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Chapter One
There weren't too many homeless folks living around our little arts community of West River, New York, but we tried our best to take care of those we did have. The one that gradually fell under my care was a young-old man named John.
Just John.
But he knew me as Laila Rook, barista at Roasted Love Coffeehouse – a popular spot that was part of the pretty Italian architecture of the Piazza strip, right in the heart of town. As I arrived at 7:50 a.m. for my shift, I saw John waiting for me in his usual spot.
I was a little early today, and he was sitting on the sidewalk and leaning against the building near our front door. It was a little cool on this April morning and he had his knees drawn up with his thin arms wrapped around them. He looked like someone encased in a cocoon.
He'd once told me he was thirty-six years old. To me, he looked more like someone in his upper forties or early fifties at least. More than once he had been shooed from that same spot that he'd chosen as his own in front of Roasted Love, but he always returned.
"Hello, John," I said, pushing open the door. "Come on in. Jacob's got the coffee ready. You can try the first cup of the day."
John slowly sat up, and grinned at me. "Laila! How are you today?" He got to his feet, moving rather stiffly, and pushed back his long tawny hair from his face. Part of his hair fell down again over one eye, and the rest nearly touched his slim shoulders.
The one visible eye was deep brown and had a look of kindness and warmth, even though he himself was obviously cold and hungry. I was certain that he still had a good heart, even with his very humble station in life.
"Aw, I'm fine, John. Just glad to see you." And I meant it. There was always the reality among the homeless that they might simply disappear one day and you'd never know what happened to them, one way or the other.
He wiped his worn shoes on the mat and followed me through the door while I held it open for him. In a few moments I'd put away my purse, greeted my boss, Jacob Weaver, and poured out some coffee for John.
He sat down in the corner across from the counter, his usual spot. The regulars left it open for him and most of them spoke to him as if he was an old friend. They would nearly always stop to ask him how he was doing, or slip him a few bills.
I brought him his coffee, served up in a heavy ceramic mug as was our custom here at Roasted Love. "You’re too good to me," he said, taking the steaming cup in both hands to warm his fingers.
"You do know I only give you coffee in exchange for your stories, don’t you?" I said. It was true. I loved to hear him talk. His deep voice captivated me. I wasn’t sure how many of his stories were true and how many were not, but that didn’t matter. John gave our little coffeehouse some real spirit when he talked.
He pushed a dollar bill toward me. I slid it back and handed him a Danish on a small ceramic plate that matched the cup he held in his hands.
For the next hour or so I took care of the morning rush, making sure everyone who stopped had enough caffeine to get them through their morning work hours. After that, when the customers had gone on to work – or wherever they went when they left Roasted Love – I had the rather boring job of refilling all the sugar containers and salt shakers on all the tables and counters in the place.
I was ready to be entertained. And John was more than happy to oblige.
"Did I ever tell you about my college days, Laila?" he asked.
"Yes, you have," I said, "but I’m sure I haven't heard everything. Tell me: did you go there to study, or to pull pranks?"
"Well, I'm afraid I didn’t stay long enough to study very much. But there was this one time – "
"Yes? I'm listening," I said wiping down a table and unscrewing the top of a tall sugar container.
John cleared his throat. "I streaked through the gymnasium just as the fans came in for a game of basketball."
I busted out laughing. I couldn't help it.
"Oh, it was a big deal. The game, I mean. And I wasn't the only one streaking. I had several buddies who joined me on that one."
"I’m not sure I want the full details on that one," I said, still laughing. For a moment, I forgot that he slept on the streets. "How long did you stay in college?"
"I lasted two years before I decided it wasn’t for me." He paused for a moment. "You’re wondering why I didn’t stay. I don't exactly know. But I guess I'd probably be in a better place today if I had."
I shrugged. "I’m not blaming you for anything. College isn’t for everyone. I spent a couple of years there, thinking I’d like to be a doctor. But that was as far as I got."
I didn’t mention that I'd dropped out for financial reasons. But like me, John didn’t ask questions. I had never pried into his personal life and he didn't ask about mine. I liked our friendship the way it was.
"You would have made a good doctor," John said. "You're a good listener."
