

“Ohhh, wham bam thank you maam!”

The guy in the red hoodie next to me sits hunched over his Mac. He is working hard-core. Ear phones on, pen in mouth, typing away madly. His food sits next to him untouched. Looks like he is writing some kind of article. Papers spread wildly across the table. I imagine he is some kind of literary genius. Suddenly I feel like Bridget Jones. Could do worse. I love her.

Music changes. It’s Duran Duran’s “Hungry Like the Wolf,” I love this place. I suddenly wonder what it’s like to smell like you sound?

As I scope out the place, I realize this is more of a social scene than work type place. The only two serious laptopers are red hoodie guy and a young blonde woman on the opposite side of the café. It’s like a type off or something. Every other table is full of two or more friends. I am the only solo person without a computer. Secretly observing them all. I suddenly feel kinda creepy.

Four college frat boy types rush past me. BU hats, khaki shorts, flip-flops. Am I the only person in this café besides the staff wearing sneakers? Must I be haunted by Boston everywhere I go? They order breakfast then thankfully head towards the garden patio.

Kate Moss gets up to go to the bathroom. The Boston boys swoon.

Madonna’s, “Who’s that girl,” starts playing. I marvel at the fact that the music playing in the café seems to be syncing up to what is going on around me. My timer goes off. My meter has run out. I leave a tip on the table and make a note to come back again for the music. The sunlight blinds me as I open the door to the café and wander out to the busy street.

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