There's a 13 mph breeze blowing out of the
Southwest.
Independence Day and St. Arbuck's is
surprisingly busy yet missing the typical morning demographic of overly
stressed and harried individuals on their way to someplace more important than
here.
Today the clientele is mainly comprised
of families getting an early and leisurely start on a day at the lake, the park
or a day trip out of town in search of more moderate climes.
I, on the other hand, am content to just sit,
sip and ponder.
I have been thinking about this whole
"independence" thing.
Our local paper, the Review-Journal, printed
the entire text of the Declaration Of Independence on its Op-Ed page today.
So I read it.
All of it.
I can't remember the last time I had done so.
It triggered a thread of thought, and when
presented with such a distraction I will, in typical fashion, commence tugging
for the simple curiosity of needing to know what will unravel...what is at the
other end.
I gave that thread a little tug.
Dependence is when you can't live without the support
of someone or something else.
Doesn't sound that great...I pulled some
more.
Co-Dependence describes a relationship where one party is
physically or psychologically addicted, and the other is psychologically
dependent on the first.
Scary.
A few additional strands of thread unraveled.
Independence is when you are free from the control,
influence, support or aid of another.
For some reason, that's not sounding all that
great to me either, so I yanked a bit more.
Now, "Interdependence" (according to
RG's paraphrase) is a reciprocal relationship between two or more individuals
(or groups) wherein it is mutually agreed that life is better together.
I'm not sure how this plays out in your
world, but as for me...I have tumbled down the days to arrive at the stark
realization that I need people.
Plain and simple.
And...there are people who need me.
Wouldn't it be something if all of us,
regardless of race, religion, political ideology or social status, somehow
became...interdependent?
The conclusion of the matter is this: if you
want to celebrate something today, celebrate Interdependence for it is the very
means by which our country came into being, by which our "independence"
is possible.
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.
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.
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.”
It had been a rough week, what with having said a final goodbye to Miss Alice, my mother-in-law.
She had fought bravely against the stroke that had come without warning, stripping away everything that had made her, well...her, and in the end, as so often happens when the very elderly are so stricken, it took her life.
My trip to St. Arbuck’s was an attempt to find solace in the routine, the mundane, the common and predictable ebb and flow of life in my favorite coffee shop.
I sat there slowly sipping my medium coffee, with room for cream, and enjoying the randomness of passing customers.
The Artist—no idea what his real name is, but that’s what I call him—was hard at work on a pen and ink drawing at the next table that was so dense with detail and brimming over with life that you’d swear the image was photographic.
Two young women were hunched over a computer puzzling about what to do with their fledgling company’s website and discussing the need for a more “robust” presence on the web.
A bored businessman patiently awaited the delivery of his beverage, his eyes betraying a more than passing interest in the young woman standing next to him—a twenty-something beauty so busy texting that the barista had to call her name three times before she collected her latte.
The collegian in the corner stared in studied concentration at absolutely nothing while listening to his iPod; fingers drumming out a crazy rhythm on the tabletop.
An aggressive, thirty-something salesman paced obsessively while talking to a potential customer on the phone.
In the midst of this fascinating human tableau, my phone rang.
I checked the caller ID.
It was Eddie.
That would be Eddie Washington, my disgustingly good-looking, African-American best friend, at present on indefinite assignment in New York City.
I answered the call.
“So, like I was saying—“
“What?” he replied, puzzlement coloring his deeply burnished voice.
“I was going to tell you what.”
“Tell me what, about what?”
“What do you mean?”
“Dude,” he said in that tone of longsuffering patience for which he is known far and wide.“You can’t answer the phone like you’ve been in the middle of a conversation.”
“Says who?”
He sighed and then chuckled. “I miss you too, sugar.”
“We were in the middle of a conversation when you had to go. Remember?”
“Man, that was, what, three weeks ago?”
“’Bout that.”
“And you expect me to remember what we were talking about?”
I said, “This from the man who remembers minutia of arguments from years gone by?”
“Can’t help it if I’m in touch with my feminine side,” he replied huffily.
“Right. Anyway...like I was saying, why did you feel it necessary to move to the east coast when you had a perfectly good life here in Vegas, not to mention a perfectly good best friend whose life is now but a sad, hollow shell since you left!”
“Oh,” he said. “That.”
“Yes, that!”
“It’s like I told you, RG, the boy just wasn’t making enough money in Vegas and there are more opportunities for jazz musicians in New York.”
“But everyone who cares about you is here. Your life is here...not in New York!”
I could tell by the long silence that I had struck a nerve.
“I know all that,” he said quietly.
I’ve only seen the man cry twice in all the years I’ve known him, but I could tell he was close to doing so now.
He continued, “I’m so sad I wasn’t there to see Miss Alice off.”
“Yeah, it happened kind of suddenly,” I said.
“I always loved that old woman.”
“She loved you too.”
“I know she did. You guys actually in the room when she passed?”
“No. After ten days of my wife and her sister literally being there around the clock we decided that maybe she didn’t want to die while we were there. Turns out we were right.” I paused for a moment before saying, “I’ve gotta’ tell you, Eddie, I don’t understand the whole death thing, which is quite odd given my theological background. I mean, one minute you’re there, breathing, thinking, dreaming, planning; and the next...you’re gone.”
“It’s definitely a mystery.” He seemed to consider something before continuing. “Let me ask you something...do you think people fear death?”
“Without question,” came my immediate reply. “I think everyone fears death, and the ones who don’t are either lying through their teeth or are completely self-deceived.”
“So, you actually saw the body?”
I said, “We did. Everything was so still. Even the air in the room seemed still. Especially her. We’d been watching her breathe for so long all of us had moments where we swore she was still breathing.”
“Must’ve been a little spooky.”
“No, not spooky. It was, I don’t know, kind of sacred, I suppose.”
“How is your beloved taking the loss?”
I said, “Well, she’s obviously sad, but the stroke had left her mom so diminished, and with no chance of recovery, that when she finally died it was kind of a relief.”
“Everyone coming in for the memorial?”
“Yeah. It’s kind of like the gathering of the clan. People coming in from all over and—“
“Staying at your house,” he said, completing my sentence.
We both laughed.
“You know my family well.”
“Yeah, man. What you get for having a big ‘ol five bedroom house!”
“Well, needless to say, they’ll all be full.”
After a few seconds silence he said, “Wish I could be there, man. “
“I know. And, for the record, given your present circumstances no one expects you to make the trip. But the thought is definitely appreciated.”
His voice broke a little when he said, “Las Vegas will always be home, and you guys will always be my family.”
Since my throat seemed to be momentarily constricted, I said nothing.
He apparently suffered from the same affliction.
“So,” he said finally. “I’ve gotta run. Got an audition in ‘bout an hour. Could be a really good opportunity for me. One of those things that could launch me into a whole new stream of exposure.”
“Exposure is good.”
He was silent again before saying, “RG, I...”
“You don’t have to say it. I know...I know.”
“This won’t be forever.”
“And we’ll be here when you get back,” I said. “Might even come and see you in the spring.”
“That’d be cool. That’d definitely be cool.”
After a few more casual comments the call was over, and I was left feeling utterly bereft, beggared and bereaved, my emotions threatening to spin out of control.
I slugged down the remains of my rapidly cooling brew and quickly headed for the parking lot and the asylum offered by my car.
It just felt like so much loss—a reality of life with which I have always struggled.
A few deep breaths; a casual wave to a recently divorced friend who pulled their car into the spot right next to me; a glimpse of young mother holding tightly to a newborn; a frantic text from another friend who seemed to be in crisis; the elderly couple who arrive at the same time every morning, holding hands as if they were still in high school...and I realized that I was experiencing the cycles of life.
The thing about cycles is that...well, you have to let them run their course.
If you don’t, you short-circuit the process and never experience what you were meant to experience.
After wiping away that pesky leakage around my eyes I started my car and drove home.
Ocean Beach, in the Point Loma area of San Diego, California, is a sleepy little bohemian community that by all appearances has been forgotten by time.
Either that or it exists in an alternate universe accessible from Interstate 8 and Sunset Cliffs Blvd.
Which, come to think of it, may not be far from the truth.
Underneath the towering Mexican Fan Palms that march in stately procession down Newport Avenue toward the shoreline, you’ll see an odd collection of street musicians, Deadheads, antique stores, political activists, and artists. There are also tattoo/piercing parlors, beach themed bars, head shops and an International youth hostel whose residents are often indistinguishable from the pervasive homeless population.
What else would you expect from a place that was once known as the Haight-Ashbury of San Diego, right?
Dogs are a big deal in OB.
They even have their own beach.
No, really, they do.
Most summer mornings find the narrow streets and pre-WW II bungalows enveloped in a mantle of fog, which the locals insist on calling a “marine layer.”
I’m not sure why.
Even when I lived there I never knew why.
I mean fog is fog...why not just call it that?
And the “coastal eddy?”
It’s fog, people!
Anyway...
One recent late summer’s morn, my beloved and I left our hotel...well, the owners call it a “hotel,” but dogs are allowed in the rooms on the first floor off the courtyard.
Not exactly what one would expect to see in a “hotel.”
But, we like it.
Hoodies snugly in place, we walked two blocks to our favorite St. Arbuck’s.
The regulars who frequent this particular St. Arbuck’s are about as diverse a clientele as I’ve ever seen.
Businessmen; surfers just in from a sunrise session; golfers stopping in for a cuppa’ Joe before hitting the links; young mothers with toddlers in strollers; street people hoping to get a “refill” in the cup they’d just dug out of the trash somewhere; and rounding out the crowd a smattering of tourists.
There they were...standing in line together and displaying a surprising collegiality for those of such dissimilar social and economic backgrounds.
While my beloved went in search of a table, I joined the queue, sandwiched between a woman in her late fifties (if appearances are to be believed) and a stylishly dressed fellow conducting important business on his cell phone.
The woman was dressed in a white tie-dyed, full length peasant skirt topped by a teal cotton pullover, her long, gray hair hanging down her back in an intricate braid reaching nearly to her waist.
She seemed, well, cranky.
I say this because when it was her turn to order, she spat instructions at the unfortunate barista as if she were an underling.
“I want my coffee EXACTLY 140ยบ! Not one degree more and not one degree less. And I want it fresh. You can give the dregs to these other people in line.” And here she gestured dismissively in our general direction. “And leave the lid off. I want to make sure my instructions have been followed because if they haven’t, I’m not paying for it! Are we clear, missy?”
One of the other baristas screwed up her face and mouthed, “Missy?”
To her credit, the barista taking the order replied evenly, “No problem, ma’am. Will that be all?”
Sadly, it wasn’t.
“No, that won’t be all! I would also like one of your ridiculously overpriced pastries...not that I enjoy them, I just need something on my stomach before I drink the coffee.”
“No problem. What kind would you like?” said the barista sweetly.
“Oh, it doesn't matter. Just pick one and give it to me!”
The barista moved over to the pastry display, picked up the tongs and reached for a cinnamon roll only to have the woman shout, “No! Not that one! Give me that other one. That one. That one right...oh, for Pete’s sake!” At this point she brushed rudely past me and began stabbing her finger against the window of the display case saying, “That one! That...whatever it is right there!”
The barista calmly, patiently placed the banana nut coffee cake into a paper sack and carried it back to the register.
“Anything else, ma’am?”
The woman sampled the coffee, pronounced it to be “adequate,” paid for her order and moved starchily off toward the condiment table.
I raised my brows and said, “Wow!” before asking for a medium coffee with room for cream. “Oh,” I added. “And make sure to include the dregs,” which drew a laugh from the Barista.
As I approached the condiment table I could hear the woman muttering.
She turned purposefully and stalked toward the counter nearly colliding with me in the process and offering no apology.
Apparently the source of her displeasure centered on the fact that there wasn’t any raw sugar and that their coffee was, “Simply undrinkable without raw sugar!”
I dipped my hand into the deep stainless steel container that housed the sugar and felt a layer of packets at the very bottom.
The same barista, with the woman hot on her heels, came over to check out the situation.
I held up three packets and said, “You know, sometimes if you want the sugar...you have to dig for it.”
The Barista stared at me.
I stared back at her.
She said, “Whoa! Just like life.”
I smiled and nodded.
The woman seemed completely baffled. “What?”
The barista looked at her. “It’s like life. Sometimes if you want the sugar...you have to dig for it. Get it?”
The woman stared at us as if we’d just sprouted horns and cleft tongues.
And stared.
And then stared a bit more.
Finally, her fierce countenance softened a little and a small, embarrassed smile fought its way into place.
“It’s been a long time since anyone found any ‘sugar’ in me. A very, very long time. You see, I...well...there’s no excuse for me.” She sighed deeply. “I apologize for my behavior, young lady.”
“Apology accepted.” After a brief pause she continued in an exaggerated whisper, “And you’re right...the pastries are overpriced.”
This brought a genuine laugh from the woman.
It was a great laugh.
I left them talking and made my way over to where my beloved sat.
She looked up from the morning paper, saw me grinning and said, “What?”
“Amazing what you can learn at St. Arbuck’s,” I replied.
“That being...”
“Sometimes if you want the sugar, you have to dig for it.”
She pondered for a few seconds before saying, “Huh. Isn’t that the truth. You just come up with that?”
The woman’s strident voice cut through the ambient sound of passing cars, reaching our ears as we sat on the patio of St. Arbuck’s.
It was one of those rare Las Vegas spring mornings about which you’ve heard me speak several times before: Temperature...a balmy seventy degrees; wind...non-existent.
We only get a handful of those mornings each year so my wife and I have dedicated ourselves to a fierce pursuit of enjoying the heck out of each one that comes along.
Barkley turned out to be a yellow Labrador Retriever whose owner, a distraught woman of uncertain age, had lost her grip on the leash and was trying, with little success, to coax him away from his current quest—the tracking down of a delectable scent.
From where we sat, Barkley’s scent trail led directly away from his owner and toward a park across the street.
It was the “across the street” part that, no doubt, had the woman concerned, for it was a quite busy street.
“Barkley! Come here! Here!” she shouted.
Nothing.
Glancing at the onrushing block of cars just released from waiting at a stoplight up the road a ways, and then at her dog’s single-minded obsession with whatever he was tracking, she cupped both hands around her mouth and screamed, “Barkley! Barkley! I’m not going to call you again!”
My wife and I gave each other a wink-wink, nudge-nudge look, knowing full well that the anxious dog owner would, indeed, call him again, because that’s what parents and dog owners do.
I’m pretty sure Barkley knew it as well, for he kept on going, his trail leading him ever closer to the street.
“Barkley!” she wailed.
For reasons unknown to anyone but himself, Barkley suddenly turned and bounded back toward his owner, his doggy face bearing an expression that said, “Aw, I was only kiddin’!”
“Oh, you’re a good b...” she started to say only to watch the spirited canine scamper past her position and commence frolicking around the parking area, dragging the leash behind him.
While safe by comparison, there were still plenty of ways an untended dog could be injured...especially one as bold and full of life as Barkley.
By then she had apparently “had it,” so to speak, and did something that I still have trouble believing, and I was there to see it.
“Okay, Mister!” she said sternly. “Get over here right now. One...”
My wife looked at me in stunned disbelief. “Oh, no she didn’t.”
“I’m afraid so,” I replied.
“...two...”
Meanwhile, Barkley had found a couple of college-aged girls upon whom he was bestowing the full measure of his affection, and having it returned enthusiastically, by the way.
“This is your last chance,” the woman said as if addressing a misbehaving five year-old.
One of the girls noticed Barkley’s owner and asked brightly, “Is this your dog?”
“Yes!” the woman said sharply. “And he’s a bad boy!”
The two led Barkley in the direction of his owner growing progressively somber as it became apparent that she was, shall we say, put out.
They handed the leash over, remarking, “He’s such a beautiful dog,” at which point Barkley dropped to the ground, rolled over onto his back—legs splayed immodestly—and fixed his owner with a pair of deep, brown eyes that seemed to say, “Come on, mom, you know you love me.”
The woman held out for a good ten seconds before her resolve disintegrated under the onslaught of Barkley’s charm.
“Oh, you’re a good boy. Yes you are,” she said in that high-pitched, ridiculous falsetto vocalization known to dog lovers worldwide. Bending over to rub his belly she continued, “You just love to tease your mom, don’t you?”
The girl asked excitedly, “Can we get a picture with your dog?”
Acting as if it were a request she was used to hearing the woman said, “Oh, sure. He loves to have his picture taken.”
The girls handed the woman an iPhone and knelt on either side of Barkley, at which point he sat up, offered his right paw to be shaken and smiled for the camera.
After the girls had gone inside St. Arbuck’s the woman stared at Barkley with a, “What am I going to do with you,” expression, which he met by dipping his head and adopting a posture of genuine contrition.
Shaking her head, the woman dug into her purse muttering, “Now where are those keys?” and dropping the leash in the process.
Barkley took that as his cue to go bounding across the lot to greet another new arrival, holding his leash in his mouth and offering it to an elderly woman who seemed to think it was the most precious thing ever.
“Barkley!” his owner hollered. “One...”
My wife rolled her eyes and texted me a, “Just shoot me!” icon.
Now, it could have been my overactive imagination, but I could swear that as he trotted up to his owner with the elderly lady in tow, he turned and winked at me.
