Starbucks Doesn't Have Any Fucking Oatmeal

I took a phone call yesterday from a dude I know from my morning meeting.  I see him fairly often and he would call from time to time.  A few months ago - no dude.  So when he told me yesterday that he had been drinking I didn't fall off of my chair.  I didn't fall off of anything.  I may even have established a more secure position in my chair.

He did tell me, however, that he was drinking a fifth a day and that his psychiatrist told him that hospitalization was indicated.  People who are drinking that much alcohol can . . . you know . . . die if they stop abruptly.  I encouraged him to follow the doctor's advice but did not fall off my chair when he said he was going to gut it out by himself.  I find it uncomfortable to step back, admit my powerlessness, and let someone do something fairly stupid.  He had clearly made up his mind and I wasn't going to change it.  

We made plans to meet at the morning meeting.  I don't go out of my way to meet with people who are still drinking - they're incredibly unreliable.  I gave my dude a 50-50 chance of even showing up but there he was. sober and still alive.  We had coffee afterwards and he said he was heading to the hospital.  See?  Things work out even when I'm not manipulating the shit out of them.

As I left the coffee shop a disheveled looking woman asked me for some change.  Normally, I hand out some coins but I didn't have my man-purse on me so I politely declined.

"How about a dollar, then?" the woman asked, a little aggressively.  

I politely declined this request.

"You can't spare a dollar?" she said, increasingly agitated.  "I'm homeless.  I'm hungry."

"I'll tell you what," I countered.  "I'll buy you a bowl of oatmeal over at Starbucks."  I pointed at the store.  The part of my brain that would normally have counseled against debating with a mentally ill individual must have been out walking the dog.

"Starbucks doesn't have any fucking oatmeal," she posited.

"Yeah, they do," I said.  "C'mon over and I'll buy it for you."  I was curious as to why I was arguing with a mentally ill, angry, homeless person at 9AM on a lovely Saturday morning.  Sometimes my mouth just takes over.

"Fuck you," she said, walking toward me, "getting in your fucking car."

Uh oh.

"You know what?" she said, drawing close and reaching into her pocket.  "I'm not even fucking homeless.  You want to see my debit card?"

I did not want to see her debit card.  I did not have the slightest interest in seeing anything that she might have in any of her pockets.  I started my car and nimbly steered around her.  I could see her yelling at me, red-faced, in my rear view mirror.

I had a lovely walk on the beach.