There is a crazy man in Starbucks. He is here most days that I am here.
He sits at a table near the door, allowing him to make contact with most everyone who walks in. He wears a short sleeve, orange button down shirt, tucked into khaki pants, and black walking shoes. These are resting neatly on the tile next to his sock covered feet. He boldly lifts one foot up and rests it on his knee, his sock waving back and forth to the beat of the music. In his hands is a paper he isn’t reading, which he gives a nice loud pop to about every 30 seconds or so. There is a crinkled brown bag sitting on his table. Most of the time, he is talking quietly to himself in a nonsensical way. Every now and then I meet eyes with him, he sits upright with his reading glasses pushed down, still talking to himself, staring at my corner.
He once asked me what an Ipad was, and I tried to explain it to him. I give something of a half smile, no…more of a slightly polite quarter smile. Enough to say “Yes, I see you over there.”
He reaches in his crumpled brown bag and pulls out a large mason jar, half full with honey. He holds it up to the light with admiration, turns it a few times, and presses it to his cheek with a look of pure peace.