“CHEERS”
Angel is long gone. So is Fabiana. They were a few of my capable baristas at Peet’s Coffee located in Hastings Ranch in Pasadena. Peet’s has been my dependable café and my office. It used to be my second office but has become my first ever since COVID-19. What used to be more than 1,000 acres of ranch owned by the Hastings family long ago has turned into a haven for sprawling contiguous strip malls. I fondly consider this area a mildly boring bougie “backside” of Pasadena away from trendier Oldtown Pasadena. We frequent this area for multiple reasons: our favorite grocery is here, Trader Joe’s, and occasionally, Whole Foods Market. When oatmeal or muesli run out as my top choice for daily breakfast and I must find my substitute, I willingly either go for McDonald’s Sausage McMuffin with Egg or Einstein Bros Bagel’s farmhouse breakfast sandwiches. I also work out at LA Fitness which is also nearby. Whatever the reason, it is not unusual for us to come to the ranch at least once if not twice a day.
The Peet’s is where everybody knows my name. Now, it is Vanessa, Michael, Areli, or Jayleen who prepare my Americano. In the mornings when I am here about 5 or 6 times a week, there is a long list of familiar usual suspects. I am not the only one who frequents this place most mornings. Both in the form of recognition and hello, I would jerk my chin upwards and crack a faint smile to some of the usual suspects.
There is Ralph who must be in his mid-70s. He arrives almost always around 11 am. His strides are short and less confident but without a cane or walking stick. He still has full grey hair which I used to envy, years ago, but not anymore. When looking at him approaching Peet’s in his signature oversized black jacket with bold red stripe, his head is tilted in such a way it is always 5:55 am or pm. His hands shake as he sits down at the same table near the window and waits for his friends.
Usually, about half an hour later, Hank and his wife arrive. Hank is older than Ralph, walks with a cane, and less assuredly than Ralph. In his bad hair day every day, his pale face tells me he has been ill and thus in the recovery and feeling good enough to get out, I would imagine. His wife (just heard this morning addressing Hank, as “honeybun”) in her short stylish haircut has full makeup on always, and is sprightly and sharp. She speaks confidently and boomingly as Hank has a difficult time hearing. She doesn’t assist Hank while walking perhaps to help him be more independent and dignified. The threesome sits together for about an hour. Their conversation remains very ordinary and mundane, not that I was trying to eavesdrop on their conversation.
Then there is a man whose name I do not know. He usually is here before I do. He always sits looking out from the window to the patio seating and the ample parking lot. He looks like he may be a few years older than I, seemingly fit, and dons a baseball cap and a pair of shorts every single day, rain, or shine. His athletic shoes change frequently, enough for me to notice anyway, and he watches something on his iPad. Sometimes he would mingle with Ralph and company but most of the time he keeps to himself.
A middle-aged woman wears glasses, and her full thick blondish hair is pulled clipped back with a large hair clipper. She comes with a bag filled with a laptop, books, and notebooks, ready to work. While facing a wall in a darker corner, she pours herself into reading and writing. One morning, on her way to the restroom, she asked me to watch for her stuff which I happily consented. Apart from the little interaction, I have not talked with her. My mind wandered a few times as to what she may be doing. My best wild guess is that she is a mystery book writer.
I cannot leave out a group of older Armenian men, usually huddled around outside in the patio area. Though their ages may vary, my best guess is that they are all in their 80s from what I can piece together. They all look healthy enough to drive. Without failure, they are here every day for several hours at a time. They are talkative and gregarious. Their English is passable. I imagine them being kicked out, I mean sent out, from their wives’ dominion after breakfast. And they willingly oblige and spend jolly of a time with their buddies. Maybe they exchange some of their war stories or childhood memories back home either in Syria, Russia, or Turkey. Maybe they exchange the latest examples of whose wife is more loving and supportive and/or bragging about their children and grandchildren.
Apart from my immediate family, these are the people I see almost every day in my neighborhood. Strangely enough, I admit that I will miss seeing them. Invariably, there will be new characters as my usual suspects in Malaysia. Unintentional and bypassing relationships are like “fillers” to intentionally directed friendships in life. While the latter relationships shape and define us in a significant proportion, the former relationships still require civility, respect, and kindness albeit fleetingly. The “filler” relationships are not unimportant; they are opportunities for authentic living. As my neighbors did not know I was watching and even projecting my view on them, I too am being watched and projected by others around me. I just hope that I am a pebble of positive energy moving the universe in a more loving trajectory.