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.

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.