52nd Anniversary Writing & Photography Contest – Honorable Mention
Homie
He was right. We are all rich
by Judson Moore
“Excuse me,” the man said. “Can you buy me a coffee while you’re in there?”
He sat next to the entrance to a local coffee shop, while taking in the holiday atmosphere in Manhattan Beach. There wasn’t anything aggressive, or demanding about the way he asked. He came off sounding cordial, almost familiar. Like the way your dad might ask you to grab some more peanuts while you were in the kitchen.
His appearance was not typically “Homeless Guy.” I didn’t see a shopping cart nearby stuffed with black plastic trash bags. No cardboard sign asking for “whatever you can spare.” His clothing didn’t appear ripped or dirty. He wore a striped polo shirt under a blue windbreaker, cargo pants and clean white sneakers. From a distance, someone might think we shared the same closet.
“Sure,” I said. “What would you like in your coffee?”
“Cream and sugar,” he said. “And maybe a quiche if they have one,” he added.
Ok, why not? I thought. I can certainly afford to buy this guy coffee. It is the holidays, after all. Hell, I’ll even get him the pastry. That will really make his day. Maybe I’ll even find out something interesting about this guy.
I was on my annual visit to see my family, which has lived in the neighboring beach town for the last 40 years. Growing up, it was not uncommon to see a few “street people,” as we called them back then, in the South Bay. The local vagrants were not like the typical drunks, and bums that congregated in the parks surrounding the rescue missions in downtown Los Angeles. Our street people enjoyed a status in the community, and seeing one of them going about their day was as thrilling to us as spotting a celebrity using the ATM.
I ordered our coffees and selected a large caramel roll from the case by the counter. After dumping in four sugar packs and a dangerous amount of cream, I went out to find him sitting as before. Only now he was chatting with some girls wearing Christmas sweaters, holding their dogs on leashes. The dogs sniffed at the man’s hand as he tried to pet them.
I put his coffee and pastry next to him and sat down. He popped off the lid and began dunking his pastry into the hot coffee and happily munching away as he talked.
“Do any of you know any foreigners you can introduce me to?” he asked, addressing the group. “I would like to meet some of your rich friends.”
He said this in such a casual way he may as well have been asking if any of us had seen the latest episode of “The Masked Singer” on TV last night.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know any foreigners around here,” I replied. “I am only visiting.” The girls smiled politely and backed away with their dogs.
One of the most famous local characters from my childhood was a man who walked the beach in a leopard-print speedo. He was deeply tanned and had the chiseled physique of a body-builder with a shock of blonde hair. Looking like someone who had wandered off the set of a 1950s adventure movie earned him the nickname Tarzan. He was also called Flip by the kids who would get up the nerve to approach him and shout “Flip! Flip!” resulting in a performance of impromptu somersaults on whatever surface he happened to be standing.
“So, where are you from? And what do you do?” he asked, not seeming to notice the departure of the two girls. The way he spoke was polite, almost formal, like someone who had grown up in an indistinguishable European country.
“What do you like to do? Do you have any hobbies?” he continued to ask.
Feeling a little uncomfortable about sharing too much, I offered, “Well, I’m self-employed.”
“Oh,..” he said, distracted now as he fidgeted with a small iPhone that seemed to have just appeared.
“I really need to get an automobile,” he said. The word “automobile” sounded strange coming from him, like he was reading the word from an old book.
“Would you text me later and give me the names of some of your rich friends who can help me to get an automobile?” he said.
It dawned on me what was happening as I looked around at the scene: A casually, well-dressed couple pushed their twins along in a stroller the size of a small SUV. A fit, older gentleman passed by barefoot, wearing a black wetsuit, and carrying a surfboard, looking like a retired superhero. A freshly washed Tesla silently glided by on the street.
I realized I had bought this man a coffee with the hope that I could get beyond the cartoon image I had in my mind about homeless people. Now, he had turned the tables on me and was seeing me as a character to be used in his unfolding story. This guy thinks we’re all rich. I thought. And he was right.
“Well, I need to be going,” I said, getting up.
“What is your name?” he asked.
Looking at the paper cup in my hand I read the name of the coffee shop on the sleeve.
“Homie,” I replied.
“Oh, nice to meet you Homie,” he said cheerily as he went back to sipping on his coffee and looking at his phone.
That night at dinner, as I told this story to my family, everyone laughed and seemed surprised that I would think to buy some random homeless guy a coffee. My friend, Andy, put his face in front of mine and brushed back the hair from my forehead. “Just looking to see if there’s an ‘S’ there!” he laughed. “What a sucker!”
Someone else said, “Why didn’t you just ask them to put it on his account?”
“What do you mean?”
“Didn’t you know all those places downtown have a house account so those homeless guys can get a coffee?” she said.
Later, we climbed the stairs to the rooftop of my brother’s house to watch the Christmas fireworks show at the pier. My sister-in-law pulled out her iPhone – the screen reflecting the delicate explosions of sparks growing into shapes of hearts, and planets before dissolving into a warm shower of light over the beach. ER