Mornings for me are all about exercise, getting stretched, and getting on with the general physical medicine day. Which means any day. It is possible, however, to incorporate other experiences. Vis-à-vis podcasts. And even, this morning a Zoom meeting with the Lincoln Project. Which you will recall, represents a coalition of never-Trump Republicans and some Democrats. One of which is probably me.

We heard from a guy who is a political science professor at the University of Virginia. And we heard a lot. None of it very good. The uphill battle Democrats face this year is, well, tough. And he explained why. And I listened. Unfortunately, I came away rather demoralized. But only temporarily. After all, why was I there at all if some political challenges, however dire, were going to daunt me?

Besides, one thing about bad political news early in the morning in the midst of exercises is that there are more exercises. A chance to work off whatever stress got imposed while listening to the bad news stream through my iPhone.

Which brought me to my morning date at Cup. Sam began preparing my cappuccino before I even went in the door. Note that going in the door is a rather rash move these days. I tend to wait outside until the people at the counter have gone away. Thus, COVID-19. Anyway, I had placed my order for granola, paid, etc. So I headed outside to the one available table. The guy next to me began talking. I engaged him slightly. I’m very leery about talking to people. On the one hand, I really do crave the human interaction. But most days I would rather have this with Sam himself. He is a known quantity. And a good one. 

Still, one must be open. So I gave this guy next to me a chance, noting that his sun protection resembled my own, one of those slightly Australian hats. He began railing about Trump. I mean, this is good, though I also have the feeling that it is slightly yesterday. I’m not sure the ex-president warrants that much of my attention. I’d rather be concerned about Trump’s spawn, whoever they may be. But anyway, he told me he was from New York, this man sitting on the sidewalk in front of the café. And he had been hearing about Donald Trump all his life. His life being roughly the length of my own.

Then he went on to explain that he had texted for over a month with a fellow engineering graduate, an ex girlfriend. She had become a Trump supporter, he explained, and a month of texting was all the two of them could take. Again, this conversation wasn’t plowing new ground. But he seemed more or less a kindred soul. And then the conversation took a slightly interesting turn. South.

He had been living in Mexico, he said. And by “living,” hr meant driving up and down Baja California in his pickup truck/camper/home. How safe was this, I wanted to know. Oh, he said, not so unsafe as just wearing. His current girlfriend, that is to say whatever the consort of a person my age can be called, urged him to move into a hotel. Which he did somewhere in the state of Sonora. And then he drove back here. And we found ourselves in front of Cup.

I kept trying to read my copy of the New York Times. There are certain logistical problems here. Principally the fact that I can’t get much beyond the first page. And I don’t mean that in terms of attention or interest. I mean that physically, in terms of paper handling, it’s better to keep the Times folded and move from article to article on page one than to unfold the broadsheets and maneuver them one-handed around my bowl of granola, cappuccino, and so on.

In particular, I had begun reading an article about ”Divisions in the GOP,” always a gratifying topic. But this man kept talking to me, and my goal being to have some human interaction of a day…I was trying to tune in. I exchanged my few words of Spanish with him. And yes, he did have a few self, although his pronunciation was ghastly, I could tell. And then someone walked by. A guy in shorts disappearing down the block.

”Puto,” the man said. Even I, Spanish-compromised as I am, could infer the meaning. More or less, male whore.

An insult that threw up more questions than anything else. He didn’t know this guy. And what made this stranger now departing down the block warrant this insult of male prostitute?

“My mother raised me a Roman Catholic,” he said. “But I don’t shove it in everyone’s face.”

I nodded as though understanding.

“Puto?” I asked.

“Gay,” he said.

I began folding my paper. I’d had enough granola. I managed a smile. No sense in lecturing this guy. We need all the votes we can get for Democratic candidates. Even homophobic voters like this one.

“Have a nice day,” I observed, rolling away. Next stop Canyon Market. I shook my head as though to clear it. But clearing was utterly impossible. I was asking myself the obvious question.  Where does this man think he is? Some very high percentage of my friends…at least half…are gay. This is a natural consequence of living in San Francisco. And yet…this guy. And what does it mean “putting it in your face?” Coalition. That’s the thing. And it is the major take away from this morning’s political meeting, and any political effort. We just need the votes. No lectures for this guy. Just smile, pretend he is sane and offer to drive him to the polls. We’ll deal with the rest later.