By Jim Hagarty
1994
There is a place where three modern obsessions come together in daily contact and the results are not always pleasant. At the local coffee shop, here and there among the “normal” people, are coffee-addicted news junkies who are also too cheap to buy a paper. To avoid laying down that big 50 cents for reading material, they will subject themselves to all sorts of frustration, disappointment and yes, even humiliation, all in public view. But before you condemn these types, try pitying them. How would you like to be hooked on something you absolutely refuse to pay for?
Like most character types in this world, coffee shop newshounds can be classed into a few specific categories. If you recognize yourself in any of these examples, you might want to think about seeking help.
The Paper Hog
Let’s start with the most objectionable character first. This person must have before him on his little table in the corner, EVERY SINGLE SECTION OF EVERY PAPER IN THE PLACE, as if he can read them all at once. A defining characteristic is his ability to completely ignore the glaring eyes of the other would-be readers in the shop who spend their visit to the place imagining suitable punishments for the lout, most of them involving either electric shock or some sort of water torture.
The Thief
Somewhere in every town or city, lurks a true menace who, when finished with the paper, leaves the coffee shop with a section (or two), from sports, to business to “insight.” This is a truly criminal act as newspaper junkies then must spend 10 minutes going frantically through every single paper in the rack, looking for that section, which of course, no longer exists, like the shattered kid looking for the absent toy assault rifle under the Christmas tree.
The Clipper
Living in every city is a woman who wears one of those magnifying glasses on a cord around her neck and comes to the shop well-equipped with a pair of tiny scissors. Before the horrified stares of onlooking newshounds waiting for her paper, she begins to carefully clip out all the articles which interest her and file them away in a little leatherette folder with which she eventually exits the shop.
The Co-reader
This type has no interest in any part of the paper except the part you’re reading and so will sit on the stool beside you, hover like a dentist and read over your shoulder.
The Co-reader – Complete With Sound
Same as above only this guy shares comments on the stories you and he are co-reading. “So, whadya say? Michael Jackson divorced in six months?” (Your only appropriate response is to look at him and say, “Get away from me!”)
The Sharer
Perhaps the most honest, this guy marches over to your table, grabs the sections you’re not reading, asks, “You readin’ these?” and leaves with them. But of course, those were the sections you were just about to get to, wanting especially the page with the article on the connection between backaches and nectarines.
The Broadcaster
This guy sees it as his job to keep the rest of the coffee-shop gang informed about the goings on of the world and of his opinions about them. So in a loud voice, he announces as he reads: “Each photo radar unit is capable of catching two speeders every second. Well, it’ll be a hot day in February when they catch me with their little picture vans, the creeps.”
The Custodian
On second thought, this guy might be even more hated than the Paper Hog, because he gathers up all the papers in front of him, and then is joined by a friend so the two spend the next half hour swapping lies while the paper sits unread before them and a half a dozen news junkies go into withdrawal.
The Stranger
Now and then, a stranger appears, bearing his very own paper which he actually bought in a box outside. This is a big mistake on his part as he is then called on repeatedly to try to convince his fellow coffee-shop dwellers that this paper is, in fact, really his and doesn’t belong to the restaurant. Failing to do that, he quits buying papers and shows up from then on without one and thus, another coffee-shop newshound is born.
The end.
