There is a specific kind of man at every cafe in Los Angeles - maybe even the world. He is not the only kind of man. But a specific kind. He will smell bad. Have his government finances in just enough order that he will have a roof over his head at night. An RV camper. Low-income housing. Rent control. He will get by in a low effort way that almost inspires jealousy. And he will have another kind of dimmer man who needs him for a ride to the courthouse.
But this kind of man. He will want to sit with his less-organized friend for an hour or two first before doing anything. Acting out his idiosyncrasies for all the bland civilized to see. Idiosyncrasies. Like shutting the open door no matter how little it is left cracked. Like drinking a huge glass mason jar full of sudsy water every morning. Like smelling as bad as he does. He probably has a half-baked theory on why soap is bad and pheromones are yada blah whatever. And his shutting of the door is especially maddening because it stuffs the coffee fuming room with his thick sweaty balls odor. His thick sweaty balls odor.
And when you believe that you can not stand him anymore, this man will widen his presence just a bit more with worthless possessions or the obtuse angle of his legs. And this specific kind of man will hold court. He will unquestionably be holding court. Establishing his mini kingdom for the morning. You can tell. The way he is lording over this trash heap of a kingdom for all to see in that delinquent bohemian grandeur so loud it could almost be mistaken for unintentional if it weren't so blatant. And you will pray to have a fate more active and meaningful than this man.
You don't know what any of this means, life, you get that there is a profound path of least resistance to living it, honorable and simple and pure. But this specific kind of man is not it for you. The way he sways within the folds of living by willing an urban apocalypse of inactivity into existence.
So you believe it is not out of malice that you want to turn heads and hearts more than this specific kind of man. Not out of malice so much as it is a natural intuition speaking, shouting, yelling until hoarse that I don't want to breathe in your smell! What I want is to step outside of this fermented human pungency and be closer to one with the fresh air and brilliant energy of it all.
And you think to yourself, that there is also a specific kind of man at every cafe in Los Angeles - maybe even in this world - who is trying like hell in his scraggly corner to figure it all out. Furrowed brow. Usually headphones on. And he is not the only kind of man. But a specific kind. And sometimes it makes this specific kind of man a bit of a grumpy dick.
