A Bad Start to a Great Day

I watched him stare at the newspaper in the box through the large plate glass windows of The Breakfast Club. He dug in his pockets for quarters, saw the price is now a dollar instead of 75 cents, made a face, and stuck the change back in his pants. His short white hair and closely cropped  white beard made him look like a tall thin Santa Claus dressed for vacation. Tropical shirt, jams and flip flops were a stark contrast to his pasty white skin.

Looking up he saw me sitting sipping coffee. Quickly glancing at the others waiting for the restaurant to open, he looked back at me. He had a wondering look on his face. "How do you get to ..."

"Shit!" I thought to myself. "He's going to sit by me."

Caroline unlocked the doors and the explosion of people is shocking as they rush inside quickly filling the booths and sliding onto the stools of the counter so they can watch the four person ballet of cooks do magic on the grill.

He strolls in at the end of the rush and sits beside me.

"Micheal," he says in a measured and formal way.

"Gordon," I nod, not caring one way or the other.

After ordering coffee, he asked if I was finished with the newspaper and I slid it in front of him saying, "Nothing happened yesterday."

Greedily he took it and there was an awkward silence.

"How's The Starfish Café doing?" he asked.

"How would I know?" I answered.

The Starfish Café is a working restaurant that's also a culinary arts training program for homeless people that I helped start. It was quickly recognized for its innovation and was profiled on the TODAY Show, CNN and featured in national and regional magazines. The last time I was there my wife, Sarah, ran it but that was three years ago.

He took a sip of coffee while staring straight ahead. I remembered when he was the Treasurer of my Board of Directors. It had been a wild ride. I was on fire writing grants and raising money and millions of dollars were pouring into Union Mission. He oversaw the spending. Together we built a massive infrastructure of services unlike any in the nation.

"You still doing the homeless?" he asked condescendingly.

"I don't have too," I said, "they're fucked enough already."

The thinnest of smiles graced his already thin lips.

Back in the day he walked into my office and told me we needed to stop. "It's growing too fast," he explained. "You're taking it in directions that have nothing to do with our mission. Why are we building housing for people with AIDS? What does health care have to do with homelessness? Why are we building a health care center? I'm telling you we don't need to do anything new for the next few years."

I remember looking at him as though he were possessed by Satan himself. Homelessness had been reduced by 54% and I wasn't going to stop until the job was done.

"You were always good at politics," he said. "You still doing that?"

"They're all the same," I shot back. "None are any better than the other. They can all go to hell."

He started to protest. "But what about Jack? He's a nice guy."

"I don't have to do this anymore," I told myself.

"Bye Gordon," I said standing up.

"But ..." he said.

And I walked outside, got on my bicycle, coasting down Tybrissa Street to the ocean, basking in the sunshine of a glorious day.