I think I officially have a new office.  It’s got a radio and CD player, air and heat, a place to sit, and windows that open and close.  I don’t have to share the space with anyone.  When I’m in my new office, I’m close to a variety of places to eat or drink or take a break.  The view isn’t much unless I can find WiFi access, but that’s okay. 

My windows are open onto a wall of cabinets, my washer and dryer, and some clothes that needed washing since last week.  That’s because my new office is my car, and right now it’s sitting in my garage. 

This isn’t the first time I’ve used my car as a place to write or catch up on paperwork.  Last time I was sitting in my car and typing, I was parked at a cafe before it opened.  I couldn’t access the Internet, but was able to write a letter while I waited.  It was nice, actually.  The parking lot was empty, the street quiet, and steady rain drummed on the roof of the car.  When the cafe opened an hour later, I bought a tea and let my letter fly into the Internet ether through their WiFi access.

Today I went to the same cafe.  It’s Sunday, nearly dinnertime.  The cafe closes in a few hours so I thought business would be light.  Instead I drove up to find the lot full.  Inside every table was occupied but one.  I ordered a fruit salad and sat at a tiny table next to a man occupying a table for four.  The table had no outlet nearby, so I hoped the cafe would clear out before I ran out of battery time.

The man coughed a phlegmy cough.  I wondered how long I could hold my breath because whatever he had, I didn’t want.  I watched him from the corner of my eye.  He looked bored and lonely.  He drummed his fingers, closed his laptop, and pulled out his telephone.  Oh.my.God.  I thought.  I came here to catch up on myself, to find a space quieter and calmer than the one at home, to sit at a real table with real grownups and drink something hot that nobody would stick their little fingers in and I get to sit next to a restless man who probably has tuberculosis and decides to ruin my little cafe-experience by talking on the phone to his brother?  Or sister?  Or whatever.  Dude, doesn’t the fact that I know that yesterday was the anniversary of your Dad’s death and that you were way too busy this weekend means that you maybe should be taking your conversation somewhere else, like at home?  He coughed again.  I had already set my notebook out on the table but didn’t bother opening it.  I wasn’t sure I was going to stay.  I decided to fill out a form for my doctor’s visits next week. 

Mr. Hackman (as he will now be known) got up and took his shiny silver laptop to the car.  I sat up, eyeing his table.  If I sat at the edge I’d be able to reach the outlet.  I’d move when he came in and took his shiny silver gadgets.  His laptop was so big, there was no way he could have carried everything out.  Instead Mr. Hackman walked back in with a newspaper, spreading it so that the newspaper occupied one half of the table, his tea and electro-gadgets the other.  Then he coughed.

Students were planted on seats with books or laptops.  The Klezmer music ended and another Putamayo CD started.  I won’t get anything done here.  I decided.  Why try?  I packed up my papers, wallet, and computer and walked back to the car.

I sat and looked at the computer in the passenger’s seat.  Maybe I would just write there?  I wouldn’t have to worry about battery time, because I had a power inverter in the car and could probably power my laptop off my car battery.  I checked my receipt for the fruit salad.  I hadn’t taken the WiFi code, and I felt silly to go back in and ask for it.  I started the ignition.

Mr. Hackman walked out with his newspaper, tea, and gadgets, and sat outside.  He began talking to someone on the phone, his legs crossed and arms back as if he were at home.  For a minute I resented Mr. Hackman.  Why did he have to leave right after I did?  I could have stayed!  Then a twenty-something couple walked into the cafe.  I decided I would have found the cafe too loud, regardless of where I sat or who sat next to me, and I really didn’t want to sit in the parking lot with the sound of traffic behind me, so I drove away.

I think I found my new favorite place, anyway.  It’s very convenient.  The only downside is that I don’t have A/C or heat, and even with the garage door closed I hear David hammering, Matt cooking, and Carmen crying probably because she wants attention. 

I sometimes try to write and think when they’re gone, usually on pretty Sunday mornings when they run off to the zoo to see the animals and ride the carousel before the crowds arrive later in the day.  This morning they were out of the house at nine, off to brush goats at the petting zoo, watching the city wake up to a balmy day.  I made a grocery list, used masking tape to mark where I wanted Matt to install a hanger for a quilt, and got myself ready for the day.  And then, two hours later, they were already home. 

Sometimes they’re out longer, but it’s still tricky.  It’s easy to spend too much time wiping down the sticky table (I can’t sit there and let my papers get sticky, too!), finally showering (because I stink), putting away that one last load of laundry (because I need to find something to wear), and trying not to remember all my other chores (how I can not see them everywhere I turn?) that I sometimes don’t take the kind of time that I really need, time to catch up and think while I’m feeling fresh, before my eyes get tired and my letters all run together, before I feel cognitively tired and everything seems hard. 

What was I doing moving to a house with no home office, a little room with a door?  Or is it just as well?  It wouldn’t have been quieter than any other place.  I’d still hear all those house noises, just like I can now.  I’d still be at home.  C&D will want to see what I’m doing and start tugging at the doorknob.  They’ll want to put their fingers in my drink.  And even with my industrial earplugs and earmuffs I hear those high little voices, and my heart aches.

I have an idea, a secret idea, to have a space of my own, right by the house, with WiFi and a teapot.  I’ll be able to think in my new antisocial way, I won’t have to worry about Mr. Hackman or too-loud music or the pitter patter (more like the thunkathunkathunka) of feet, the staccato pounding of wooden blocks, the nasal whine of the vacuum metered by the sound of the beater passing back and forth over the floor, and the irregular clang of pots in the kitchen.  I know I can make it happen if I want to, I just need a little time.  And seed money.  I’m not sure which of the two is harder to come by.  And you know, darn it all, I’ll probably hate it.  It’ll be too quiet.  I won’t know when they’re upstairs taking turns vacuuming, that somebody is bored, or that Matt needs shower and a break.

My eyes are tired.  It took too many hours to write this post (it’s already nearly eight). Until next time I’ll see you later, maybe from my new office in the garage.