Where's Waldo? Homeless at Starbucks

So. I'm hanging out at the Starbucks with a friend from work. First, because it is a nicely cool night, we try the cafe tables outside. (Iced venti mocha for me, caramel brulee latte for them).

Wrong. It is like a wind tunnel out there, and we're last week's band flyers advertising a show in a too-trendy-for daylight underground club that fluttered down off a telephone pole somewhere in Hell's Kitchen and are now skittering down some back alley in the Meatpacking District. Plus, the patio is empty and we want some drama.

We move inside.

Something male, greasy, smelly, disheveled and clothed in culottes and what looked for all the world like a "Where's Waldo" red-and-white striped polo and black leather gloves (the fingerless gloves really made this outfit!) was slumped in one of the three pseudo-comfy chairs. (This Starbucks doesn't have "comfy chairs," just high-backed armchairs, sort of like what you'd see in a Victorian study.)

He's also wearing a couple layers of flannel, which get progressively more rumpled. One is sort of purple and black. Another is maybe a green print. Over all this, there's a black faux-leather bomber jacket that looks like it came off the rack at wherever Wal-Mart clothes go when they're looking for a deal. The closest this thing ever came to sharing ancestry with leather was the "oooo" sound in "faux leather" and the letter "o" in cow."

The pants are *impressive* - they're a muted aqua, cut off with scissors somewhere around the calves and the feet are shoved into black orthopedic clodhoppers, which he's slung up on the coffee table that's tucked into this little nook behind the hand-off bar. Let that be ANOTHER LESSON (as if we needed one) - never, ever, ever, ever, put food on the bare tables at Starbucks.

We walk over and he has his feet up on the table. He has obviously claimed the corner for himself, although those are the two nicest chairs in the place. What do you do? Do you interrupt him or not? And thus, our dilemma.

I don't mean to be judgmental. Yes. I do. Anyone who says otherwise is lying. People judge every second of their lives. Some just hide it better than others. He's a bum, a skinny, could-pass-for-a-hipster-with-a-bad-haircut bum, but still a bum. He's dressed like a hoyden (although that hardly counts for much nowadays). He doesn't have a drink, a laptop or a paper. It is cold outside and warm in the Starbucks. Paying customers come first. Especially THIS PARTICULAR PAYING CUSTOMER!

We sit down and he gives us an ugly look, like "WHO ARE YOU TO INTERRUPT MY RUDE FEET ON TABLE SITTING?" It wasn't like he was sleeping.

I give him one of my looks, like "OK. AND?" And to be perfectly honest, I probably would have plonked down if he'd have been a woman in a business suit. Coffee house chairs are like real estate - possession is nine-tenths of the law - and the person arguing the other tenth has to prove it with a lawyer.

I figured he would scram once we started talking. I don't really care if people listen to me talk. But no. Waldo decides he wants to listen in - and then join in - the conversation.

I'm describing the fantastic sight that I saw earlier in the day - the skinny old-man hooker-thing with the full beard, silver hoop earrings, silver sequin cap, black sequin jeans and black sequin top, high heels and beaded bag that I saw sashaying down Goodlette when Waldo jumps in. "I SAW THAT MAN TOO. I KNOW HIM. I SEE HIM ALL THE TIME."

Heads swivel. Eyebrows raise. "Uh. OK. Thanks for that." His contribution made, he finally wanders off to some other chair.

We chat for about an hour. As we leave, we see him headed right back over to the same spot he occupied when we arrived. I think I saw him going over to a car a few minutes later and wonder if it is within the realm of possibility that he's running a "business" out of the Starbucks. You never, ever know. My guess is homeless or near-homeless though.