It was Father’s Day weekend. My wife and I always go to the local Starbucks on Saturdays as part of the ritualistic chores we do and to also catch up on our previous week (the scones ain’t bad either). Now let me say that I live in a conservative part of the country and this particular Starbucks is out on the “frontier” between rural suburbs and the “bojacks” (meaning close to deliverance country according to my uncle’s definition of the word). We were winding down the coffee and scone and my back is to the entrance. I see my wife’s eyes widen as she suppresses a laugh and nods her head over my shoulder in the direction of the newest customer to the premises. I figure it must be good because the otherwise noisy crowd goes into complete silence. This is what we saw:
I’m going to start my description from toe to head.
He’s in his early 40’s . . . . I think. Heck, he could be 30. His face says he’s living life at full throttle. . . . and not in a healthy way either.
Gracing his feet are a pair of low-top bright orange Doc Marten’s. They’ve seen better days as they are scuffed up pretty bad, but heck, where do you get orange shoe polish these days? Because they are Doc Marten’s and have a natural clunkiness to them, they stretch out and make the shoes look like something that Bozo the Clown would wear. Inside the shoes he’s wearing low cut black athletic socks . . . . that’s right, black.
Rising from there are two of the whitest, thinnest, most spindly legs that I’ve seen in quite some time. They disappear into wrinkles black shorts . . . . these have most definitely been in constant use for a minimum of a week . . . . like 24/7 kind of use.
Dangling from under his un-tucked shirt is a key ring with no less than 25 keys attached to it. He passes by as if he has not woken up yet and moves to the now vacant line. My wife tells me that one of the best parts is yet to come. She says: “Look at what’s stenciled to the front of his shirt” (which by the way is a black “wife-beater”). In calligraphy is written: “Ask me about my vow of silence.” I turn to my wife and say: “Gonna be tough to order that latte, I’m thinkin’.”
Exiting from the shirt are two equally spindly and “whale belly white” arms that are adorned with body art on his upper arms. It’s body art of people. On his right arm you can see that one of them is probably someone with whom he’s had a less than graceful breakup of the relationship . . . in fact probably hates judging by the attempt to blot that one out. Below that one is the face of a toddler. On his left upper arm he’s got what appears to be a 1940’s black jazz musician with a trumpet. Below that one is what I swear to God looks like Ron Jeremy . . . .a fat Ron Jeremy. As he turns he back to place his order I see just below the neck a tattoo of a Holstein cow . . . one of those California happy cows. He’s also wearing some type of leather cuff on one of his wrists.
The head exiting the “wife beater” reveals a man who has lived a rough life, but with a statement. It’s been at least 3 to 5 days since a razor has seen his face and he is sporting a scraggly Vandyke. One of his nostrils is pierced with a very small, very thin loop of gold and he’s also got an earring. Sprouting from his head are either seedling dreadlocks or cornrows . . . I don’t think he’s made up his mind.
As I said, it looks like he’s trying desperately to wake up and only an infusion of coffee will accomplish that. Remember the shirt and the “Vow of Silence?” He’s decided to ignore his vow and place his order. . . . .You know, I could have sworn that Truman Capote was dead. But his voice isn’t. This guys hijacked it.
Coffee finished and breakfast sweet eaten and he now looks as if he ready to face the world. He leaves all his personal stuff on top of the NY Times and heads out the door (the place explodes with people talking). But, in he comes with his clothes on a hanger (what the . . . . ?) orders another cup’a and sits down after finding a nearby makeshift hook to hang his clothes on. He then finishes the paper.
Now for what’s on the hanger. As far as I can tell it’s a black windowpane pattern mohair sport coat with padded shoulders. Did I mention that it’s expected to be over 100 and a humidity level in excess of a gazillion percent? A great day for mohair I’d say. Also on the hanger and under the coat is a bright orange dress shirt. He finishes up and heads to the back with his hanger and will, I assume, change in the bathroom. What he doesn’t know is that about 2 minutes before he went back there, and elderly gentleman had exited and has locked the men’s room door behind him. Bozo guy tries the door several times and becomes impatient since the door is locked. So, he starts to dress in the shirt, checking the door, and then just goes into the ladies room. He emerges now fully dressed. It wasn’t a sport coat as I thought. It is a full, double breasted mohair suit with the shoulder pads. Also, what I had not seen was the black and white polka dot tie that completes the ensemble. With hanger in hand, he marches the bright orange brogans to the door and exits getting in to his hoopty.
Starts it up and noisily, drives away leaving a smoke screen in his wake.
As we leave, the place is buzzing about what we had all just seen. We run into our usual Barista Velma who states: “Now there’s something you don’t see every day.” To which I answer: “Yep. I just hope he’s not on his way to see Dad for Fathers Day.”
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