It was late Friday afternoon when I stopped by Wilson’s office.
“Let’s take a walk,” I said. “Coffee, my treat.”
Never one to turn down a freebie, Wilson readily agreed and we were outside walking to the coffeeshop a few blocks away. It was a little storefront, an independent place that had somehow survived the Starbucks onslaught.
I opened the door and we stepped inside and were greeted by a series of high-pitched beeps. It seemed all the employees had stopped and were staring at us. Then one coughed, the kind of little, fake cough one does to bring attention to something, or someone. In this case, it was us being that we were the only customers in the place. Then another worker did the little fake cough thing. It spread to the third worker in the shop. It was some kind of signal.
“Odd,” I said.
“Maybe they have colds, “Wilson said. “They can spread fast, especially in the workplace.”
“No, I don’t think so,” I said. “That was a code of some sort.”
Wilson ordered what appeared to be a rather complicated drink made with yak milk. I opted for a cup of coffee. I stuck my card in the little card reader and heard a high-pitched screech. Now all the workers glared at me. I heard one do the little grade school sneeze thing, trying to cover up a word with a fake sneeze.
“Deader,” he seemed to say.
Wilson whispered to me. “They may have the flu.”
The barista, a young gal, glared at me like I had knocked something over. She was waiting for me to make a move. I wasn’t sure what it was supposed to be, so I said, “Yes?”
She looked at her little screen and said, “Are you sure this is the best use of your money?”
I glanced at Wilson. He shrugged. A lot of good he was going to be.
“Maybe I’m missing something,” I said, looking down to check the amount. “But it’s seven dollars and sixty-three cents.”
She was nodding, like I had somehow made her point for her.
“Yes, doesn’t sound like much, but seeing how you were nine days late on your credit card payment, I’m wondering if maybe you have a spending problem.”
“I beg your pardon,” I said. “Why is this any of your business?”
“You were late with a card payment?” Wilson asked.
“Thanks for jumping in, yak milk drinker,” I said.
Another barista walked behind her, glanced over her shoulder at the screen and shook his head.
“Debt to income ratio is pretty weak,” he said. “You own a boat, or something?”
“No, I have a kid in college,” I said.
They both scrunched up their faces like they had stomach pain and said, “Ohhhhhhhh.”
“That explains it,” the gal said.
“Nothing explains being a debtor,” her co-worker said, walking away smugly.
“What the hell are you looking at back there?” I asked.
The barista turned the screen around so I could see it. “It’s a new app, Deadbeat Alert. It alerts us when a deadbeat enters the shop.”
“I’m not a deadbeat. I was late,” I said.
“It has bugs,” she said. “The app is in beta. They’re still working out the kinks. But you get the picture.”
“How is this even possible, or legal?” I asked.
The co-worker was back, shaking his head as I spoke. “Oh sure, just like a deadbeat, running to find a law to protect him,” he said.
“And why would you use it? Don’t you want people to spend money in here?” I asked.
“We’re just trying to help people spend responsibly,” she said. “You know, social responsibility.”
“Where’s the owner?” I asked. “I need to get to the bottom of this.”
“He’s down the street setting it up at the salad place. The whole block is going to be wired soon, so everyone will know when a deadbeat walks by.”
“I am not a …”
“It’s guys like you that are eroding the whole financial trust system,” her colleague said, walking behind her and using the opportunity to take yet another shot.
We were interrupted by a series of beeps as another customer came in.
“Oh, she’s a Level Two risk,” the gal said, looking at her screen. “She’s thirty days behind on the mortgage for her condo.”
Wilson and I stepped to the side to wait for his concoction to be mixed and served. His came in a warm, welcoming coffee cup. Mine was in a red cup with a large D on it.
“Sorry about the credit card payment,” he said, as we left.
“This is disgraceful,” I said. “I am not a deadbeat. Late, but not a deadbeat.”
“If you say so,” he said.
We walked back past the salad place when a woman walked by.
“Disgraceful,” she muttered under her breath as she passed, glancing at me.