People At A Coffee Shop

Several years ago my friend Alejandro discovered accounting “errors” that involved Pacific Rim capital intersecting with road-building contractors in Latin America.

He fled to the U.S. to seek asylum. He couldn’t work, drive, apply for a credit card or rent an apartment. He didn’t speak English well. (That’s how we came to know each other.)

A proudly independent lawyer in his late 30’s, Alejandro moved in with his brother’s family. They were generous and welcoming but his presence complicated things.

During those years in the wilderness, a neighbor asked if he would do manual labor. Alejandro spent an day working in the guy’s basement and was paid $20. The search for asylum is a nightmare. Delays are rampant. When a judge goes on vacation, deadlines are postponed and time runs backward.

Last year Alejandro’s work and perseverance finally paid off. His request for residency was granted. A green card followed. He landed a short-term gig that led to a full-time position in the not-for-profit healthcare sector.

When we met this week he brought along his new licenses, credentials and clippings of his accomplishments. We’re lucky to have him.

It doesn’t take many visits to pick up on the finer points of etiquette at this little coffee place close to campus.

In Cultural Anthropology 101, we learned to identify rules of behavior as “norms.”

So here’s a norm.

Maybe it’s something they put in the coffee but people here go out of their way to make lifelong introverts feel popular— even if they don’t want to be popular.

Here’s another. Bragging is perfectly acceptable as long as you do it outside at a distance of 25 feet from the door. Second-hand bragging annoys people and stays in their clothes for days.

People who sit in the windows and never say a word are not rude. Their backs are to the room because they want to work. You can mutter a brief hello or God-bless a sneeze but then it’s good form to let them get back to work.

The room has a soft, nougat-filled center reserved for regulars who sit and enjoy the exact same conversation with the exact same people every time they meet. It’s like saying the rosary or humming an ohm. It’s an early agrarian ritual that satisfies a primal need without requiring any of us to decorate our genitals.

And finally, everybody here assumes the person they’re talking to is smarter than they are. But wait, you’re thinking, that’s a statistical impossibility! You’re right of course.

See how that works?

Harold referred to Sebastian simply as “the cat.” It wasn’t until after Sebastian died that Harold told us his name.

For 12 years Harold and Sebastian (a previous owner had chosen the name) shared a comfortable, second-floor, 60s-era condominium.

For the first nine years a pretty calico named Julie lived with them. Julie was coquettish, sunny and solicitous, something of a daddy’s girl.

Now Sebastian wasn’t the smartest cat in the Friskies commercial and his play often turned into something Julie didn’t enjoy.

Harold says cats without claws (another decision by the first owner) feel defenseless and resort to using their teeth. Julie did have claws and could fight back but she hated being cornered by her roommate.

It wasn’t until Julie passed away that Sebastian discovered that Harold even existed.

On a scale of ten Harold rates his enjoyment of Sebastian as only a five, considering moments of “cuteness,” maybe a six. But there were also times when the tabby’s approval sank into Richard Nixon territory. Those teeth.

A good diet with occasional table scraps, visits to the vet, a clean and safe place to live, Harold provided everything a pet could ask for. He believes Sebastian took life on Hinman Avenue for granted. He had never foraged in the alley or needed to outsmart the coyotes.

As Harold gave us updates on Sebastian’s decline he showed the concern and exhaustion common to caregivers. “You can love a cat without liking him.” he told us. “Liking is an emotion, loving is a responsibility.”