Daryl, the Socialite

Daryl must start his mornings at the coffee shop. There is one particular LA intersection I frequent, with a Coffee Bean on one corner and a Starbucks kitty-corner. If one is closed, he's across in the other--even when I show up at 6:30am on a Sunday morning (Hello, end of Daylight Saving Time).

He is probably in his 50s, maybe 60s, though it is hard to tell because he has a full beard and mustache. The whiskers are mostly white, but there are dark patches still. His eyes still look young. He is always smiling and laughing. Coffee shop crowds are his element, and hobnobbing his game.

On warm days you can find him sitting at a table by the front door. If it is cold, he will be inside by the window, where he can watch the world go by. Crowds form around him and dissipate over the course of the morning; but he is a constant. Fledgling comedians, actors, students, sit with him and talk about anything. He does not seem to care about the topic. If no one is there, he'll read the paper. Sometimes he will see someone across the road, and he will run across to talk to them.

This morning it was raining out and 47º. Everyone was inside. He sat at the window, talking to a young woman who was there for a bagel breakfast. He had his cup of coffee, nursing it longer than anyone I know. Did he know this young woman already? Or did he just introduce himself so they could talk? I don't know; but they talked about the people walking on the sidewalks and crossing the streets. Nothing significant, just the way the walk in the rain.

Everyone who is part of this local morning coffee scene knows Daryl, and he knows them all.