I work at a restaurant in the San Fernando Valley, on Ventura Boulevard. It’s on the second floor of a strip mall so most of the people who come in are people who know we are there. Because the restaurant is a bit of an LA institution, a lot of guests are quick to tell us or me that they’ve been coming for 30 years and they grew up eating (insert name of their favorite dish, usually a salad that has a certain #iykyk following). 

Yesterday, a neatly dressed sixty something woman came in asking for a table. She said she was meeting her son and wanted someplace quiet. At that moment, a man who appeared to be unhoused, Grizzly Adams beard, overstuffed backpack in hand, walked through the door. She turned and said, “There he is.”

She gave him an awkward hug and I told them to pick any table they wanted. Definitely, I was cognizant of the mother’s request for a quiet table but I also tried to let the son know that I wanted both of them to feel comfortable. 

They settled on a table not far from the servers’ station. It took a minute for the son to find the right spot for his cumbersome bag. I wasn’t sure if it was my turn in the rotation. I hoped they would be mine.  

Lucky for me, they were. I returned to the table and asked what they wanted to drink to start. She ordered a sparkling water and he asked for a Pepsi. I made eye contact with both.  I conveyed the kindness and warmth I only bestow on the tables I like. (Sorry, customers, yes, I do play favorites.) 

As a career waiter, I am also an armchair (or table side) psychologist. I tell myself I understand people very well. I tell myself that I’m skilled at very little, but my instincts about others rarely fail. So, all of this is just my take on what these two were thinking and feeling, I could be wrong. I’ve been wrong about people at least 2% of the time. 

I brought the Pepsi and two glasses for the sparkling water. I poured the mom’s water and asked the son if he wanted some too. “Do you want some water, James?” the mom echoed. He said “just a little” and I poured a little into his glass. I interjected one of my go to server quips, “Gotta stay hydrated, it’s hot out there.”

The second I said it, I thought how a statement so innocuous to another guest might land differently for an unhoused person, for whom the heat of a day has more serious implications. Perhaps an unhoused person does not want to drink too much water because finding a spot to relieve oneself can be a challenge. 

I asked the two if they wanted to order their meal or an appetizer. “Do you want the ______, James?” the mother asked. He looked at me and said, “Yes, I’d like the ______, please.” Their synchronicity and familiarity with the item made me think that this was a dish they’d both ordered before, that probably they dined here when James was growing up. He had his favorite menu items, so had mom. Probably, there was a time when the whole family came here, siblings, dad, maybe grandparents. But today, now, it was only mother and son. Sitting on Table 64, catching up over lunch. Not exactly Michelangelo’s La Pieta, but perhaps a spiritual descendant. 

They struck me as tentative yet protective with each other. At first, when mom asked for a quiet table, I thought she worried her son would make other customers uncomfortable. Probably that concern was at play, but more, I think she wanted to make James feel as comfortable and relaxed as possible.

They ordered their entrees, including the #iykyk salad, large to be shared. (They most definitely had been here before.) They were both unfailingly polite, to each other and also to me. I wondered if I was being too nice. Was I treating James like a child or a handicapped person? Sometimes the grouchy version of me is better than the obsequious one. 

When I delivered their food, I asked if they needed anything. “Looks good as always,” James enthusiastically told me. It was a quiet day at my restaurant. They were able to stay in their bubble and catch up. I never saw their conversation lull or become heated, or mirthful, for that matter. They ate their food slowly, thoughtfully, politely. I wondered how slowly I would eat my food if I were unhoused and eating in a restaurant for the first time in awhile. How self-conscious would I be? 

I had so many questions. Where does James sleep at night? How long has he been unhoused? Is he actually unhoused or am I misjudging the situation? What were his life circumstances that led up to this? It is not my business, but did addiction or mental health play a role in his life’s trajectory? I relate to both of those challenges. Was James so damaged by certain events in his youth that he found coping as an adult to be even more challenging than most of us find it? I don’t know. 

I started swimming at a new pool recently. It’s 7 feet deep as opposed to the 4 foot pool where I used to swim. It’s taken me some time to adjust to this added perceived danger. At no point can I stand to find my footing, I have to keep swimming or tread water. As long as I can remember, I have loved swimming. Every summer was filled with swim lessons and then swim team practices and meets. I was never the fastest swimmer, but oddly, I was usually the best treader. I could tread water for hours. I think most people can, but they‘ll grow bored before me. Every swim class had a day where we’d compete to see who could tread the longest. It was always me or me plus another person who endured with me until the point when the teacher, exhausted, would say, “Fine, you both win. But I only brought one prize so you’re going to have to split the bag of Razzles.”

Anyway, a few days ago, when I had the youthful flashback, I thought I’d check to see if I am still a good treader. I am. I mean, I only did it for about five minutes after my regular swim, but I did get into a rhythm that I suspect I could have maintained quite awhile. Hours. That being said, treading water was harder than I remembered. It took me a moment to figure out the circular motions that worked for me, that gave me enough float. It was, I believe, a variation of the standard way of treading I was taught all those years ago. I think there’s a joke in there: how do you know if you’re treading water correctly? If you don’t drown.

I am a 55 year old waiter. I’ve done other things in my life, but career wise, I’ve mostly been a waiter. I’ve never been rich. No one has ever been impressed by my career achievements. I am sometimes dismissed as “just a waiter”. And yet, I am still afloat. I am still a good treader. Some days my only accomplishment is that I kept my head above water. Don’t pity me, I have a fine life, I share this because I think that all of us have days where our only achievement was not drowning. 

When James’ mother first came into the restaurant and said she was meeting her son, for some reason I pictured someone like John Krasinksi or Noah Wyle. (Why Noah Wyle? I do not know.) I told her I had not seen anyone waiting which was both true and not true. I had seen her son pass by the restaurant windows a couple of times. I had seen him but not seen him. And I definitely didn’t think he was coming in to dine. I did not see a son who was meeting his mom for lunch.

I hate that I don’t always look at or take in the unhoused. I have to do better. James and his mom were a firm reminder of that lesson. I don’t know if James’ mom’s recurrent use of his name was intentional, but some part of her definitely wanted him and me to hear her say his name.  James. 

If you don’t think you’re going to like or connect with someone, think of how much their mom loved them when they were a baby, or when they went to their first day of kindergarten or when they broke their arm on a slide. Maybe think of the hope a mother and a father had for their child to live an extraordinary life.

As James and his mother’s meal wound down, there was still some food left on their plates. “Do you want togo boxes?”  “Yes, James, do you want to take this with you?” his mom asked. He said no. Probably he did not want another thing to weigh him down. I asked if they wanted dessert and James said he had no room for it. I did get some cookies and put them in a bag and brought them to him. “For when you’re craving something sweet later.” If James were my son or my brother or nephew, I’d want someone to give him cookies. Clearly raised to be polite, he thanked me grandly. 

Soon they were on their way.

I know I see myself in James. He is a good treader. He sees and experiences things on a daily basis that I don’t think I could survive, and he continues to soldier on. He loves his mother. He is kind to those who are kind to him. Every day that he stays afloat is an accomplishment. Ventura Boulevard is long. I hope I see him again someday. And I hope I see him when I do.