Every morning a group of older men sit at a table at Starbucks, and fill each other in on their previous day, or shoot the breeze about current events, or laugh at the stupidity of one of the men. It is an eclectic group of men. One talks in a deep southern drawl, another is a heavy set Hispanic man with deep callouses on his hands. There is a scrawny Asian man, occasionally, and every so often an abrasive black man. They all pale in comparison in terms of intrigue to the quiet, man with long curly hair he often tucks into a beanie, and a long white beard that almost never moves as he speaks. His hands shake uncontrollably, and every seven minutes he gets up from the table and goes outside to smoke a cigarette, no matter the weather. For eighteen months I have watched these men, curious as to their individual and collective stories. How did this group of men come to be friends? Why do they spend hours in Starbucks? As a writer, and as an observer, I find all of these men interesting. They welcome a variety of people to their table, exchange gifts with long time baristas, and hold court on a wide spectrum of topics.
One day, around the New Year, the smoker of the group stood outside holding his cigarette in his left hand, clothed in a tie-dye peace sign shirt, jeans that hung low and loose, thick black boots, and a rainbow colored beanie. I walked by him, nodded like I usually do when I see him and went into Starbucks to write. Three hours later as I emerged from the haze of writing, there he was again, outside, cigarette in his left hand. He asked me my name, and asked how I liked the apartment complex where I live. (My complex is backed up to the shopping center which has the Starbucks, and I walk to and from Starbucks, so he knew where I lived.) As I put my bag down to talk to him, I noticed his right hand shaking uncontrollably, and his left leg too. His face read that it was a struggle for him to raise his left hand to his lips to take a puff on his burning cigarette. His name is Raymond. Raymond helped change my perspective of life that day. In the weeks since, we have occasionally chatted, usually briefly, because as I found out during our first conversation, he cannot sit still for very long.
Raymond's uncontrollable shaking comes courtesy of an accident in 2007. An accident that put him on permanent disability. An accident for which he is still paying hospital bills. An accident that left him with rods in his spine, weak limbs that tighten if he stays in one spot for longer than 15 minutes, and left him with a stutter. Raymond was a career military man. He was scheduled to go to Vietnam, but we pulled out. He was stationed in different parts of the world in the 1980s and 1990s. In the early 2000s he worked on a base in San Diego. The accident happened on the military base. He told me the details were still a bit fuzzy to him. He shook his head, smiling as he stuttered through the story.
He was out directing some men who were re-positioning surveillance cameras on the base, when he noticed, out of the corner of his right eye, an army jeep swerving recklessly towards him. It was too late to jump out of the way, and the jeep hit him, and tossed him into a concrete barricade of some sort. He awoke days later in a hospital. A week after that he was released from the hospital, and all he wanted to do was go back to work, but it was not to be.
His story was depressing but his tone and body language were anything but. He told me he was thankful to have kids who helped him. Thankful that he survived and gets to live into old age. He said that the hospital bills are terrible, but he has a roof over his head, food to eat, and people around who make him smile. The daily struggles help remind him to appreciate the time he has left, and since the accident he gets to read more, and life has slowed down. He still misses working, and picks up odd jobs here and there, but only in the warmer months because the cold months are too hard on the rods in his body. He picked up smoking after the accident because he needed something to do with his hands while he walked around outside after sitting for ten minutes.
The warmth and joy that emanated from his core, rocked me back a little bit, honestly. If I get water in my shoe, my whole day is flat out ruined. Here is a guy whose entire life was fractured by an event over which he had no control, and he walks around every day appreciating it and taking it all in.
At the close of our discussion he wished me a good day, we shook hands and as I walked away, he said "God bless you." This is not a phrase I enjoy hearing, if I am being completely honest. My relationship with God is rocky, and has been for twenty years, and normally when someone says it to me, it feels so fabricated, like they are trying to teach me a lesson. The sincerity rang out from him though.
I try to remember how grateful Raymond is to experience every day, and my goal is to get myself there.
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