Coffee Klatch

Running on caffeinated fuel, all synaptic pistons firing, I’m writing away, polishing up my next novel, The Sufi’s Ghost, and what happens? The stranger sits nearby. I keep my head to my laptop screen, taking cover. The stranger always comes in, white guy with the curly afro gray hair and suit, no tie.

Inevitably, he asks, “What are you writing? You’re here every morning early.”

Impromptu conversations at Starbucks always carry the opportunity costs…a waste of perfectly tuned caffeinated inspiration humming along. I say, “Just work.”

It’s never smart to admit to any creative endeavor, not here in Orange County, California where every man, woman and child engages in nose-bleed unbridled enterprise. Many a corporate professional speeds down the wide boulevards here, chasing after that promotion through the office political maze. Corporate automatons abound, wearing their pay checks in fine German cars. Engines of our economic strength, they live in the fast lane with hardly a smile, only a denial that they’re part of the middle class. Delusional nouveau riches, they vote right-wing just to feel like they’re part of that class of real wealth.

“How are you doing,” I say. “You’re here often. What is it you do?”

“Psychologist,” he says, “retired. I also taught English Literature down the street.”

“So, you like to read novels?” I ask.

“Yes, I do.”

“Well, take a look. I just got a thriller out,” I say, shamelessly hawking my latest. I hand him a bookmarker with the pitch: Mojave Winds, Available at Amazon.com.

“Sounds interesting. Takes place in the Mojave… What’s it about?” He asks.

Now I eagerly say, “…a guy, Kris Klug comes back from extended combat missions in Iraq…tries to readjust to civilian life…looking to start his life, get over whatever post-traumatic stress he might have. Picked up some shrapnel and he lost part of his ear. He doesn’t have much family, so he relies on his uncle Fred for a job. A colorful character, Uncle Fred owns a trucking company that hauls goods between LA and Vegas. Once Klug arrives in LA, though, he begins to learn that Uncle Fred has a lot more going on than just trucking…”

“Sounds like a fun read,” the stranger sips his coffee, scrutinizing the bookmarker.

Silence falls. I return to editing.

“So, what’re the morals of your story?” The psychologist asks.

“There’s several…like individual spirituality.”

“What else?” He pushes on.

“Fundamentalism is another theme.”

“What do you mean?” He continues slurping his coffee.

“Fundamentalists…ones who believe in the holy books as the literal word of God…strictly by the text.” I look at him.

“Holy book as in the Bible?”

“Yeah, the Bible, the Torah, the Koran…whatever. Most any religion uses a holy book as a guide. Fundamentalists stand out by using their holy book as the word of God’s law.”

“I’m a fundamentalist.” He says. “But there are preachers, I’ll admit, who go overboard. They preach to others just to feel superior.”

“You mean like they have some sort of personality disorder?” I ask.

“Yes, some preachers do have personality disorders. I’ve seen them. They like to tell people how morally inferior they are, sinners. There are social-paths and insane people everywhere in normal working society…they can be functional, get work done…be productive and still have many symptoms of serious disorders. The manual of psychology defines personality disorder in clear terms. A severe disorder…a person must exhibit at least five of the nine main symptoms.”

“So, what are the nine? Manipulative?” I ask, having read a little on the subject.

“Yes. And tricking others. And bending the truth, lying, in order to satisfy their own fantasies. And such people would also be extremely narcissistic…always looking to accomplish some agenda, often a farfetched one.”

“And completely out of touch with reality?”

“Exactly,” says the psychologist, “and I’ve often seen that this type of disorder…Narcissistic personality disorder…they’re alcoholic or drug abusers.”

“Cocaine?” I ask the psychologist.

“Yes. They also often portray themselves as superior to others…talking with smirk…and a tone as if what they say is so obvious…that if other people don’t agree, then they’re just too stupid. Individuals with this disorder might strut and swagger…and talk tough, in a bullying way…arrogant.”

“Someone who would manipulate the truth so much just to show everyone that he is right and everyone else is wrong?” I ask, beginning to see a pattern here.

“Yes,” says the psychologist, “they start this often at an early age, trying to outdo their parents. I’ve seen boys with this problem always trying to belittle their fathers to prove...”

“Okay,” I say, “and the boys, when they get together, they only enhance their sickness?”

“How did you know?” He sips his coffee.

“Well, isn’t this the profile of George W Bush…joined up with Cheney…Rumsfield?”

“What?” Says the psychologist. “I have no way of knowing what President Bush is like. He didn’t manipulate the truth. He’s a man of God. He overcame his alcoholism by accepting Christ into his life. He takes counsel from many prominent Christians. He doesn’t manipulate the truth. He merely used what the intelligence community gave him.”

“Right.”

“There’s no way of telling what happens in those political circles,” he says.

“I see how you’d make a good teacher,” I say, figuring the guy could show kids how to toe the party line, go with the flow and blend in with corporate culture. I finish my triple espresso and focus back to my laptop.