Saint Joseph of Starbucks

Every morning at 5:00 am, in the Starbucks located in the heart of Palm Springs, Saint Joseph awaits to council, advise and administer to the daily needs of his flock.

He appears at his corner table. Always the same table, always the same time, always the same place. Seven days a week since at least 2000 when I first started going to Palm Springs.

The only variable is his entourage for that particular day and the host of visiting dignitaries who shuffle by for their coffee fix and always find time to stop at his office for a

brief exchange of wisdom before melting into the night once again.

Joseph is an older gentleman, probably in his mid-seventies. He’s always cheerful, ready with a smile and a laugh. He has a pleasant demeanor that never varies with the seasons or time of day. I don’t know if Joseph is married or gay or straight. And it hardly matters, especially in a place like Palm Springs.  He is a councilor, advisor, cheerleader, friend, listener and seeker of the good in everyone he meets.

For many people, Joseph is their early morning elixir for what ails them on that particular day. Unlike the old men who gather at coffee shops around the world to blather on about nothing and expose their ignorance with Monday morning quarterbacking, second-guessing politicians and berating the government, Joseph is articulate, thoughtful and intelligent.

His entourage varies from day to day as do his visitors.

There is an older woman who is usually at his side. I can’t tell if they’re married, living together or just friends in need of companionship. She seems to be the yin for his yang.

And an old curmudgeon who is usually bitching about something and is always countered by Joseph’s calm response. The man is like a bad cliché but he doesn’t know it or seem to care. He just keeps embarrassing himself with his statements. Joseph is the man’s patient sounding board. I sometimes think Joseph’s nickname should be chuckles for his quick wit and logical response to the man’s anal chattering on about nothing.

Others come and go. A few linger but most just sit or stand for a little while in Joseph’s corner and then move on with their lives.

The conversations vary by the day. One time it might be the local news sprinkled with criticism of national politics. The next might be the weather; summer is hot, the rest of the year is wonderful. The conversations are open, honest and usually bent toward the left, which is not surprising considering the community that hosts them.

One time Joseph and his merry band of mischief-makers moved all the furniture around to suit their taste that day. They called themselves “Interior Desiccators.” Management wasn’t pleased and moved the furniture back in place. The next day, the game began again. Joseph won and management capitulated.

Another day, they dissected a local play. They decided it was Dr. Cold Fingers who was the proctologist. They ran lines of their own: “If you twitter my…I’ll google your”…and “two pickles short of a hamburger. ” None of it was really funny except that it was five in the morning and the caffeine hadn’t worked its magic yet. So they thought themselves hilarious.

Crossword puzzles are always a hit and usually completed in short order with a host of quick minds attacking the empty blocks. Often times, arguments arise and the dictionary (part of Joseph’s arsenal of support material) settles the answer.

The cadre of visitors varies each day but some stand out in my mind.

There is the younger woman who lives in her wheelchair. She moves around by using her crutches as walking sticks. She has the sad eyes of a fawn that has just lost her mother. But she has many friends at Starbucks and she relishes their company. They relish hers.

Then there is the muscle man, built solid as a rock, who walks a toy poodle. The dog is his trusted companion and he loves that animal. Dogs come and go. There’s even a dish of water for them outside every morning.

A day laborer stops by often. He always wears a knit hat even in 125-degree summer heat. And he always seems to be moving from one job to another.

There is always the man in one corner with his flashlight, scanning the pages of the LA Times and NY Times because the damn lighting is so bad inside.

Numerous gay men come by. Many of them argue like any old married couple. The arguments are always the same, only the gender is different.

A Black businessman with a ready smile is there every morning. He is always impeccably dressed in a white shirt and tie even in the stifling summer heat.

For a short while, there was even a guy who took a fancy to me. His gaydar must have been out of whack that week.

By 7:00 or 7:30, Joseph is gone. I have absolutely no idea where he goes off. But it doesn’t really matter. Joseph is sure to be back the next day, same place, same time. There will be the same flock of casual friends who look forward to his ready smile, quick wit and easy to swallow dose of friendship. For many folks, that’s all that’s needed to face another day and their reality, if only for a moment in time.

Starbucks reminds me of the Triangle Bar on the West Bank and the Amsterdam Coffee houses of my past. Only now I’m just a casual observer, taking a lot of notes.

And thinking what a wonderful play this story would make.