Eliza, the Patient Daughter of a Patient

A quarter to 7am on a Sunday morning, right outside my usual coffee shop, I hear an elderly male voice calling for help. His crossing the road towards me. He is old, mostly bald, bowed over with age. His clothing isn't warm enough for the weather. He's walking in his socks. He wants me to call the police. A younger Persian woman is walking behind him, signaling that I should ignore him. I'll call her Eliza.

He's going to be hard to ignore, so I ask him what's wrong. His wife and daughter are trying to kill him. This was the first time in a week they had let him outside and he needed the police.

Eliza looks very embarrassed. "He has Alzheimer's."

"Don't listen to her. She's going to kill me." You've never heard a more ernest sounding statement, though he's pretty calm for someone who has just escaped a supposed death apartment. "They tried..." he gropes for words, then just grabs his stubbly but otherwise mark-free neck. "They did."

Eliza shuffles a bit, stares all around. She's highly embarrassed and trying to find a way out of this without causing a scene.

"Come on, papa, let's leave this man alone."

"No, you'll kill me." He turns back to me. "Please call the police. They want my money."

I can't think of any other way out, so I suggest he go to the shop to call the police. He tells me he can't, and gestures to his socked feet as evidence. Some people walk by, but he does not call out to them, and they, sensing something awkward is happening, rush by.

"There's always some network of people trying to kill him for his money," says Eliza.

"Don't listen to her. She always lies. She and my wife want to kill me. You have to help me. You take me to the police in your car."

Ah, there's a way out. "I don't have a car."

"I wait here. You go get it."

An older woman walks up, holding a jacket. She hands it to the man, and he puts it on. But instead of thanks, he says, "She's the other one. She wants my money. Call the police."

"Go ahead, call the police," says the new woman waving her hands dismissively. If his narrative has any connection to reality, this must be his wife.

"OK, go call them," says Eliza, picking up on the plan.

My out. "I am going to go call them."

"Wait! You can't leave me with these two. They'll take me back inside and I won't get away again."

"But I can't call the police from here. There's no phone," I lie.

"I'll go with you."

"No," Eliza jumps in. "You need to let him go call the police."

"I'll go call," I say, feeling guilty for lying to him. But what else can I do? Eliza mouths her thanks.

"Don't leave me with them!"

I leave him with them, go into the coffee shop. He isn't there now, so I guess they found a way to get him back home.

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.

Carrie, the Vietnamese Girl

The moment I sat down with my latte and backpack, the young girl was instantly fascinated by me. I'll call her Carrie. Not a common name for Vietnamese child, but who cares? She was probably around 8 or 9 years old, very thin, maybe even a bit gangly. She wore shorts and t-shirt, both blue. Her hair was done in two pig-tails.

I was at a coffee shop in the Little Tokyo district of downtown LA. In the plaza by the coffee shop tables are a series of trees. On these trees, people have tied strips of paper with wishes written on them. They are mostly in Japanese or English, but a variety of other languages can be seen as well. Wishes range from general hopes for humanity and the world to the desire to not have to share a bedroom with a brother anymore.

Carrie's mother sat two tables down from me, enjoying some kind of coffee. The young girl wandered back and forth, spending a lot of time looking at me and talking to her mother. When they spoke, they alternated between Vietnamese and English. The mother's English was heavily accented, the girl's only slightly. I suspect they had not been in the U.S. long, but were probably living here, because the girl's English was too good for a vacationer.

I pulled out a pen and notebook to sketch out some ideas I was working on. The mother started urging her daughter to come talk to me; some gestures are pretty universal. I had no idea why. What made me interesting, out of everybody around? The girl approached me, reached half way, retreated. The mother encouraged her try again. I don't really know that, but it was the tone of voice. She approached again, reaching the corner of my table. The moment I looked up, she ran away.

A man came up to the table. He turned out to be the father, and he too spoke in both English and Vietnamese. His English was also heavily accented, though not as much as the mother's. They talked for a brief while, then he wandered off, and the mother started in on her daughter again.

Carrie approached the table for a third time. This time when I looked up, she said, "Excuse me. Could I borrow that pen for a minute?"

How could I refuse? "Sure."

She was very polite, but very excited when I handed her the pen, and she ran back to her mother's table. She took one of the spare napkins, and began writing on it, with a little bit of help from her mother. It was indeed just a minute... maybe two. She came back over, clutching the napkin in one hand, my pen in the other.

"Thank you very much."

"You are very welcome."

I couldn't read what was on the napkin, but she ran straight to one of the "wish trees" and tried to find a place to hang it up.

Mr. Burns

"Mr. Burns" was already mostly done placing his order when I walk in. It's after 7pm, so the place is empty except for him and now me. There are two staff members helping him out. One is working the cash register, the other is handling a box of pastries. The barista clearly just returned from the back room with it. Inside the box are two individualized cakes, covered in sugary frosting. The barista is  getting both out.

"It expires on the 18?" Mr. Burns asks, incredulous. The expiration is printed in large letters on the side of the box. They are still good for two more days.

"Yes, Mr. Burns," says the barista. "All of our pastries expire after a couple days."

"I don't know if I like that." What's not to like? That food expires eventually, or that they don't have fresh baked pastries every morning. I never find out.

I walk up to the register to wait my turn. The man turns and looks at me. I'd put him in his 60s. He has on a cotton collared shirt and a pair of light colored jeans. He's wearing a baseball cap, but grey hairs stick out from underneath. The hat is pulled low enough that he has to bend his head back to see my face from under the brim.


Without a greeting, he says to me, "I get special treatment because I own a lot of stock in the company. A lot." That last sentence was over-enunciated and dragged out. A quick look at the employees' faces tell me they don't care for the guy much, though they are resigned to their fate. He's clearly a regular, and this isn't unusual behavior for him.

The woman working the cash register runs his credit card. She grabs the cup she already pulled out for his tea. She says the flavor as she grabs the jar from the shelf.

Her co-worker says, "That's his usual, but he asked for something different today."

She turns back to Mr. Burns. "What kind of tea did you want again?"

He tells her, then says, "Don't worry, I know you have a hard time remembering orders sometimes." I'm pretty sure the voice in your head wasn't condescending enough. Read it again, upping things a bit.

When I order my tea, the woman has no problem remembering what it was. As I settle in with my laptop to do some work, I take a last look at this man. He's sitting with his back to the rest of the room, noise cancelling ear phones on his ears, plugged into a portable DVD player (I can't tell what movie he's watching), sipping on his tea, and eating his two little cakes.

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.