Saturday, December 19, 2009


We all talked amid the noise, at the wooden table in the center of the coffee house, about Tiger, about global warming—'it seemed pretty cold this morning'—and Pilar drew eyes, a mouth, and a crooked nose on a napkin. She’s two years old. And the four of us.
‘Tiger shouldn’t get any more adulation.’
‘Even if he wins golf tournaments?’
‘He’s a scoundrel.’
‘Obama’s front-page photo says he fixed global warming.’
‘Been colder now a couple of mornings.’
‘Maybe there’s residual racism against Tiger,’ he said. ‘Crossed over into the country club demographic, now’s he’s just a black guy who cheated.’
‘He wants a legacy,’ I said.
‘How’s that work? He’s a cheater.’
‘With a pretty good golf record.’
And Pilar squealed when we saw her face drawing. Eyes with lashes--two, and a line-mouth-nose.

Later we had breakfast at the diner. Just two of us. Everybody else breaking up, going their way after sitting and talking at the table in the center of the coffee house.
I said ‘What are you going to do now?’
He said, ‘I don’t know, maybe go down to the bookstore.’
I had more coffee, at another place across the street, where nobody sat except a blonde woman absorbed with her computer hooked to the world with wi-fi.
The bathroom was open and I added a little half-and-half to my coffee.

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