(no subject)
Coffee Brown
Living alone gets, well, lonely sometimes.
At first, I had only a wide array of new spoons, forks, and ladles. I think I paid for the college education and/or cosmetology license of at least three Bakersfield Bed Bath & Beyond employees, depending on their particular career path. My apartment had a fully-equipped kitchen but, besides a sleeping bag, a completely empty bedroom. Finally more useful pieces of furniture were moved in, and my apartment felt less like rooms with stuff I put in it and more like a slowly-coalescing home away from home.
But it is different, not having other people around the apartment. I have watched the first disc of A&E’s version of Pride and Prejudice more than 30 times since I’ve moved in, and I won’t watch the second disc because then the series would end and I’d feel a sense of loss and abandonment. I can’t let Mr. Darcy do that to me!
My main source of consolation is that, at least if it gets dull around my apartment (except for the period shenanigans of the Bennet family), Westwood remains as unpredictable as ever.
….
“Which one-a y’all got some POT?” yelled a coarse, homeless Asian man, wearing fifteen plastic bags full of empty water bottles and soda cans on his hilt. Obviously the yuppies at Starbucks, working on their laptops, reading Eggers and drinking their seasonal peppermint mochas and eggnog chai lattes, looked up but didn’t know how to react.
I was waiting on a bench nearby, and saw the whole thing unfold. He staggered about, teetering crazily, and approached one table, banging his fists down.
“I know one-a y’all muthafuckas got some POT! Who izzit?” He looked around at the silent crowd now trying their best to pretend that there was not a crazy man with a hula skirt of fully-laden grocery bags asking for drugs less than ten feet away. Fortunately, one of his bags broke at that moment, and the need to reclaim his water bottles, quickly rolling toward the street, overwhelmed his need for illicit substances. I crossed the street and escaped further adventures with our guests from the Westwood sanitarium.
But relief was to be short-lived. After dinner, I returned to that fateful Starbucks for my seasonal peppermint mocha, and sat down - this time, on the inside - to enjoy it. That proved to be a good decision, until this other man, wearing frayed black jeans and a hoodie, sauntered in, pushing the door open with this body, and came, straight-on, to my table.
“Any change?” he asked. I had paid for dinner and my coffee on a card, however, and had no coinage, not that I don’t save it in a jar for myself anyway. I told him no, politely, and he spun around to walk to the next table - but suddenly, in my face, was a giant slice of naked rear end. His pants, apparently, were not well-supported, and hung right below the cheeks. I figured the guy might have had a crack problem, but this is not how I had imagined it.
He continued to wander around the interior, shocking people as they looked up from their low tables to see a derelict black ass staring back at them. We all exchanged a few disgusted, confused glances, until the worst happened - the man made a beeline for what I assume was a utility closet nearby, out of view from the baristas, snuck in, and shut the door. He was in there for a few minutes, perhaps looking for change.
But then, the door cracked open, and a hand felt around outside. The man slowly emerged, buttoning his pants as he peeked out. He then began to ask for change again. I would have hoped he’d ask for some hand soap.
Since that evening, I feel awkward going to that particular Starbucks, because I know there very likely sits a pile of shit in a janitorial bucket or, worse, all over the peppermint mocha powder still in storage. Especially with those opaque lids, you just don’t know what’s on the inside of your cup until it hits your lips, especially when the UCLA Psychological Clinic isn’t locking its doors at night.
It’s good to know I don’t need to feel lonely when I have the city at my doorstep - but perhaps I’ll enjoy some home-made tea for the time being. After all, no one is alone with a good cup of warm tea on a cold night, and Pride and Prejudice on in the background.
Living alone gets, well, lonely sometimes.
At first, I had only a wide array of new spoons, forks, and ladles. I think I paid for the college education and/or cosmetology license of at least three Bakersfield Bed Bath & Beyond employees, depending on their particular career path. My apartment had a fully-equipped kitchen but, besides a sleeping bag, a completely empty bedroom. Finally more useful pieces of furniture were moved in, and my apartment felt less like rooms with stuff I put in it and more like a slowly-coalescing home away from home.
But it is different, not having other people around the apartment. I have watched the first disc of A&E’s version of Pride and Prejudice more than 30 times since I’ve moved in, and I won’t watch the second disc because then the series would end and I’d feel a sense of loss and abandonment. I can’t let Mr. Darcy do that to me!
My main source of consolation is that, at least if it gets dull around my apartment (except for the period shenanigans of the Bennet family), Westwood remains as unpredictable as ever.
….
“Which one-a y’all got some POT?” yelled a coarse, homeless Asian man, wearing fifteen plastic bags full of empty water bottles and soda cans on his hilt. Obviously the yuppies at Starbucks, working on their laptops, reading Eggers and drinking their seasonal peppermint mochas and eggnog chai lattes, looked up but didn’t know how to react.
I was waiting on a bench nearby, and saw the whole thing unfold. He staggered about, teetering crazily, and approached one table, banging his fists down.
“I know one-a y’all muthafuckas got some POT! Who izzit?” He looked around at the silent crowd now trying their best to pretend that there was not a crazy man with a hula skirt of fully-laden grocery bags asking for drugs less than ten feet away. Fortunately, one of his bags broke at that moment, and the need to reclaim his water bottles, quickly rolling toward the street, overwhelmed his need for illicit substances. I crossed the street and escaped further adventures with our guests from the Westwood sanitarium.
But relief was to be short-lived. After dinner, I returned to that fateful Starbucks for my seasonal peppermint mocha, and sat down - this time, on the inside - to enjoy it. That proved to be a good decision, until this other man, wearing frayed black jeans and a hoodie, sauntered in, pushing the door open with this body, and came, straight-on, to my table.
“Any change?” he asked. I had paid for dinner and my coffee on a card, however, and had no coinage, not that I don’t save it in a jar for myself anyway. I told him no, politely, and he spun around to walk to the next table - but suddenly, in my face, was a giant slice of naked rear end. His pants, apparently, were not well-supported, and hung right below the cheeks. I figured the guy might have had a crack problem, but this is not how I had imagined it.
He continued to wander around the interior, shocking people as they looked up from their low tables to see a derelict black ass staring back at them. We all exchanged a few disgusted, confused glances, until the worst happened - the man made a beeline for what I assume was a utility closet nearby, out of view from the baristas, snuck in, and shut the door. He was in there for a few minutes, perhaps looking for change.
But then, the door cracked open, and a hand felt around outside. The man slowly emerged, buttoning his pants as he peeked out. He then began to ask for change again. I would have hoped he’d ask for some hand soap.
Since that evening, I feel awkward going to that particular Starbucks, because I know there very likely sits a pile of shit in a janitorial bucket or, worse, all over the peppermint mocha powder still in storage. Especially with those opaque lids, you just don’t know what’s on the inside of your cup until it hits your lips, especially when the UCLA Psychological Clinic isn’t locking its doors at night.
It’s good to know I don’t need to feel lonely when I have the city at my doorstep - but perhaps I’ll enjoy some home-made tea for the time being. After all, no one is alone with a good cup of warm tea on a cold night, and Pride and Prejudice on in the background.