A group of retired auto workers is having their morning coffee. They pushed two tables together without asking. When you buy coffee and a corn muffin, you can redecorate, free of charge. They’re all white because I’m in North Chicago. They all have accents as if they do part-time work coaching amateur local sketch groups on the correct pronunciation of “Da’ Bulls.” The coffee shop is run by a 60 year-old man, and has 60 year-old man features: card tables, folding chairs, table cloths. You can tell a cafe is modern when the tables are nude.
Their conversations are what you’d expect: whether or not leasing a car is a scam; bragging about being a loyal Round Up customer (“I’m just sayin’, come to my backyard—no dandelions.”); arguing that the mother of 4 year-old boy who caused a gorilla to be shot was negligent because she clearly didn’t hit him enough. In a middle of a conversation about how “rare” it is to find women of both beauty and intelligence, they started discussing how poorly women are paid in the auto industry. They all agreed it was an injustice, then moved on to talk about how badly the church needed to be painted. Technically, this is progress.