Of the dead.

Usually it’s discouraged.  But, I’ll get to that.

I am sitting in Village Coffee this morning in Multnomah Village.  I am seated in the window nook in the center of three old theatre-style folding chairs.  My laptop is on a TV tray.

Four older men are seated around a tiny round table in the middle of the small seating area.  I think I notice gatherings like this more now because, while I’m not old, I’m also not young and I can imagine a point in the future where I might like to sit in a coffee shop with a group of peers shooting the breeze on a weekday morning.  Okay, to be honest, it sounds good now and yet I’m here writing and enjoying my coffee alone.

I digress.

Their group has a ringleader.  Or at the very least a conversational driver.  He is probably sixty-five with a thick head of gray hair parted just off center and combed back to either side.  A full white goatee—wider than Colonel Sanders’ beard, but still southern gentlemanly.  Black dress shirt unbuttoned a couple buttons at the neck beneath a black wool pea coat with a quarter-sized peace sign button on the left breast.

His voice accounts for 90% of the conversation.

While I was ordering, he referenced high-hatting someone.  One of the other men laughed and motioned liked a jazz drummer and made that cymbal sound you can make by blowing air out through your teeth.  Tsssss-Ts-Ts-Tsssssss…

The ringleader shook his head and explained the term originates elsewhere: someone who tries to show off or one-up someone like the men with the big, tall hats back in the day.  He was correct.

I already know this guy’s M. O.  Right now he is rejoicing that his reference was just obscure enough to warrant explaining.  You see, explaining is what he loves best.

I had him pegged.

Then he introduced a new topic.

“I thought I’d be happy when Steve Jobs died…”

Whoa, what?

Yeah, he said that.

“But, I tell you what drives me nuts is this deification that’s going on. You’d think he was fucking Edison or something.  He was just a driven asshole.”

They discussed his greed and desire to make billions of dollars.

“He just wanted to make his mark and change the world because he was adopted and nobody loved him.”

Yikes.  If that’s all it takes.

Talk about distilling it down to the basics.  You’d think Steve Jobs killed people with his bare hands.  For the record, I have heard he was a jerk and I’ve also heard he was incredibly thoughtful, creative, and collaborative.  It’s like this guy in the coffee shop just saved me untold hours reading a stack of Steve Jobs biographies.

Now they’re onto Alcatraz history.  A fort during the Civil War. Someone wanted to build a hotel there.  Indian rights to the land.  The government…

Their conversation flows across time and geography.  A balding man in a teal sweatshirt and blue jeans has joined them after ordering coffee from the counter.  And one of the original four just departed.

The man who has said almost nothing has a newspaper folded before him on the table.  I wonder if he longs to open it and dive into solitude or whether he enjoys this conversation.

While studying the print before him, he says, “Jeb Bush is heading down to Puerto Rico.”

The ringleader says, “Maybe he should run for something down there.”

His mates laugh and he continues, “But, I guess if Hillary can…”

Keep in mind I am eavesdropping.  So I’m bound to miss a few snippets here and there.  It’s a coffee shop after all, with grinding beans and steaming milk.  A young barista in a tie-dyed Grateful Dead T-shirt and black yoga pants comes from around the counter to sweep the tile floor and tidy the condiments in between customers.  Patrons who I assume are regulars call her Natalie.

And by the way, are they even called condiments in a coffee shop?  There are dispensers of whole milk, skim, and cream.  Sugar packets, sweetener, a cinnamon shaker, and a jar of plastic spoons.

I didn’t come here to write about patrons, and yet I’m invested in this assemblage.  Two more companions excuse themselves and leave.  Now it’s just the ringleader and baldy new guy.

“Harley Davidson inadvertently, accidentally invented the retro motorcycle movement…”

It’s possible this man knows everything.  And would be willing to tell you about it.

New guy is the next to leave so only the ringleader remains.  He has by now donned his black felt beret.

After rising, he places his coffee mug on the counter and thanks the barista before leaving.

Now that I have ceased eavesdropping, I’ll be able to get down to the writing I came here to do.

After a coffee refill.