Alice

"Excuse me," says a kindly voice. I look up from my book. "Could you possibly spare some change or a couple dollars for a cup of coffee?"

She is probably in her mid-fifties. She has seen a lot of sun in those years, some of it recently. Her hair is bunched up in an odd tubular shape on the top of her head. She is composed and well-spoken. Let's call her Alice.

I politely decline to give Alice anything. She thanks me and walks off, not stopping at any of the 15 or so full tables right around me on the patio. In tow, she has a large bag of plastic bottles. Her clothes, a burnt orange dress with large shoulder straps and a white blouse, are old and stained, but don't have any holes. At the front door to the coffee shop, she opens the door and holds it for a man in a suit. He waves her in, saying "After you." She insists. He thanks her, but repeats his counter-offer. She stands firm, so he concedes and enters.

A few minutes later, she emerges from the shop with a cup and takes a seat at the far end of the patio. There is a pile of things there, and I realize she must have dropped stuff off before coming to ask me for money. I return to my book.

Suddenly there is singing. It is our friend. Her song of choice: a rousing chorus of the WWI anthem "Over There". Her voice is not half bad. Nothing great, but better than I could do. Still, everyone turns to watch her in a range of emotions from amused curiosity to annoyance. She doesn't even seem to notice. When that song finishes, she launches into a verse of "Take Me Out to the Ball Game". She has her own stylized version, with particular pauses and emphasis. Not a bad rendition, really.

Once that song is finished, she throws away her cup, gathers up her belongings, and departs. She passes me along the way. Slung over her back is the bag full of plastic bottles. Under the other arm is a rolled-up blanket. In that hand, she holds a large bucket of Kikkoman Soy Sauce. Well, it's closed, so I don't know what's really inside, but I can hope.