Conversations With Eddie

Twelve months is a long time to go without seeing your best friend, and seeing Eddie Washington walk through the door of St. Arbuck’s was like, well, seeing Eddie Washington walk through the door...by which I mean that no one can pull it off quite like him.

It’s the entrance, followed by the dramatic pause to survey the landscape—more like surveying his domain, if you want to know the truth—then it’s the slow rhythmic stroll that most people would call a “walk.” However, what Eddie does is more like gliding to a subtle, slow groove that only he can hear.

The occasion of his return was to attend the wedding of a friend. Eddie, being Eddie, found a way to stretch it into a long weekend.

His eyes finally focused on me causing his handsome face to light up in a pure Eddie smile. Now, if you’ve never experienced the full force of an “Eddie smile,” well, let me tell you about it: Guileless, joyful, completely transparent and genuine that carries with it the sense that it’s a smile reserved only for a select few.

“RG,” said he in that deeply burnished urban brogue of his, which, for the record, he turns on and off as the occasion demands.

“Brother,” came my reply as I stood to embrace my friend.

We probably hugged longer than is socially acceptable for two straight males, but we don’t really care about stuff like that.

Let ‘em talk.

Heck, let ‘em eat cake, whatever that means.

“Good to see you, RG.”

“You too, man,” I replied as we sat down at our usual corner table. “It’s been way, way too long.”

“Indeed it has.”

“So,” I said. “What’s new?”

He laughed. “You mean since three days ago?”

It’s not like there was a lot to catch up on, for we talk several times a week, but there’s just something that happens face-to-face that can never happen over the phone or even through video chat.

“Well, yeah.”

A married couple we both knew came in, saw us and came over to offer hugs and greetings, which then led to several minutes of pleasant chatter.

After they left to order their coffee he said, “Dude, I got to tell you about something that happened a few weeks ago on the subway.”

“You get mugged, or something?”

“No, no, no...nothing like that.”

He lives in a really good part of the city, but still...it’s New York! I mean, come on.

He said, “Nah, man. I was taking the subway home after work; it was about two a.m. and, as usual, the train was full. We came to a scheduled stop, the doors opened and this homeless guy got on.”

“That’s unusual?” I inquired.

“By itself, no, because there are thousands of homeless people in the city. But this guy was huge! Like six-five and probably three hundred pounds. And old! Maybe, mid-sixties.”

While I didn’t say it, I thought to myself that someone in his mid-sixties just doesn’t sound that old to me anymore.

“And the strangest thing happened,” he continued. “All the people in his end of the car got up and moved down to the other end where I was sitting.”

“Why? Was he violent or something?”

“No, man. He just...he wasn’t doing anything offensive. All those people were acting like him being alive and breathing was offensive—like he didn’t belong in their world.”

“Man, that’s harsh.”

“Did I mention that it was snowing?”

“No.”

“Yeah, it was snowing. And whenever it rains or snows, homeless people get on the train and ride it out to Coney Island and back, staying on as long as they can until the cops kick them off.”

“And that’s what he was doing?”

He said, “That was my guess. But you have to picture the scene: Here’s this one old, huge homeless guy down at one end of the car and about forty people all crammed together down at the other end and all of them staring at him. It was surreal!”

“He stare back?

“Nah, man. He just kept to himself. Sort of staring at the floor. I looked down at his feet and, dude, he didn’t have any shoes on! Snowing outside and the boy didn’t have shoes!”

“So, he was barefoot?”

“No, he had newspapers wrapped around his feet. And his ankles...it looked like elephant skin; like, I don’t know, maybe something you’d see after frostbite, or something.”

All I could do was shake my head as I tried to picture this man’s condition while imagining all of the thousands of people in this country who would fall into the same category.

He continued, “Eventually everyone got off except me. So there I am at one end, and the dude at the other. So I got up and moved down to his end and sat across from him.”

“And you started up a conversation, didn’t you?”

“You know me well,” he chuckled. “Yeah, man. I just started asking him questions. He was almost, like, I don’t know, either he suffered from some mental handicap or had done a lot of drugs or something. I didn’t learn much about his history because he just wasn’t very conversant. But the more we talked I just couldn’t get past the fact that the man had newspapers wrapped around his feet...and there was snow on the ground! And it just broke my heart.”

“Pretty graphic witness to the strength of the human spirit when it comes to survival. Crazy what people will do.”

He was silent for a minute as if trying to control his emotions. “We were getting close to my stop and I looked at his feet; looked at my feet with my brand new Puma’s that I had looked all over New York City to find; felt my dress shoes in my backpack and asked him what size shoe he wore. He said that he wore a size thirteen. Same size as me.”

“So, you gave him your new shoes?” I said with a knowing smile.

He nodded his head in silence. “I mean, what else could I do? I took them off and told him to try them on. He kind of stared at me like, ‘Really?’ He put them on and they fit. I put my dress shoes on, stood, shook his hand and got off at my stop. When the train left he was kind of turned around staring out the window at me, gave me a little wave and then he was gone.”

“That was an extraordinary thing to do,” I said.

He shook his head. “Not really.”

“What do you mean?”

“I had an extra pair of shoes in my backpack.”

“So?”

“What if I hadn’t had that extra pair? Would I have still given him my new shoes and walked home in my socks?”

“That doesn’t seem—“

“Relevant?” he said, completing my sentence. “I beg to differ. It is entirely relevant because it’s all about what we’re really willing to give up when faced with overwhelming need.”

I thought about that for a few seconds and realized he was right. Here in the land of plenty, where so many have so much, there are still people, just like this man on the subway, who have little or nothing with absolutely no way to better their situation; desperation and hopelessness their constant companions.

“Still,” I said. “There aren’t many people who would’ve done what you did. I mean, come on, there wasn’t even anyone willing to occupy the same space as the guy.”

“True, true,” he replied slowly. “But I should’ve done more.”

“You did what you could.” Then, after a brief pause I added, “You most likely did more than you knew.”

A couple more friends dropped by to say hi and then Eddie had to go.

As we walked toward the parking lot, making plans to meet up for dinner later on that evening, I thought about what Eddie said about not having done enough. And what is enough? And when is too little? I must confess, I had no answers.

“See you about seven?” I said as we shook hands in parting. I mean, come on, we hugged once. Twice would’ve been pushing it.

“Yeah, man. Looking forward to hanging with you and that pretty lady you live with.”

And it started to rain.

I looked down at Eddie’s feet. He was sporting new Nikes.

I love Nikes.

“Forget it! I ain’t giving you my shoes,” he said with a smile as he turned to go.

“But—“

“No way, Jack!”

Sometimes the man can be downright selfish.

Hollow Girl

It was a rare, sun splashed morning in OB, the marine layer having retreated somewhere beyond the blue horizon.

And good riddance!

I mean coming from the desert I haven’t minded the cool, misty mornings, but when the misty mornings turn to misty, windy afternoons for days on end it eventually begins to wear on you.

A four-foot swell had the surfers out in force and the premium spots on the sand were filling rapidly with beachgoers out for a day of fanciful frolic: Families with enough gear to justify a week of camping; groups of young teenaged girls whose every movement was tracked with laser-like intensity by groups of teenaged boys; middle-aged couples lounging under the shade of artfully placed beach umbrellas taking in the unfolding drama with detached amusement.

St. Arbuck’s was packed with patrons, and while the demographic defied categorization there seemed to be an overarching and pervasive spirit of good humor and conviviality in the room.

Except, that is, for one couple.

They sat in stony silence, neither glancing at nor speaking to one another, their expressions reflective of people who didn’t really want to be together.

They were an odd pair.

She: Early thirties with ill-cut, shoulder length, drab, brown hair; large, blue eyes set off by a facial bone structure and clarity of complexion that could have easily been transformed into stunning beauty under the skilled hands of a makeover artist. A gray, below-the-knee shift, that seemed more suited to one forty years her senior, mostly obscured a trim, athletic figure.

He: Fifty, with graying hair that fell in greasy strands to just below his jaw line; overly large, metal-rimmed glasses; mismatched shirt and slacks; sallow, pitted complexion with thin lips that did little to offset his rheumy, gray eyes.

She took a slow sip of her coffee, peered at the ceiling over the rim of the cup, decided that there was nothing there of interest and then looked back at down at the table.

Returning the cup carefully to its saucer, she began to arrange the items on her side of the table—spoon, sugar, creamer, water glass—all placed just so, then rearranged in seeming random order as if desperate for something to occupy her attention.

The man held a flip-top cell phone in front of his face in the manner of one whose vision has deteriorated to the point that even with corrective lenses reading is a challenge, laboriously tapping out what I assumed to be a text message.

I suddenly found myself caught by the woman’s eyes—a gaze uncommonly stark and unwavering in its focus.

I quickly looked away only to glance back a few seconds later to find that she was still staring.

I looked down at my computer screen.

Glanced up again.

Still staring.

Just when I began to get really uncomfortable, I suddenly realized that there was no challenge in her eyes, no seduction, no humor, no interest...just...nothing.

She simply stared.

A bead of perspiration appeared on my forehead, succumbed to gravity and slowly moved downward, slipping past my nose and onto my cheek. I fought the urge to begin waving my hands in an effort to provoke a reaction.

Who were these people, anyway?

It didn’t seem plausible that they were man and wife, but neither was he old enough to be her father. Perhaps she was a younger sister, niece...personal assistant? For some reason I settled on the latter.

She flicked her eyes at the man briefly before returning to the object of her apparent fascination, i.e., me.

I mean, why me? Why not the guy seated at the table next to me? Was she trying to convey to me that I had something on my face, my head, my clothing that needed to be removed in order to save embarrassment? Did she find me attractive; hideous; enthralling?

In the end I dismissed all of the above as I realized that she was merely seeking some form of human contact, for it was abundantly obvious that, whatever their relationship, she had none from the man seated across from her.

Without preamble the man abruptly stood, brushed a few crumbs off of his protuberant belly, turned and headed for the door, pushing through it and walking purposefully toward a large, late model Mercedes leaving the young woman hastily scrambling to gather her things and hurry after.

Pausing just before exiting the store, she glanced briefly in my direction, the depth of despair in her eyes nearly palpable in its intensity.

Then, with head and eyes downcast, she trudged after the man as if walking through a field of quicksand, opened the driver’s door, climbed behind the wheel and drove away.

I stared after the car for a few seconds, pondering the significance of what I had just experienced, indeed, wondering if there was any significance at all or if the entire episode had been a mere random occurrence to be dismissed and quickly forgotten.

“Mate, do you know the password?” said a heavily accented voice off to my left.

Giving my head a quick shake I replied, “I’m sorry?”

“The Internet. Do you know the password to get on the store’s Wi-Fi?” said a twenty-something Australian Hipster.

I gave it to him and discussed briefly how amazing it was to have nearly universal Internet connection before returning to my musing.

Ultimately I decided that it wasn’t the girl’s stare that had left me in such a troubled state, but, rather, what I had seen in the depths of her eyes.

I may never see her again, I will doubtless see others who struggle against the same soul stripping despondency—even in the midst of a busy, bustling, bright and blithesome coffee shop; individuals deserving of my compassion and attention.

“That’s not it, mate!” said the Hipster.

“Excuse me?”

“The password. It’s not bloody working.”

I wrote it out for him on a slip of paper and handed it across the divide between our tables.

He laughed. “Well, then, that explains it. I heard you say something completely different.”

We talked for a few more minutes during which time I learned that he was visiting from Perth and was considering a move to San Diego to attend UCSD’s International House, home to approximately 260 students from more than 30 countries who live and learn together as a community.

Life was good. He, in fact, loved his life—loved everything about it. Wouldn’t trade with anyone.

He was filled with hope.

She was hollow.

The juxtaposition of two such disparate life trajectories was startling in its contrast.

And yet, it doesn’t require a great deal of effort to alter trajectory—ask any sharpshooter or archer.

I bid him a good day, closed my laptop and headed for my giant, red Kronan Swedish Army bike, which I’d left chained to a pole outside having lost all interest in novel writing for the moment.

Hollow girl.

The black Mercedes appeared in the periphery of my vision and then cruised slowly past; the driver’s side window rolled down and the girl gave me a funny little wave.

I waved back.

She smiled.

It transformed her face.

I pedaled slowly homeward.

Birth Control

Honesty compels me to confess that rowdy children in a small, enclosed space like St. Arbuck’s is not one of my favorite things.

Actually, now that I think about it, unruly kids are off-putting regardless of the environment.

And don’t get me started on the topic of inattentive, permissive parental units!

So, there I sat in my favorite coffee bar, doing battle with the bloated monstrosity also known as my current novel when the erstwhile calm was shattered by the arrival of a single dad and three—count ‘em—three young daughters.

Redheads.

Not that hair color has any particular bearing on the propensity of a child toward disruptive behavior, just stating an observational fact.

No, seriously.

How did I know he was a single dad? I think it was his eyes, the way they cast about the room as if seeking rescue, or, perhaps, at the very least understanding and compassion.

The three little darlings—approximate ages 5, 7 and 9—stormed immediately toward the pastry counter shoving and elbowing each other while at the same time shrieking in that frequency of voice that, seemingly, only young girls are capable of emitting.

“I get to order first!”

(Shriek!) “Noooo! You ordered first last time!”

“Me first! MeeeeeeeeFiiiiiiirrrrrrrsssssstttttt!!!” (Shriek! Shriek! Shriek!)

You get the picture.

The littlest one, and obvious, at least to my ringing ears, vocal champ, planted herself squarely in front of the register and refused to be budged by either of her sisters although they had at least a foot in height and twenty pounds body weight on her.

“Daaaaaaaaaddddd!” wailed the eldest. “Mary won’t move out of the way! Daaaaaaaaaddddd!”

The beleaguered father staggered forward as if in a daze, his mouth working wordlessly, arms flapping helplessly at his sides, head pinioning atop his shoulders as he scanned the menu board.

“Mary,” he said softly. “Why don’t you let Siobhan order first this morning?”

“Nooooooooooooo!” Mary shrieked. “Nooooooo! Noooooo! Noooooooooooooooooo!”

This bombast was accompanied by much gesticulation and stomping of her tiny feet.

It became quickly and indisputably clear that wee Mary was the boss in this family.

The middle child chimed in. “Why does she always get what she wants? I never get anything!” Arms crossed; chin tucked against her thin chest; the corners of her cute little mouth turned down in an epic pout.

“Now Bonnie,” reasoned dad, who by now had recovered somewhat from his previous stupor. “You know that Mary doesn’t always get her way.”

“Whatever!” This from Siobhan, with a roll of her piercing blue eyes tossed in for emphasis.

As for what happened next, I couldn’t rightly say for at that moment I had a pressing matter that required my attention, to whit heeding the insistent call of a middle-aged bladder.

I had no sooner turned on the light in the men’s room than I heard a significant ruckus filtering through the wall of the adjoining women’s room.

It seemed that the tiny trio of sisters had all simultaneously sensed the selfsame need as I.

With dad temporarily out of earshot (although I’m convinced anyone within a hundred feet could’ve heard every word clearly) Bonnie and Siobhan seized the opportunity to let Mary have it!

Rather than provide blow-by-blow color commentary, suffice it to say that the tag team diatribe involved derogatory descriptions of their younger sibling shocking to hear spoken from such young and innocent lips.

All of which eventually provoked Mary to explore aural frequencies that I am quite sure were previously unknown to human kind.

Sheer morbid fascination caused me to linger over the sink, washing and rewashing my hands as I listened in rapt attention to the unfolding drama unfolding one wall away.

Suddenly I heard a pounding coming from the hallway: Dad had arrived on the scene, yanked finally and violently from his torpor.

“What. Is. Going. On. In. There?” Followed by more pounding and, “Open this door! Right! Now!”

Now I was stuck. I mean there was no way I was going to walk out and right into the middle of a, well, domestic dispute of some proportions.

So I did what any self-respecting person would’ve done in my spot. I pressed my ear to the wall and listened.

Sadly, the concurrent decibel-intensive and cacophonous mash-up of sound that followed the father’s entrance made it impossible to distinguish much beyond the occasional,

“But Daaaaaaaadddddd!”

“She said...”

“I did not!”

“SHE DID TOO!!!”

And so on, and so on.

Eventually the dad said—in his outside voice, I might add—“That’s it! We’re outta here!” to the apparent chagrin and collective displeasure of the sisterhood of the traveling shrieks.

“Out to the car! All of you! I can’t take you anywhere!” mumble, mumble; wail, wail; shriek, shriek.

And off they went.

When I felt it safe to emerge from my place of refuge, I did so just in time to spy the dad herding them all into the family minivan, wee Mary’s mouth seemingly locked open in perpetual, wailing complaint.

I didn’t envy him the ride home.

Glancing at the barista as I retook my seat she nodded her head slowly while saying, “Birth control!”

“As in, he should’ve practiced it, or that scene was effective birth control for you?”

“Yeah,” she said with a grin. “That’s it.”

In Which RG Sells His Soul

6:00 AM Sunday morning.

It’s quiet here in the desert on this already sizzling Sunday—88º and if the local weather wags are to be believed we’re on our way to 111º today.

And, based on sixteen years experience here in Las Vegas, when it comes to predicting heat, I believe them.

I’m up early because...well, I don’t really know why.

Actually, that’s not entirely true.

When I woke up at 5:30 I immediately began thinking of all the things I had to accomplish today and realized with grudging clarity that my mind was, yet again, dictating my sleep schedule.

Don’t you just hate that? I mean the way your mind overrides your body’s need for sleep, jumping up and down, flapping its arms and screaming, “Up! Get up! We’ve got stuff to do! Come on, you slug-a-bed!”

So, I grabbed my computer, the Sunday fishwrap, aka the local paper, and headed out for my favorite St. Arbuck’s for some reading, writing and ruminating.

Pulling in to the parking lot I noticed a group of people seated in a rough semi-circle in front of the establishment’s front door—people who vaguely resembled the staff.

I parked my SUV, got out and walked toward the dour looking assemblage and realized with some consternation that it was, indeed, the Sunday morning staff.

Noticing that all the lights were off inside the store, I said, “Did I not get the memo?”

The manager just shook his head and smiled wearily. “Our water is turned off.”

“Why?”

“We don’t know,” replied a barista with a tired yawn. “I got here at 4:00 AM to open, went inside and there was no water.”

“And no water, no coffee!” said the manager bitterly.

I asked, “What are you going to do?”

“We’re waiting for a plumber to show up, and providing feeble excuses to our regular customers as to why they can’t have their morning coffee,” the manager said with a wry grin.

I was immediately torn between my pressing need for caffeine and the voyeuristic desire to pull up a chair to watch the drama that would undoubtedly unfold.

“Well,” I said. “As much as I’d love to stick around and watch you practice crowd control, I gotta go.”

“Bye, RG,” said the group in dreary unison as they turned their attention to the next staggering coffee enthusiast.

“Enthusiast” is a word I routinely substitute for “addict.” It sounds so much more palatable.

Back in my car, I sorted through a list of options, which included, but were not limited to, going home and actually making a pot of coffee; going next door to the bagel shop...okay, I was kidding about those two. I’m such a kidder sometimes. I often crack myself up I’m such a kidder.

I drove out of the parking lot and went up the street to my backup St. Arbuck’s; parked my car and walked toward the front entrance.

Much to my surprise and utter vexation, the front door was closed and locked!

I peeked in through the window and spied the craven staff huddling behind the counter—in the dark—casting furtive glances my way.

“We’re closed,” mouthed the lily-livered manager with an awkward grin.

I looked around the immediate area to see if I was on one of those “Gotcha!” videos or something.

I was not.

It was real.

They were closed.

The manager finally came out of hiding and walked toward the door.

“Our sewer...” something, something,  “and we can’t open.”

I said, “You’re kidding!”

She stood on the other side of the glass and just shrugged her shoulders. “Well, it’s not the end of the world. You could just go over to...”

“They’re closed too!” I said, probably louder than necessary.

“What?”

I nodded my head vigorously in reply.

She turned and yelled the information to the rest of the staff, who, in turn slunk deeper into the darkness.

“Well,” she said with an attempt at an encouraging smile. “Good luck,” before turning and, with a little wave over her shoulder, joining her spineless, cowering staff.

I hollered, “At least the other guys had the courage...” they weren’t listening, so I just turned around and stomped back to my car.

I was in a tight spot!

I had to have coffee and I had to have it soon.

“Ah-ha!” said I, as a realization suddenly wormed its way into my consciousness.

I say, “Ah-ha!” a lot when encountering a brilliant thought.

While I hadn’t been there in a while, I knew of another St. Arbuck’s less than a mile away.

“Perfect!”

With a renewed sense of purpose I drove toward caffeine heaven, confident that my drowsiness would soon be addressed and eliminated.

You can imagine the sense of mind-numbing horror when I drove by my last bastion of hope and saw a sign in the darkened window proclaiming that a kabob restaurant was “coming soon.”

“What the heck is going on?” I said out loud to absolutely no one.

I panicked! Beads of cold sweat began to coat my brow as my mind cast desperately about for a solution to the situation at hand.

While it shames me to admit it, figurative tail between my legs I did what anyone in such a tenuous position would’ve done.

You know, the coffee at the golden arches isn’t really all that bad.

Marshmallows And Things That Go “Boom” In The Night

Ocean Beach is quiet on this morning after Independence Day.

The thickening marine layer drizzles its excess, watering vegetation, slicking the roadways and rendering yesterday’s carwashes frustratingly futile.

Outside of St. Arbuck’s two TV trucks with distended satellite uplink towers are parked in proximity to the massive community cleanup effort being waged against the mountains of marshmallows littering the main beach.

Yes, I said, “marshmallows.”

While no one is entirely certain when the tradition began, each year following the Ocean Beach Pier fireworks show, a massive marshmallow war is waged between several thousand participants.

And in honor of OB’s 125^th Anniversary I decided to join in the festivities.

Well before the fireworks finale, the fight was on!

We started on the sand at the main beach by the pier with a crew of eight, including my daughter, her husband and several of their friends. But like an ever-growing amoeba we eventually spilled over onto the area around Abbot and Newport Avenues where those of us from the beach formed an ad hoc coalition to battle the guests of the Ocean Beach Hotel who were ensconced on the balconies mercilessly peppering all of us on the street.

They had the high ground...but we had—Tat, da, da, dah!!!—SUPER MARSHMALLOWS!

Those suckers were the size of my fist!

The ICBM’s of marshmallow fighting.

The Electromagnetic Pulse Weapon of sticky soldiering.

The Neutron Bomb of...okay, I’ll stop.

At some point I discovered that I had lost contact with our crew and there were only two of us left.

My aide-de-camp was a young, German tourist who had come along with another friend of my daughter’s.

We were a good team, scavenging the street for discarded ammo, passing it off to whoever was in the most strategic position at the time.

The most satisfying moment of the night came when I nailed a particularly arrogant and quite drunk bloke on the balcony right in the kisser. Knocked his head backward and dislodged his silly “gangsta” cap.

I may or may not have done a joy dance in the street.

Mein deutscher Freund was laying waste to any and everyone in his path. So effective were his throws that I eventually abandoned my own efforts entirely, turning my energies, instead, to the acquisition of ammunition for the rocket-armed foreigner.

So enamored was he with the experience, he vowed to take the tradition back to Germany with him.

At one point everything came to a dead stop as a massive “boom” filled the air and the sky to the south lit up with unusual intensity causing our surroundings to briefly take on the appearance of broad daylight.

We later learned the source of the illumination: San Diego’s famous Big Bay Boom, which was to be an eighteen minute fireworks extravaganza shot off from four strategically placed barges, went bust as all of the fireworks were triggered simultaneously through a technician’s glitch.

I wouldn’t want to be that technician.

The fifty thousand attendees were not amused. Not at all amused.

Back in OB, the "Battle Royale" resumed, enjoyed with good-natured civility by all.

We, however, had run out of ammo and, with arms hanging in limply by our sides, slogged through the tacky muck coating the streets and sidewalks and made our way back to my daughter’s house to await the return of our original crew.

I’m happy to report that we had no casualties save for the soles of our shoes, which had been rendered gummy, gooey horrors.

I’d do it again.

Only next time I’m bringing...a marshmallow shooter!

Oh yeah!

Coyote Brothers

Classic cars of all shapes, colors and vintage lined the street outside of St. Arbuck’s along with hundreds of appreciative strollers drinking in the lines and shapes of automotive history.

The Beach Boys cover band across the way pounded out the hits as onions, sweet relish and chilidogs saturated the air with the scent of nostalgia.

We were in an east San Diego county city, known for its small town flavor, that was hosting the first of a summer series of classic car shows.

Inside St. Arbuck’s a sixty-something man wearing a Hawaii shirt and beige Ivy Hat, was tuning his guitar on a low stage in front of a small sound system.

It was a very nice guitar—custom by the looks of it.

With most of the action out on the street, the customers inside were few and far between, my wife and I, along with our friend, comprising more than half.

He didn’t seem to mind though, launching enthusiastically into a quite good version of Elvis’s, “In The Ghetto,” “The Impossible Dream,” and other songs from the sixties.

I have to hand it to him, in spite of his age, the guy could sing. And his guitar skills were remarkable!

Between songs he kept up an easy banter with the, um, crowd, i.e. the three of us (the other two people were with him) and explained that he was going to do a few songs he had written. Before each, he gave a brief context from which he had derived the inspiration for writing the song, all quite interesting.

And the songs were good.

Very good.

That is, until his final song.

Even now as I write this I’m not sure if he was serious or massively pulling our collective legs, but he—with a totally serious face—talked about his love of...wait for it...coyotes. He loved them so much, in fact, that he had composed a special song in their, well, honor.

Strumming his guitar lightly, in a rhythm reminiscent of classic songs from the old west (think “Cool Water” by Sons Of The Pioneers. If you don’t know who they are, forget it!) he invited us to “sing along” when he got to a certain point.

Shooting him a puzzled look, he explained that we’d have no trouble, “Knowing when that was.”

So he starts singing.

It wasn't a bad melody, and the rhythmic chord progression was pleasing to the ear.

It was when he got to the chorus that things got a little weird. The words went something like, “So sing with me, coyote brothers; sumpn’ sumpn’ sumpn’ and the world will see a forest symphony.”

You’ll probably think I’m stretching literary license to the absolute limits, but I swear I’m not making this next part up: At that point in the song, he began to howl; his two friends howled, one of whom had joined him on stage; the baristas howled; my WIFE AND OUR FRIEND howled!

Me? I stared, mouth agape with, “Seriously?” forming on my lips.

A new batch of customers walked in, thus doubling the attendance.

The chorus came around again.

They howled as well.

I felt as if I were losing my mind.

My wife kept poking me in the ribs and giving me the look that said, “You’re just an old party pooper.” Now that I think about it, I’ve never known what that means, exactly. How does one go about “pooping” a party? I mean is it, God forbid, to be taken literally?

With a jaunty, “One more time,” he launched into the chorus again.

“So, sing with me, coyote brothers...”

This time around the patrons and employees hoisted their lattes and bellowed as if it were an Irish drinking song, only without the fighting—unless, of course, me "fighting" to keep a straight face counts!

The howling was nothing short of...inspirational.

And, yet, I remained silent and the guy still hadn’t cracked a smile, which led me to conclude that it was not, in fact a gag, but something near and dear to his heart.

“And the world will see a forest symphony...”

And I thought Ocean Beach was quirky!

The Modern Family

St. Arbuck’s is busy and typically noisy on this late Friday morning in mid-June. It’s a wonder I ever get anything done within that environment, but I do. It’s as if the ambient noise provides a cocoon within which I am freed up creatively.

I know, it makes no sense.

Not sure how this is going to go today, as I’m a bit fried from lack of sleep protracted over several nights complicated by depleted creatively due to the intensity of effort on the novel...you’re really excited to keep reading, right?

(Insert appropriate smiley-faced emoticon)

A family of four entered—mom, dad, teen son and preteen daughter—and sat in close proximity to my table.

And then they ordered.

And then they got their drinks.

And then they sat back down.

And then they pulled out their iPhones.

And...well...then that was pretty much it.

All four of them sat there pecking away on their virtual keyboards in silence except for the occasional giggle from the son and daughter resulting from something witty they had said to each other via text.

The dad leaned over to the mom to show her something on his screen; she smiled, showed him something on her iPhone, but neither said a word.

This went on for a good thirty minutes.

I wasn’t making any kind of judgment on what I was seeing; I just found the scene to be amusing and utterly fascinating.

Suddenly all four of them erupted into laughter—the mom had sent them a mass text containing a humorous picture.

The dad’s phone vibrated, he answered the call and stepped outside to talk.

A minute or two later, the mom did the same thing while the kids now sat there by themselves.

About ten minutes later, the daughter looked up from her phone, glanced around and seemed to notice for the first time that mom and dad were gone.

“Hey, where did mom and dad go?” she asked her brother.

He grudgingly roused himself from his reverie, looked around the room and shrugged his shoulders before going back to whatever it was that he had been doing.

The last I saw of them, the dad was pacing on the sidewalk in front of St. Arbuck’s, one hand holding his phone and the other gesturing broadly while carrying on a very serious conversation; the mom standing outside just to the right of the entrance, shoulder pressing the phone to her left ear while chatting amiably and worrying a hangnail on one of her fingers; the kids standing together directly in front of the door, phones held in both hands, heads bowed, eyes focused on their respective screens oblivious of arriving customers having to step around them to gain entrance.

I smiled, shook my head in wonder and went back to surveying the ebb and flow of life unfolding before me.

The modern family.

Interesting.

A Day In The Life

The locals call it “June gloom.”

I call it heaven!

Mornings here in the OB are shrouded in a thick, ensorcelled, vaporous canopy of fog compelling in its ability to cause one to slow down; to regard one’s surroundings, and the people who dwell therein, with a more comprehending and compassionate eye.

I had leisurely pedaled my Kronan Swedish Army bike (which I’ve dubbed “Kronan the Destroyer” for its sixty pound frame) through the mist on my way to a favorite beachside St. Arbuck’s for a cuppa Joe and morning writing session.

Across the street the swell was building and surfers were out in force, clad head to toe in wetsuits that fit like a second skin.

Truthfully, they fit some better than others.

Way better!

There is much I could write on that topic, but will spare you for now and save it for another time.

St. Arbuck’s was vibrant with local color and I collected my medium coffee, with room for cream, found a table out of the general flow and sat down to observe the drama.

There is always drama...you just have to be willing to watch for it.

In the corner, a poorly dressed, unkempt hearing-impaired man signed prolifically and energetically, leaning forward in his seat to be more clearly captured by his iPhone’s facetime feature. His smile and glowing countenance suggested that there was possibly woman on the other end of the call—a very special woman, by the looks of it. It occurred to me that the iPhone technology had opened up a whole new world of communication possibilities to hearing-impaired people the world over. Thank-you Steve Jobs!

           

A young man dressed-out in the dark blue uniform of the US Coast Guard entered hurriedly, ordered quickly and departed hastily, the carry tray and four cups of coffee indicating that he was on “special assignment.”

A group of three preteen girls—actually, now that I think about it, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a preteen girl by herself as they tend to run in packs—entered with mom in tow jabbering excitedly. It seemed they were about to have their very first coffee experience. Mom caught my gaze, rolled her eyes conspiratorially and shook her head. The eye roll is a universal symbol of parental expression. Transcendent of language, color or creed, it is a way of saying, “We’re in this together.”

The young man sitting at an adjacent table, dressed in an ill-fitting shirt, slacks and mismatched tie, sweated his way through a job interview. His nervous fiddling with said tie seemed to indicate that the interviewer’s rapid-fire questions were having an unsettling and frustrating effect. Obviously in a role-playing situation, the interviewer finally said, “Okay, suppose I were to tell you that your product isn’t something I’m interested in purchasing. How would you respond to that?” The young job seeker’s mouth opened and closed wordlessly for a few seconds. “I...guess...I...I would thank you for your time and wish you a good day,” was all he said before hanging his head and shaking it slowly, his lips compressed into a tight line. “Blew it again!” the unspoken pronouncement of his heart.

A pretty young woman with freckles, strawberry blonde hair and bright blue eyes sat down at the table right in front of me. One by one she placed a ceramic mug, a container of hot water, with the string from a tea bag dangling over the side, and an iPad onto the tabletop in precise order. Just as she sat down, her phone buzzed and she carried on a brief conversation in a heavy Scottish accent all the while arranging and rearranging her items. The mug was moved forward and then back; now juxtaposed with the hot water container, now in front of it; the iPad lined up with the near edge of the table, now the far edge; back and forth, back and forth, her hands in constant motion. Looking up from her call she saw me grinning, smiled, blushed charmingly and shrugged her shoulders as if to say, “Can’t be helped. It’s what I do.”

One of the baristas, with elaborate neck tattoos creeping inexorably toward a flawless face, walked outside carrying a tin of water for a homeless man’s dog. The scruffy creature sat forlornly, tied to a table and awaiting its master’s return. It wasn’t a handsome animal, equal parts this and that, but she treated it with tenderness and respect the effects of which were immediate. With a bounce in her step the barista came back inside, and as she passed my table said, “I love dogs.”

A sip of coffee and a sigh.

Just another day in the life.