I spend a fair chunk of my life at neighborhood coffee shops, sipping from overprices cups, taking in liquids on an endless stream, urinating like few urinate. It’s part of my comfort zone, and the sounds and smells and textures have come to serve as my own security blanket.
In this particular Starbucks, where I often hunker down, there is a man who sits here every single day. He’s about my age, clearly developmentally disabled. He always wears a button-down dress shirt and dress pants with a brown belt. Gray Sketchers cover his feet, and rolled-down white athletic socks peek from beneath the edges of his ankles.
I’m not sure whether he drinks coffee, or ever buys anything. But he is a part of the experience. He’s here, chatting, waving, reading from his phone. The employees know him by name, and give him input on new movies, new songs, this and that activity. Were I to venture a guess, I’d say he lives a very happy and contented life.
I don’t have much more to add, actually.
The man brings me happiness, and I’m far from alone.