A few years ago in the cafe we had an internet connection. Just one. A 486 with a little desk and chair was squeezed into the walkway of the mezzanine, and for a few bucks you could check your email or cruise the web for half an hour.
The cafe was one of those non-chain shops with brick walls, open rafters, tacky couches, and several layers of black paint. The sort of place that stayed open very late. Sold coffee in beer mugs. Hosted live gigs for a $2 cover. Hung paintings from local artists. Fashion running from suit through punk. The young of heart and agile of mind. So there was a cobbed together net connection breathing to the world at 14,400 bps.
The staff loved it, and so did the Euros and Aussies who stayed at the youth hostel next door.
One evening a well dressed lady of mid/late twenties came in, ordered a large latte, and asked how much the internet was. Then asked what time the shop closed. Then asked if she could book it for the rest of the night.
I came in later and found this out from the staff.
"Out of town?" I said.
"Nope. From here. Husband and two kids."
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© 2001 Owen Briggs
last modified on 14 may 01