by 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!”
Read the rest of this entry