It was Elvis morning at my coffee house, a place notorious for its eclectic music offerings. Throughout the morning we were treated to samplings from The King's entire career. By the time I left, the poor fellow had entered his final stage of bloat and sweat.
While I sat, hunkered over a pile of geek research for an upcoming writing project, I was actually doing something far more interesting: Being nosy.
Over the course of two hours I heard a man who felt tied down and suffocated by his marriage, a lonely California transplant who was having a hard time making friends, a goldsmith who was doing extremely well on his new antidepressant, an African-American woman who was used to having at least three or four boyfriend prospects in New York but could barely find one here (Maine is not known as a hotbed of diversity), and a woman who'd had her tubes tied at 22 because her then-husband was abusive but had the operation reversed at age 34 and had a son (who isn't doing well in school, fyi).
I also learned that the Pickwick Arms is a good choice if you can't find a hotel room in New York. Hey, you never know when this stuff could come in handy.