Most mornings she opens early because she knows customers will be desperate for coffee, cigarettes or beer so they can face another day.
They stumble inside pouring themselves a cup or ordering at the counter before stumbling out to the bench or the plastic table and chairs set up on the sidewalk where she joins them to chat or sit in silence staring at cigarette smoke.
Most look as though they slept outside or haven't made it home yet though Michael Bart sits in the middle looking dapper and cheerful greeting all who join this fractured community.
Rick, the surfer dude, glides in on his skate board with his dog for orange juice as the sun bubbles out of the sea.
Tourists load up on Twinkies and powdered doughnuts to cart back to their hotel rooms.
Rosco rides his bike up the street for the morning newspaper before rushing to the ocean to snap a morning photograph to post on Facebook, his morning greeting from the Beach.
"Hey Rev," Gail mutters as I wander inside.
"Val and Ryno," I say in reply and she reaches up for two Salem Lights and a box of Parliaments.
"They busy yet," she asks.
"The Breakfast Club's always busy," I shrug.
"You been sick," she says.
"I was," I smile at her concern "but I'm better now."
"It can kill you," she says handing me the cigarettes and taping an index finger on my hand, "you sure you okay?"
"I'm good," I affirm and she nods without smiling.
"Morning Micheal," Michael Bart cheerfully wishes.
"Hey Mike," I smile as I make my way outside to make deliveries to the Breakfast Club hearing the others hack and spit as they sip coffee or beer.
It's very Church like, I think to myself. A rag tag collection of people trying to survive into another day and holding on to one another for dear life to get started.
And Gail's the High Priestess ... the Christ figure caring for cats and feral people ... and at least for a moment giving each of them a place to find their footing ... as the sun climbs into the sky ... and the world will do what it will to us all.
