I was sitting in a sleek, dog-themed coffee shop writing about the homeless when a homeless woman I somewhat recognized from the neighborhood walked inside. I say somewhat because almost every other time of our encounters, she was sitting on the sidewalk, curb or doorway of some business surrounded by her possessions, which amounted to two shopping bags and a sleeping bag. I never once heard her speak. She always appeared vacant and exhausted. It was impossible to guess her age.
It was early in the Wednesday afternoon. Seated in front of me of me was a man writing in a notebook and a woman working on a laptop. Behind me was a young Indian couple speaking a foreign language that sounded wonderfully mellifluous.
I stopped writing and looked over to the counter. The young barista greeted the woman by name but I didn't catch it. The barista asked the woman if she wanted her usual: a cappuccino. The woman said yes but asked for some extra cream and sugar. Of course, said the barista.
The woman had a soft, deliberate voice. It was not the kind of voice I expected to emanate from a homeless woman and then I wondered why I thought that and then wondered why I think many things about the homeless. The main point is to keep learning and never think you have it figured it out.
She paid for her drink and moved away to wait for it.
I looked out the window and saw the woman's possessions neatly arranged on a sidewalk across the street.
The barista served up the cappuccino and the woman took it with both hands and went over to a comfortable chair and sat down. She stared straight ahead and drank her drink. I saw her close her eyes for a moment.
I went back to my writing but occasionally looked up to watch the woman drinking her cappuccino.
There was a lot going on in my head about this image.
I truly pity the people who think she wasted her money on an expensive coffee drink.
That she ordered a cappuccino and drank it the way she did strongly suggested to me that she could be reached and helped off the streets.
This reminds me of a poem I wrote a couple of years ago which you may not have seen:
ODE TO TACO BELL, EUGENE, OREGON
Respite from the streets & riverbanks
Ad hoc gathering spot for those in the know
How could corporate sales engineers have foreseen
the value of $1 grilled breakfast burritos
to this transient population getting by on good buys
their shopping carts parked outside like cars
Tables & chairs draped with backpacks canes wrappers
Two Chicanas in the kitchen shout Spanglish
like it’s their own taquería,
filling grilled burritos with choice of potato, sausage or bacon
as well as unmeasured generosity
to carry breakfast bellies over to lunch
& maybe dinner too.
They buy a lot
Eat slowly
Savor the warmth as they
sprinkle salt & pepper in
the dining rooms of their minds.
Full array of condiments & napkins grace the tables
Creamy mystery sauce squirted from plastic packets sticks to the ribs
Diners pat their lips as bellies wobble with fullness
So much pomp under the circumstance
It’s such a grey day . . .
I don’t think I’ll do anything,
proclaims greybeard Space Trucker
to no one in particular as he fingers a thin plastic rain poncho
waiting patiently to punch in the door code on his receipt
& freshen up in Restrooms ¬For Customers Only
O oasis of cheap tasty eats —
Refuge of infirm panhandlers, street musicians
& able-bodied tramps alike
Destination for loose-change backpack vagabonds —
You cater to no-budget wayfarers
& intrepid travellers of all stripes & types —
You fill rumbling bellies
& bestow dignity upon the unseen
who will soon scatter out of sight
well before the morning rush.
Alex Balogh