SoMa Literary Review - The Alien at the Coffee House

The Alien at the Coffee House

By Pete Kushmeider

I scan around the room here at Ritual Roasters in the Mission - a pleasant space filled with natural light, pungent coffee aromas, and people. Mission people. This morning, it's predominantly a melange of bike messengers, artists, and entrepreneurs. The bike messengers are obvious; the artists are the oddly dressed and styled malnourished ones; and the entrepreneurs sit in loud packs discussing PowerPoint marketing plans.

Many could be queer - even the young father sitting with his toddler. All are terrestrial - I have faculties that can determine that precisely. Yes, they are all humans. My lot is to observe and report. I am an anthropologist. My findings will bring me fame and authority when I return home, if all goes well. Truly, it's up to me. My future is in my own hands. I just have to begin to understand these people, these city dwellers.

I just need insights into what they feel, what motivates them, what societal forces guide them. Common cultural traits; a schema for this micro-cross-section of urban human behavior. It's a simple academic assignment really.

So, why is it these people truly remain foreign to me? Try as I do, I cannot get invited into meaningful discussions with the representative cultural types. I've been coming here, to the same spot, at the same time, each day for two weeks. I have noted all the surface information, in fact catalogued numerous pages on dress, public behavior (including sexual behavior!), and the like. But that's so far from where I need to be right now. Actual real-time participation in group behavior is the step I must make - and so far a bridge too far for me.

I began to come here based on research in local written and electronic sources, citing this spot in particular as having a clientele both diverse, and representative of the larger urban entity. My use of the online social networking service Craigslist, which reference sources had told me was the best way to meet people, failed to produce meaningful contact with the community. I had to resort to other observational measures. So I wait here, sipping double non-fat lattes, for any opportunity to join in cultural experiences.

"Hey, what's that you're working on?" I am interrupted by one of the artist types. I look up from my notes. "I'm studying" I reply, which is, after all, correct. "Xeno-anthropology" I add, figuring he won't pick up on that. His pink hair and shin-length pants (not jeans, not black) identify him as a probable artist. I must engage him in a meaningful prolonged encounter. "Sounds awesome. You've got foam all over your upper lip man." Processing quickly, I determine a dual course of action. I wipe my mouth, at the same time I slide over to offer the artist-candidate a seat on the sofa. I engage facial muscles to form an expression which in this culture is considered a sign of welcome.

It works! He takes the offered seat. "What's your sign?" I ask. Research from a colleague's previous stint here fortunately provides me with topical guidance. "I'm an Aries" I add to demonstrate my knowledge of this pop-cultural niche. Artist shakes his body, and makes quiet sounds; my reference searches tell me this is called 'giggling.' I am uncertain as to what this means in the current social interaction. I wait for him to say something, figuring that is the best way to avoid and incorrect response. Artist looks directly at me, activates his own facial muscles, and tells me my arms are (I am quoting) huge. I have to pause, as it takes me several seconds to orient myself with the facts of my physical appearance aside from my dress and styling. The possible-Artists's statement is again something I have trouble figuring a good reply to, which disconcerts me somewhat. It ignores my own overture, which was a pop-culture reference he should be aware of and capable of responding to. His transfer of subject to physical appearance could indicate sexual interest.

My searches finally confirm this is the meaning with highest probability. I prepare the optimal reply, intending to extend community participation with this one as long as possible. I say "Let's fuck dude."

"I'm not gay." His facial muscles activate further, however, which should indicate sexual interest. And he conducts a preening exercise, common to many known species, running one hand though his hair. I am confused. Historical databanks from earlier observers tell me the next likely scenario is he is a physical culturist. He may have been commenting on my arms to begin a discussion of body- building. I discount this, since possible-Artist appears malnourished. In the few seconds it takes me to process this, he adds "But I am curious."

Also by Pete Kushmeider on SoMa Literary Review: Red Glitter Shoes

Pete Kushmeider gave up on making a fortune in high tech in order to write, blog at queeristan.wordpress.com, and work on his novel. He lives with his partner of 22 years, and currently scribbles about aliens among us.