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by Irving Rothstein

Memory
Stories of a past
The spice of a life well lived
But at times that spice
dosen’t taste so nice.
Time to take wing
and dream your thing.
–anonymous

The aroma of fresh brewed coffee. The buzz of voices. The three small tables are full and five are sitting elbow to elbow at the pocket size counter. Fifteen people are shoehorned into a space where ten are a crowd.

“Cool Beans” is a funky little cafe on California Street in San Francisco. It is small, so small that everything and everybody are close and personal. Sam and Henry. the owners, have learned the magic of transforming customers into friends. Pictures of their Calabash are all over the wall side by side with postcards from everywhere on the planet. Sam, a short wiry, olive skinned guy with a “hi how are you” smile delights in telling fellow track fans, “122 straight hurdle victories, two time Olympic gold medal winner, and I didn’t recognize Edwin Moses when he came in for coffee. He sat right there talking to his cousin and I, I coulda got his autograph on the wall there.”

And there was Marv Boutet, a for-real Crime Scene Investigator in San Francisco. Marv worked long hours, mostly nights, and loved every second of it. His dark brown eyes were always glazed over and sitting on dark circles. Marv was a matter of fact guy, a Sergeant Friday, the kind that talks very little, and when he does talk it’s as if he’s reciting a memorized menu. Our paths crossed every morning—Marv came in after work, when I was on my way to work.

Today, Marv’s voice had real feeling, as if a dam had broken over night and words were pouring out. “Blood and flesh all over place, he put a gun in his mouth and blooey. Everything was in place, the chairs and instruments were neatly arranged, even kept the magazines in the rack alphabetically, by title.”

He stared at me over the his coffee cup. His eyes were hound-dog sad, a word away from tears.

“Why do people get to killing themselves? You’re the teacher, tell me!”

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by Irving Rothstein

When you look through a keyhole, you might see an eye looking back at you.

–Robert Jordan PhD

It’s April 1995, six or seven years into drought here in San Francisco. My wife Rosey and I are at Cost Plus with two friends.

Cost Plus has stuff from all over the world for sale, and a men’s room. I finish my business at a urinal, zip up and a little old man pops out of a stall and shouts in a German accent, “Filthy! Piss is filthy! Filthy! It gives germs. Flush der toilet!”

He races to my urinal, and jerks handle down.

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by Irving Rothstein

Education helps one cease being intimidated by strange situations.

–Maya Angelou

Lamont Gardner was an impish kindergarten kid with soft brown eyes, close-cropped hair, a wistful smile and non-stop friends. The friends are all around him in the school yard this Wednesday but his smile is absent. In fact Lamont’s eyes are filled with tears.

“What’s the matter, Lamont?” I ask.

Lamont looks up at me, hesitates, then takes my right hand. He stands there sobbing, the tears flowing freely. He sniffles and rubs his right eye with the knuckle of his closed hand. I bend down to his level and give him my most concerned look.

“Lamont, can you tell me what’s wrong? I can’t help if I don’t know the problem.”

Lamont stares straight through me, his eyes screwing up as if they are going to burst with tears. Then he lowers his head, stares down at his feet for what seems like forever and very slowly brings his head up to stare up at me. He lets go my hand and points downward. He sniffles and wipes his nose with his sleeve.

I follow the pointing finger down to his new hiking boots, a birthday present from grandma that Lamont had worn for the first time yesterday. He was proud of them, showing the boots off to everyone. But now, oozing out and around the soles of both boots, is soft and squishy dog doo.

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by Irving Rothstein

“Of course books tell about their readers.”

It was at an art show and the man making the statement was a successful interior designer. He went on to say he often bought classic books by subject for bookshelves in the homes he designed and furnished.

“My clients know that people judge other people by the books they read. They want to impress their visitors.”

He went on to describe people as being strongly influenced by characters, whether they are fictional or non fictional, in books or on the screen. Ex-President George W. Bush has a story that he loves. Both he and his wife have publicly acknowledged that the story he relishes and reads over and over again is The Very Hungry Caterpillar. Accepting Patriot Act reading habit assumptions, the idea that a book gives insight into its reader, I purchased a copy to investigate.

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by Irving Rothstein

Scene: Lakeshore Plaza, a small shopping village near the San Francisco Zoo in the 90’s.

The mall is essentially a one block parking lot, surrounded on all four sides by flat-roofed, grey adobe buildings in a neighborhood of single family homes. On the west side of the mall the buildings have a second story with professional offices—dentists, doctors, etc. Among the eastern buildings is a supermarket and inside the supermarket is a coffee shop. At the entrance to the coffee shop is a ragged homeless man with an empty cup in his hand. He is drunk, his hand is shaking, he holds out a cup to people entering and leaving.

Two men in their late seventies are entering. They are both wearing baseball caps and freshly-ironed work clothes. The homeless man holds out his cup to the first and gets in return, “You’re a drunken lazy bum, sober up and get yourself a job.”

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by Irving Rothstein

“A needle… I am looking for a needle.”

It’s a Hebrew/English problem: his Hebrew, our English. Rosey, my wife, mimes the sewing of a fine stitch.

We are staying at the Jaffa Gate Hostel in Jerusalem. Rosey found a small tear in her dress, so we went to the Mahane Yehuda Market on Jaffa Road to find a needle and thread. The thread had been easy, but nowhere could we find a machat.

“Ah! A machat! Sorry I do not have, but there,” the tall man points to a nearby stall.

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by Irving Rothstein

I went into a cafe across the street from where I used to live, between 14th and Henry on Noe Street. Seventeen people sat against the walls on either side of the cafe at laptops. The counter guy sat with them facing the wall on his laptop. I finally got his attention and bought a cup of coffee and opened the morning newspaper. Not a sound was heard except for hands on the keyboards and my paper rustling. Every few minutes someone would come in and look around. Two more seats were filled. Everybody was seated along the wall. For the ten minutes or so I sat there not one person talked to another. Was it me or was it strange that people in that coffee shop never talked to one another?

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