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It was a beautiful, warm fall day in Laguna Beach. I suppose all days in Laguna are beautiful, even the gloomy days. But this day in particular was exquisite, very still and uncharacteristically hot, for November at least. Mid 90s.
Carly, the Garde Manger Queen, and I were sitting on the patio at Koffee Klatch, an artsy internet cafe on PCH. We both had to be at work at Savoury’s in a few hours, but work was merely fodder for conversation at that moment as we sat in the sun, sipping tea, hers a hot chai, mine an iced apricot.
The door to an art gallery next to us opened suddenly, and an old woman appeared. She was smiling and stumbled in an almost drunken way, as she descended the four brick steps leading down from the gallery to the walk.
She perched on a rail with one hand, the other pressed to her chest as if she was winded. I asked if she was all right, even though she was still smiling. She waved her hand, like she was dismissing the idea that anything could possibly be wrong and waddled up to our table, smiling at us. She pulled a chair away from an empty table and plopped herself down, in between me and Carly. We glanced at one another, amused.
“You don’t mind if I join you for a moment, do you?”
I smiled at her. “Not at all.”
Her name was Faye. For the next hour she sat beside us, telling jokes, offering little anecdotes about her life. She had lived in Laguna Beach for sixty years. Her husband had passed away quite a long time ago, she said, and they never did have children. She had no other living relatives and not very many friends left living nearby. As she talked and laughed, (practically to herself, for it felt as if Carly and I were merely an audience at a one-woman show) I couldn’t fathom how lonely she must be, to sit with two young strangers, and pour her heart out. I smiled at her, and laughed with her, asking questions when it seemed polite and appropriate. Her 85th birthday was a few days away, November 19th. The anniversary of the Gettysburg Address she reminded us. She seemed to love that.
She wore large bifocals, perfectly circular, with a translucent red frame. She had very short hair, almost buzzed and her tight curls were greyish white. She wore a long sleeve gray shirt and was very plump, round like her bifocals. Just looking at her made me smile. Not in a mocking way. In an appreciative way. Faye was so full of life and energy, and still had so much to give. Yet no one to accept.
She reminded me of my grandfather, may he rest in peace. He was still alive at that time and it broke my heart to think of him all alone, like Faye, talking to strangers, to feel a connection with someone, to feel connected to anyone.
* * *
As Carly and I walked to Cress Beach later on, she mentioned how awkward she thought it was, listening to Faye. How it made her a little uncomfortable, because she couldn’t help but feel sorry for the poor, senile old woman. Even though Faye had repeatedly expressed how blessed and wonderful her life had been, we couldn’t help but pity her current situation.
Taking some time out of our day to amuse an old woman deserving of our respect was the least we could do.
* * *
Before we left The Klatch, Faye asked if Carly and I would visit her sometime. We politely answered yes, we’d love to, and she wrote her name, address and phone number in my journal. She asked for our contact information, so I ripped half a page and wrote our names, my P.O. Box address, and the phone number at Savoury’s, folded it in half and handed it to her.
We stood and I said it was a pleasure to talk with her. She smiled up at me and thanked us. She said she loved talking to young people because she felt as if she could almost absorb some of our energy and youth and she loved that feeling. She stood, a little wobbly and I asked if she would like me to walk her to her car.
She smiled and replied, “No, thank you, dear. And if I fall on those steps, let me lie awhile. I probably need to rest.”
* * *
On Thanksgiving, a few days later, I drove up to her house on St. Ann’s Drive, to deliver her a bottle of wine and a little holiday cheer before I went to work. She wasn’t home, so I left the wine and a little note on her porch. She had a beautiful view from her house, and I stood there for a moment, thinking, and hoping Faye was enjoying the holiday with friends.
A few weeks later I received a post card in the mail from her, thanking me for the wine. That was the last contact I had with her.
I’ll never forget Faye, her incredible spirit, her love for life and her crazy laughter.
She touched my life, for a very brief moment, but I know I am a better person for having met her.
Bryant and I sit outside of our work, on a bench, at least once a week, and catch up. It’s our routine. We can talk for hours, literally, about pretty random topics, that are always humorous and always relative to our lives.
Recently, one of our coworkers, and really good friend, found himself in a bit of trouble, and much of last night’s conversation revolved around that.
Bryant messaged me after I left last night (at 3:15 am, two hours of incessant chatter and laughter and tears later) with this…
No, not showering with hoes, I mean the way they bathe inmates; with a hose. I think that’s only if you’re doing hard time. Irvine jail is where they take the drunks and the drug offenders to try to get them to “straighten” up. It’s not hardcore like ‘the pen’ (penitentiary). Now if he was in there, you had better hope no inmates see him crying. Seriously though, the only thing that goes on in that jail is a bunch of fighting and some shit talkin’. You don’t get raped. Anyway, the weird thing is that you and I were talking about doing the things you love to do, but in moderation (like drinking, smoking, fucking, etc.). I remember *****’s name came up and I said ‘the key is moderation, don’t do too much of things you like doing, so that you can keep doing them, because in jail, you can’t do them.’ And now, look at what happened.
(The conversation in reference actually occurred a couple of months ago, before our friend’s inevitable misfortune. The sad irony obviously, is that our prediction, or premonition, came true.)
On a side note, I didn’t realize that fucking is something you should only do in moderation. Is fucking like a bad habit, and when you realize you’re an addict do you go to FA, Fuckers Anonymous? Can you really be arrested for having sex? Maybe it is possible, like a DUIO, driving under the influence of an orgasm… hmmm 
In all seriousness, please be careful. My friend got off pretty easy, if you think about it. He wasn’t hurt thank god, no one else was hurt, and he’ll only spend thirty days in a jail, that I hear, is more like a frat house.
Don’t get a DUI. And if you do, don’t put yourself in the position to get a second. As of January, California has implemented much stricter ‘no tolerance’ laws. Take a taxi, or walk your drunk ass home. Melisssss can’t always be there to save your ass, I’m too busy taking care of Spills (Well, not anymore!) Peace bitches, that’s all the lecturing I got in me.
