Shock waves rippled across 7th and Montana this morning as the “Zombie” – known for sitting motionless in the same chair for hours on end – snapped out of it. All at once, he opened his eyes, pulled the earphones out of his ears and looked in my direction. “Hey, mate,” he said in an Australian accent, “You wouldn’t happen to know what time it is, would you?” I couldn't have been more surprised if King Tut's mummy walked in the door and ordered a Grande Americano. “Ummmm … what?!?,” I replied. “You know, the time … what time is it?,” he repeated. He looked at me like I was the one in a semi-catatonic state. “Oh, sure,” I said, “It’s 7:25.” “I’m late!,” he said. And with that, he stood up, brushed the dust off his jacket and set off on a journey ... all the way to another table, closer to the pastry counter. Was it something I said ...?