Norm, who welcomes me daily, waits at his usual table until I get my 'Morning Bun' heated by the Starbucks staff.
In the meantime, re-fixing the plastic lid onto the paper coffee cup so that the cup seam is farthest away from the lid hole (thus preventing slosh, drip, and even spill), I recognize a song coming through speakers hidden away in the ceiling board or where metal baffles meet and join adjacent drywall.
Fresh, hot bag in hand, I pass him on my way to the paper napkins.
He says, smiling and friendly, Norm does, Like that jungle music?
Somewhere in memory, Norm's 'political index' comes to me, fixed as I would place it, somewhere around 1931.
Actually, that's an Englishman, I respond, and with my customary, friendly motions push open the side door into meek drizzle. Have a good one!