paper cups of coffee

Sorry, I am distracted. A homeless man with a purple towel wrapped over his shoulder is five feet away from me, slowly falling in love with his jagged reflection. There is a tinted glass wall that stands between us. I forgive him because he probably does not own a mirror. I have a mirror in my bathroom that is covered with white foam that dribbles out my mouth because I squeeze too much toothpaste across the bristles. I like Crest. This morning I met Daisy, to whom I wrote a check for eighty-five dollars to spray some Windex over the cloudy mirror. I asked Daisy to clean the inside of the fridge. I could sense that she did not want to do this. Who am I to ask her? I am the person who wrote over the check for eighty five dollars. This means nothing.

Let’s get back to this man, who is still standing here. His hair is long and grey and extends down over his hollow face. His body is gangly. He is dancing to the sound of traffic. I write to an ipod playlist. The songs are OK. Right now Foo Fighters are on. Kurt Cobain and Dave Grohl did not get along. Nirvana was one of the things that saved me growing up as a teenager in the stale heat of the Valley. Yes, I was born here, in Los Angeles - Tarzana to be exact. Most people who call this place “home”, didn’t put in the time. I’m over it.

A woman with red shorts above her knees walks by behind him. This woman wears socks with her sandals and walks past the store with a paper cup of coffee. I see her almost every day I work here. I work at the Writers Store. I am appropriately – writing and working. I am a “working writer”. The strike did not affect me. I contribute to a magazine. The magazine is Hollywood Weekly.

I believe I will spend the rest of my life debating over the proper use of “affect” and “effect”, doubting my choice and hoping no one notices. Still, I find myself surpassing the masses grammatically. Sort of. I attribute most of this to my degree in English Literature obtained at the University of Colorado, Boulder. You should probably know that I just spelled English wrong in the preceding sentence, but the spell check caught it. As a Lit major, Whitman and Thoreau were shoved down my throat with a silver spoon. The spoon was stale and cold, but I swallowed their words and learned. Some things stuck, others I forgot.

My guru is Charles Bukowski. Now forgive me, because another bum just walked down Westwood Boulevard with a ragged blue sleeping bag under his arm. Westwood is flooded with money, so for a moment I try to understand this dichotomy. The bums go where there is no change and people hand out dollars instead. Well, at least the smart ones. I lost where I was. Oh yeah, Bukowski. Maybe I talk about him too much. Bukowski was a bum too, that’s what he called himself.

He was more than just a drunk and I am more than this, but I am done.