Coffee with a Little Ire To Go (Cigar Smoke 1-14-10)

Being retired has enabled me to get into a number of things I didn’t have time for when I was a real person. I’ve been able to sit on the couch for very long periods of time until someone puts a feather in front of my nose to see if my nostril hairs are moving. I’ve been able to buy an iPhone ap that lets me track my FedEx packages and look at it every day to see if my packages are in Lexington, Ky., or en route to the delivery center in Austin, Texas. And most recently, I have been able to check out a different place to get my coffee every day in and around Pasadena.

Yes, I have had coffee at every Starbucks within a radius of 10 miles of Old Town. And I’ve enjoyed most of them. I usually go out and buy a USA Today and solve the crossword puzzle instead of solving my own life problems. And I always order a small coffee of the day and the clerk person always says, “Do you mean a tall or a grande?” And I always say, “Small.” And they say, “Tall or grande, you white-haired geezer bastard?” And I say, “Let’s compromise. How about a smande?”

After I had been to all the Starbucks in the area, and after many of the managers had put me on their no-sip lists, I started going to other coffee places. I would seek out semi-lowlife kind of spots where I could feel comfortable. Places with almost acceptable coffee and lots of open tables. Hole-in-the-wall spots. AM-PM stores. Hawaiian drink places with coffee signs in pencil. Donut shops. Enjoyed them all.

Except for the one on Colorado Boulevard that was so damn fancy that I felt like I had walked into someone’s living room. This place had poofy couches and nice chairs and carpets and — scariest of all — table lamps. Holy roasted coffee bean, baby. Table lamps! And then this nice Japanese woman asks me what I would like and I ordered a coffee and felt obligated to get this little mystery pastry goodie that was on a really nice plate with a lace napkin on it. And I paid her and she bowed and she kind of hesitated, so hell, I bowed back. And she bowed again. And I bowed.

And then, when I’m sitting in my stuffed chair with my table lamp on, she comes over and bows again, and I bow, and she bows, and I bow and I stick my nose into my coffee. She is startled at this, so she asks me if there is anything she can do, and I say, “Maybe bow one more time.”

Haven’t been back there. I found a new place out in Monrovia. Just my kind of place. Has coffee with sizes that you don’t have to be bilingual to order and is fairly big, so I can find a seat, and is far enough from my house that I can smoke a cigar on the way over and back. I love this place. I just take my iPhone and drink my coffee and observe all the other patrons with their electronic rectangles and am happy that we will never have to actually talk to each other. It’s perfect.

Well, almost perfect. I’ve been going there for a couple of months now, and it’s been great. And then a few days ago I go there and have my small coffee without flak and I go back out to my car. And some coffee-juiced jerk-off has parked his car so close to mine that I can’t get in.

How do people do this? He pulls into the stall next to me and parks right up against my car. He is literally within six inches of my door. He barely missed my rear-view mirror. There is no way anybody can get in my car. Twiggy on a diet couldn’t get in my car.

At first, I think of how I could beat this lowlife with a crowbar and tell the jury straight out that I did it and I know they’d let me off. But, of course, I am a semi-civil person. I will not club the guy to death. I try to stay calm. I accept that I will just have to live with the fantasy of clubbing the guy to death.

So I walk back into the coffee place. I say in a loud voice, “Excuse me. May I have your attention? Please put your hand-held devices down. This is a real person speaking to you. I am not voice- activated software. I am rage-activated human. I would like to know who the owner of the car is who parked his car so close to my car that I cannot get into my car. That’s what I want to know.”

Nobody raised his or her hand. So I said, “OK, here’s the deal. This key in my hand is my car key. I am going to walk out to my car and take this key and scratch my name and phone number on the side of your car so you can be sure to know who to apologize to. Or you can take your own car key and back your car out of the parking space where you have parked your pissily parked piece-of-shit-and-Shinola car.”

I turned and started walking out. Some lady ran by me and whisked that Escalade out of that parking spot before I could say “club to death with a tire iron.”

Damn soccer moms!