Barnes & Noble: Animal Containment Facility?

I have seen many odd things since moving to Los Angeles, but so far one event takes the cake for sheer weird factor. Shortly after moving to the Valley, I began searching for a bookstore near a coffee shop so I could kill two birds with one stone. I like to buy books and then read a good chunk in will having a "Walter Cronkite" - a straight cup of black coffee.

The Valley is much like a giant suburb nestled in a ring of hills. Every few miles there is a shopping center, usually called a galleria or something similar. I have yet to find a small bookstore I like, but there are quite a few B&Ns and a few Borders. I had decided to stop at the B&N north of Woodland Hills, bought a book, and then a cup of joe. I settled down on the patio with my book and coffee and began to read. A few minutes later I heard what I though was a man coughing as if he had some serious lung damage, looked over, and saw what appeared to be a homeless man seated two tables away hacking his chest apart.

I did what I imagine most people would do. I ignored him and continued reading. His coughing grew more and more guttural, and was picking up in both intensity and volume. I continued reading, starting to wonder if I was going to have to end up calling the paramedics to come help this guy who was obviously having some serious issues. Then I made what must have seemed like an invitation.

I looked up at this man again, and he was staring directly at me. We held eye contact for a moment, and I went back to reading. He then began, for lack of a better term, barking at me. Full volume, stage actor giving his best impression, throat rending barks. At this point I was not sure if I should get up and leave, or if some action on my end would draw out even more from this man.

Up to this point two middle aged women had been sitting at another table near this man's seat and my table. They had also been glancing over at the coughing man, and now his barking caused them to get up and leave. One of them was jerking every time he made a sound. I make the decision not to get up until I had put a good dent in my coffee. Damn if I was going to let this man get in the way of my Saturday morning.

He and I were situated on opposite sides of the door to the Starbucks attached to the B&N, which is a fairly high traffic area. Families, couples, and all sorts of people were walking between and around the two of us while the barker continued. One woman dropped her coffee when she walked out the door mid-bark. Every so often I glanced at the man and each time he was glaring at me, sometimes smoking a cigarette, sometimes just staring.

This goes on for some ten or fifteen minutes, and I seriously began to wonder a lot of things while I pretended to read. Had I done something? Did I rearrange my chair in a way to set this man off? Did he often hunker down for a good barking session on the galleria patio? Was the security patrol going to stop and do something? Had I somehow never appreciated how good a nice bark might feel on a pleasant Saturday morning? While I puzzled over those possibilities, the man added a new sound to his repertoire by scrapping the legs of his iron chair on the cement in addition to barking.

At this point, I had also started watching the people who are watching him as they walk by. I was seated about ten feet from the epicenter of a suburban disturbance unfolding and drawing a fair amount of attention. To a person, there was a studied indifference to the man as passersby filed him into the looney bin of stereotypes that bounce around in everyone's head.

I wish there was a climactic ending to this story, but there isn't. About twenty minutes after his barking began in earnest, the man began to quiet. The barks became woofs. His chair scraped less and less. Eventually he stopped glaring at the side of my head and began studying the pack of cigarettes on the table next to him or just vaguely looking around. The passing shoppers no longer noticed anything more than a homeless man sitting at a table with no apparent reason or aim. After a few minutes of silence, I finished my coffee and left.

For some reason I cannot fully grasp, that morning resonates with the way I see Los Angeles and the Valley.