The Public Corrector

It happens without warning. One moment you’re sipping your coffee, the next your hand is in the air, voice rising above the hiss of the espresso machine:

“Charlottesville is NOT Austin!”

The words explode out of you, ricocheting off exposed brick and reclaimed wood.

For a heartbeat, silence. Then the café fractures.

Half the room erupts in thunderous approval. Someone claps like you just scored the winning basket at JPJ. A barista pumps a fist and whispers, “Finally.” A man in a puffer vest bellows, “Preach!” You bask for an instant in their adoration, warm as the sun over the Blue Ridge.

But the other half… oh, the other half. Their eyes cut sharper than zoning law debates at City Hall. A grad student mutters, “Actually…” before sinking into a sulk. A couple from Austin narrows their eyes, as if you’ve insulted both them and Willie Nelson personally. Someone hisses, “Typical local.”

The room vibrates with division. You are both celebrated truth-teller and insufferable crank. Your cheeks burn. Your chest swells. Pride and shame twine together like kudzu, inseparable.

You are a martyr. You are a fool.

You are a Cville local.

Do you:

• Double down 
• Retreat to Carter Mountain for hard cider