Coffee with Angel
 (June 23, 2026)

                    The morning air was sticky, like an overripe cantaloupe, and the sky was fuzzy gray, like an old sweatshirt. I sat at a metal table under an umbrella outside little Coffee Tomo in Sawtelle Japantown, looking forward to caffeine-induced functionality. It’s pretty much the only kind I experience anymore.
               A few folks walked back and forth, quieter than they usually are. I think the muffled weather does this, as if it’s rude to speak too loudly when the sky is subdued. So I was spared the usual phone-shouting and people conducting conversation as if on opposite sides of the Grand Canyon.
               I began sipping my cappuccino---this place makes them piquant, somehow---and after about fifteen minutes, the passing public became less anonymous, more of interest. There came a middle-aged tall blonde Mommy and her willowy blonde teen daughter, the former looking cheerful and the latter looking timid, as if not quite ready for the world. Because she wasn’t. They sat and waited for a little “somi-somi” place to open---that’s ice cream inside fish-shaped hot waffle-thingies, for the record.
               And my brain gradually took up caffeinated musing. Here I sit, I thought, perceived variously as the harmless old man, the bearded old coot, the what’s-that-old-creep-doing-here-by-himself, the is-he-ogling-me weirdo? I decided to increase the percentage of harmless by effecting a benign smile to all in vicinity.
               Two young men, one Asian-American and the other black, sat down a few feet away, and began vigorously discussing the adventures and vagaries of their computer-related jobs that had landed them for long stints in: Taiwan, Korea, China, Japan. (Funny old world!) Anedcotes abounded, about the pandemic, long flights, and, to my amazement, how hollow and alienating U.S. society is compared with Taiwan and Japan. I sure agreed, even without their extensive travel experience.
               Another Mommy and her two bean-sprouting kids, brother and sister, sat down, also waiting for somi-somi, the kids looking antsy and irritated. A huge fire truck parked a couple storefronts down, and some big, hulking guys got out to order sandwiches from a nearby joint. A young woman of medium build, with raven hair and easy gait arrived at Coffee Tomo, and actually smiled at me on her way in. My nice, harmless look was paying off.
 

A crow landed in the street, pecking at something that turned out to be inedible, and I heard, but didn’t see, a small flock of wild parrots passing overhead, hysterically declaiming as they always do. Here we are! Here we are!

               And along came, oh, a hirsute guy in his ‘30’s, with a black mastiff---militarily “cropped” ears, natch. I figured it was 50-50 the dog would eat one or more of the kids waiting for somi-somi, but instead, she lunged at them only to lick faces and be petted. The dog turned into the momentary Official Greeter of Sawtelle Japantown, hailing everyone who happened along for head scratches and cooing. Can’t judge a book. . .
               A couple of middle-aged lady friends, or maybe sisters, of Asian descent, appeared---along with a teency pixie of a granddaughter, perhaps three years old, made entirely of smiles, unfettered synapses, and bouncy auburn hair. The trio ran into the big, hulking firemen, who became absorbed with the little pixie, finally inviting the friends to show the tyke their wondrous fire engine. Really. I was astonished at the little act of niceness. They took fully five minutes to hoist the kid up into the front seat. Judging by her big eyes, this was a major imprinting experience.
                I wanted to be a firefighter ever since some firemen showed me the inside of a fire truck when I was three years old!
               I began thinking about “Seinfeld” and the “show about nothing” episodes, where Jerry and George pitch NBC for a sitcom that is, George relentlessly insists, about nothing. Jerry tries to temper the pitch with, “well, it’s about something,” but George brutally rejects the idea. “No! It’s about nothing! Nothing!”
               Just like life, I thought. I chuckled mildly to myself, but not to attract any attention, lest the crazy old coot aspect be inadvertently fed. Jerry and George were unwitting philosophers. Well, they weren’t Schoepenhauer or Sartre or Lao Tzu, but really, I think they were on to something. Or nothing. Life is about everything and nothing.
               And there I sat further, the cappuccino turning the nothing all around into something.
               And as I again took in the little scene with the fireman and the pixie---now turned into laughter, “goodbye, sweetheart,” giant hand pats on the auburn head, etc., a tear or three welled up in the old coot’s eyes, as it struck me how completely devoid of malice and guile the little moment had been. Why isn’t everything made of such nothing, instead of all the vile somethings emanating from so-called world leaders, media, so-called popular culture, technology. . .
               Sigh.
               A young woman appeared in the distance. Jeans, green-and-red flowery blouse, bare midriff, red hair. I suddenly realized that I recognized her as a longtime employee of Coffee Tomo, a nice kid in her early 20’s with whom I’ve engaged in chit-chat many a time. I hadn’t recognized her immediately because her gorgeous, naturally red hair had been dyed into garish, unnaturally neon-red hair. Oh, well, why the hell not. . .
               “You’re much redder!” I said, as she darted inside the café to go to work, and she indulged me with a quick smile.
               The guys a few tables away continued jabbering about Asian societies vs. the U.S., the kids all got their somi-somi and went away happily with mommies, their eyes glazed with non-think and taste bud circus. A crow landed in the street, pecking at something that turned out to be inedible, and I heard, but didn’t see, a small flock of wild parrots passing overhead, hysterically declaiming as they always do. Here we are! Here we are! I finally finished the dregs of my now luke-warm cappuccino, and contemplated my reluctant departure from this moment’s peace. Why couldn’t I just sit all day and continue contentedly soaking up the everything/nothingness? (Answer: the coffee wears off.)
               An old homeless guy who goes by “Ebenezer Scrooge,” I kid you not, shuffled by, as he almost always does whenever I go to have coffee there. I nodded, said, hello, and he nodded back. As usual, he was dressed in all black---jeans, T-shirt, overshirt that were in good shape. Wherever he slept at night, there must have been access to a washer-dryer. He entered the sandwich joint where the firemen had ordered to-go lunch, and emerged, as usual, with a canned soda and some potato salad that the employees always kindly offer, gratis.
               And another homeless guy---young, black, and skinny---appeared, also dressed entirely in black, but his attire was ratty and shredded, and a noxious odor foretold his presence. He was talking to himself in a gentle, rapid voice, as he paused, turned, and looked at me and my contrived I-am-harmless smile.
               “Would---would you buy me something to eat?” he said in faint tones more suited for a child than someone in his 20’s.
                Such circumstances, of course, are common these days.
               “Sure. What do you want?”
               He looked over a picture menu in the Tomo window and pointed to the “Caramel Toast with Whipped Cream.” Good choice. I told him to have a seat, relax. He interrupted his private monologue:
                “Oh, thank you very much, thank you, sir.”
                “Sure. What’s your name?”
                “Angel.”
                “Angel, I’m Rip.”
                “Rip.”
                “It’ll just be a few minutes."
                I went inside, ordered myself a second cappuccino and the caramel toast. I chit-chatted with my chit-chat friend behind the counter, lied to her that her hair looked “terrific,” and asked how she was doing.
               “Pretty good. I’m moving back to San Francisco.”
               “You told me that months ago, then you didn’t. So this time, you’re really doing it?”
               “Yes. I’m just moving back in with my parents.”
                “Going to school?”
                “I don’t know,” she said, flashing a bloom-of-youth smile that would, or should, disarm all guile on the planet. “I don’t know what I’ll do.”
               “That’s okay,” I said, knowing that it might not be.
               “But I can’t pay rent anymore.”
               “The rent has become crazy. Housing is now a gambit for the wealthy to become wealthier.”
               She nodded vigorously, and I collected the toast and wished her much good fortune. For whatever that might be worth.
               Outside, I presented Angel with his probable breakfast/lunch/dinner. He gratefully accepted it, and bolted.
               “Hey, you should just sit and relax, and eat,” I said.
               “No no. Thank you very much, very much!”
               He was right. No doubt was used to being chased away from restaurants. 
               And as I walked down the street, through the cantaloupe air and gray sweatshirt sky, I wondered about how maybe all the angels of literature should all look like Angel the homeless kid. Maybe then his ilk wouldn’t have to worry about getting enough to eat.

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