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.

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.