Cycling in the South Bay

I woke up and walked over to the restaurant for breakfast. It was closed. I asked a man watering the trees where I might find breakfast. “About two kilometers over there,” he pointed.

I started walking, then picked up a couple of rocks in case I got chased by dogs. After about two miles there was a sign in front of an open area that said “breakfast.”

An old man was in the kitchen. “Can I get breakfast?” I asked.

“But of course!”

He brought me coffee in a styrofoam cup. It was boiling hot, and instantly warmed me. It was bitter and black and it tasted good. I thought about all the coffee fetishes I’d experienced in my life. The cost, the crazy names, the Molotovian mixtures, the ornate cups, the cards that recorded all my data and occasionally returned the favor with a “free” drink.

The old man was seventy. His name was Manuel. “You look very young,” I said.

“Yes, I play baseball or softball every weekend. It is my passion since I was a boy.”

“Do you remember Cesar Cedeno?”

“Oh yes, the star center fielder for the Astros. He was very good.”

“My dad used to take us to watch him play.”

Manuel nodded. “He was very good. It is cold today! How is the coffee?”

“It is very good,” I said.

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END

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