You always think you’ve timed it perfectly. You find a quiet table in the corner of the coffee shop, settle in with your drink, open the laptop, and start knocking off your to-do list. Usually, you’d be at home working, but a temporary power outage has forced you to run your laptop on battery power, and I was moving into “20 minutes” left territory with four hours of work still to do. The library was also without power, yet curiously, the coffee shop wasn’t – don’t ask me how grids are mapped out.
The early birds are quietly reading or just preparing for the day; the freelancers are focused; and the retirees are sipping their caffeine in peaceful silence. You think, “Perfect. Productive morning ahead.”
And then the door swings open. A gust of cold air rolls in. A familiar vibration rattles the pastry case.
The Loud Ladies Club has arrived.
You know them the moment they appear: mid-morning, matching jackets, giant purses, and a collective volume level that could disrupt the migration pattern of Canadian geese. They don’t just enter a room. They announce themselves like a Broadway cast making its opening-night debut. Somehow, they all have the same loud cackle for a laugh.
“HELLOOOOOO!” one of them bellows, despite the barista standing two feet away. Another laughs — loudly — at absolutely nothing, like the joy is shooting out of her in uncontrollable bursts. Chairs scrape. Cups clatter. Three conversations start simultaneously, each woman determined to speak over the others. It’s like watching a panel discussion where no one realizes they’re all panelists.
You try to stay focused. You really do. But then comes the kicker: the straggler. The lone late arrival, marching through the door like she’s trekking into base camp at Everest.
“HEY, WE’RE OVER HERE!!” The entire café turns and thinks, Yeah, no shit! Because how could you not?
The thing is, the café is about the size of a generously proportioned shoebox. She could have found her group by simply rotating her neck 30 degrees. They weren’t exactly hard to spot because they’ve been broadcasting to the entire Western Hemisphere and parts of the Eastern Hemisphere since their arrival. But no, protocol must be observed. The ritualistic group greeting must be delivered at stadium volume.
And then, once she joins them (after scraping her chair as loud as an F1 pit stop as she pulls it out), the decibel level hits its peak. You don’t just hear their conversation. You hear the conversations they had last week, the conversations they will have later today, and probably the ones they’ll have in 2027. It’s the only time in life you can overhear multiple past, present, and future conversations all at once.
The best part? They absolutely do not realize they’re loud.
Not even a hint of awareness. Not even when someone at the next table gives them the Look™ — you know the one: the slow head turn, the raised eyebrows, the silent plea for mercy. Doesn’t matter. They just keep going, confident that the public café is actually their living room, or better yet, their own private social club where the rest of us are temporary props.
Every three minutes, a new eruption of laughter detonates like a sonic boom. Everything brings a loud, collective cackle. Those two ducks on the water who are minding their own business? Group cackle. One French fry is nearly burned rather than that golden color? Group cackle. Those fallen leaves blowing in the wind? Group cackle. The barista has now raised the volume of the café music twice; the poor kid in the corner, pretending to study anatomy, is aging in real time; and the one quiet customer who came in for peace is now holding their mug like a stress ball.
Meanwhile, you’re sitting there with your laptop, proud that you got your work done before the flock descended, because there’s absolutely no chance of accomplishing anything once they land. Productivity? Forget it. Your brain is too busy decoding overlapping stories about grandchildren, vacation plans, a neighbour’s cat, a sale at Winners, and something vague involving someone named Brenda.
But there’s one undeniable truth: As much as they hijack the soundscape of the room, they’re harmless. Loud, yes. Obnoxious, absolutely. But they’re also having the time of their lives. And really, who hasn’t wished they could laugh that freely every once in a while?
Still, next time, you’re sitting far, far away, preferably in a different area code.
John Berkovich Talks 