“It is a curious thought, but it is only when you see people looking ridiculous that you realize just how much you love them.” ~ Agatha Christie 

I live in Easton, very close to Highland Plaza, which is home to a Target store. Target is one on my favorite local haunts, not because I’m a shopper, but because I’m a caffeine addict and an observer. Not like the observers on my favorite TV show, Fringe. You know, those weird emotionless, baldheaded guys in the drab business suits who show up at the most unexpected times in the most unexpected places. 

I’m nothing like that. First of all I’m a very emotional person. I wear my feelings on my sleeve. As a matter of fact, one time my wife washed the sweater I’d been wearing after going through a very trying day, and all my emotions were washed away. Right down the proverbial drain! It took me weeks to get them back. 

Secondly, I have a very healthy head of hair, gray though it may be. And finally, I can’t remember the last time I wore a suit, and if I did wear one, it definitely wouldn’t be drab. I once had a salmon-colored, corduroy suit, which truthfully leaned more toward a shade of light pink. It was the 60s. It made sense back then. 

So anyway, I’m definitely not one of those observers, though I am an observer. I hope that makes sense to you, because that’s all your getting. 

Okay, back to Target. You see, Target has a Starbucks in the store, and I spend a lot of time there. I see it as research for my writing. I watch people, get ideas for my columns and consume massive quantities of caffeinated beverages. Sometimes I take my laptop with me but, at the very least, you can bet the mortgage that if you see me there, I’ll be sipping my latte, cappuccino, or whatever my drink du jour may be, and jotting down notes. 

Starbucks has been the source of some great stories! 

If I drive from my house up Route 106 about a hundred yards or so to the west and turn left, I’m headed south on Route 123 toward Norton. I’m also likely to be involved in a drag race with a fellow motorist as we vie for sole possession of the single lane that started out as a double lane [two left-turn lanes] at the intersection.

 The same situation exists on the return trip from Norton when I turn right on to Route 106. Two lanes are reduced to one within about 50 to 75 feet of making the turn, and the conquest of the single lane is on. 

As I said, I live quite close to this raceway, so over time I’ve become nearly incognizant of the sound of screeching brakes, squealing tires, honking horns and, of course, the obscenities shouted out the windows of the contending vehicles. It’s like living next to an airport. After a while no one notices the noise anymore. 

Now that I’m writing a bi-weekly column for Norton Patch, I figured I’d better find a few places where I could hang out in town on occasion, somewhere where I could get a better feel for what it is that makes Norton tick, but moreover a place to check out the townsfolk first hand in their environs. 

I’ve found there’s no better place to soak up the local gossip and replenish the coffers with fresh, column-worthy material than the local coffee shop. Some of my best material over the years has come from watching folks at Starbucks, Dunkin Donuts, Honey Dew or any number of local breakfast haunts. 

I was disappointed and a bit surprised to find that Norton doesn’t have a Starbucks; disappointed because Starbucks is my favorite place to practice the two levels of out. Okay, right about now I know you’re asking yourself, what the heck does this guy mean by the two levels of out?  Well, I’m glad you asked. 

First there’s chillin’ out, kicking back with a nice cappuccino and relaxing, which creates the ideal frame of mind for the second level of out, checkin’ out the other patrons. Of course, some of the other patrons are there for the same reason. They may not be gathering column material, but they’re definitely chillin’ and checkin’. 

So, let me explain why I was surprised there were no Starbucks in Norton. That’s easy; one word – Wheaton. A Starbucks in Norton would make a boatload of money just from the college crowd. I’ve seen a lot of kids wearing Wheaton sweatshirts at the Starbucks in Easton. It makes sense that if there were a store in Norton, they’d be spending mommy and daddy’s hard earned money there instead. 

My wife and I had breakfast at Kricket's Korner a couple of weeks ago. It became obvious right from the get-go that this was the Mecca of Norton politics. Aside from a few smatterings of Patriots chatter, most everyone in there was talking local politics. I was hoping to reap a harvest of good story material from Kricket’s, but I have to be honest; I had no clue what anyone was talking about, being that I’m not in the Norton political loop. 

We did, however, have a very good breakfast at a great price. If you’ve never had Kricket’s smoked picnic shoulder and eggs, do yourself a favor and give it a try. Very tasty stuff! But no stories! 

Last week as I meandered through downtown Norton, or at least what there is of it; I stopped in to Honey Dew, a place I frequented often many years ago when Craig Muscato owned it.

 I ordered a large coffee with just a little cream and two Splenda’s, grabbed my notepad and pen from my pants pocket and positioned myself in a window seat with a perfect view of both the parking lot and the inside of the store so as not to miss anything. I was on the prowl for a story. 

I took a sip from my cup and peered over the top of my glasses, scoping out the joint for hot chicks. No wait! Not hot chicks! I didn’t mean to say that! I was checking out the joint for fodder for my column. Yuh, that’s it. Fodder! Honest! 

Wow! That was a close one! I have to be careful here, because my wife proofreads all my writing for typos and I sure don’t want her to think I’m prowling juke joints looking for women! 

You know, it’s amazing; my wife can’t write a lick, but she has an uncanny and rather annoying knack for finding all my mistakes. Funny how that works, huh? 

Let’s get back to Honey Dew. And please stop making me go off on these distracting tangents or I’ll never get finished here! 

Okay, so I’m at Honey Dew, minding my own business [and everyone else’s] when a woman walked past me jabbering loudly on her cell phone. She was definitely not happy. I couldn’t make out what she was saying, but she was excoriating whoever it was she was talking to or, more accurately stated, screaming at.  

I was able to make out a few words as she bolted past me and flew out the door into the parking lot. She screamed, “You tell that &%$#&@ to get over there and fix it right now!” 

The infuriated woman sprinted across the parking lot and set her coffee on the hood of her car, fumbled through her purse looking for her keys, unlocked the car door, jumped in and raced out onto Main Street. 

As she pulled out onto the road, she quickly stomped on her brake to avoid broadsiding a delivery van that was passing by. As her car came to a rather abrupt screeching halt, her coffee, which she had left sitting atop her car, flew through the air and poured all down the front of her windshield and hood. That, my friends, is called Karma. Of course, being the sympathetic soul that I am, I refrained from laughter. Yuh, right! 

I jotted down a few notes, finished my coffee and headed up Route 140 to Mansfield for a late afternoon meeting. I needed to pick up a few things for dinner and, since I had a little extra time, I figured I’d make a quick stop at Roche Brothers. I pulled into their parking lot, grabbed a parking space right in front of the store and sat in my car listening to the end of an interview with Bill Belichick. 

As I’ve said many times before, this could only happen to me. I don’t know if I attract this type of thing or it’s just that I’m looking for it, but I always seem to come across some of the most bizarre behavior known to man. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining. I love it! It’s what I live for! 

It was a beautiful, fairly balmy fall afternoon, so I opened my window to get some fresh air into the car. I glanced over at the car next to me and saw something that will be forever burned into my memory. An older gentleman who looked to be in his late 70s was holding a cup in one hand and a full set of dentures in the other and was dipping his extricated choppers into the cup and swishing them around. He then summarily removed the teeth from the cup, dumped the liquid from the cup out onto the ground, picked up a large brush from the passenger seat and began scrubbing his porcelain grinders to beat the band. 

Where do these people come from? 

After laughing my butt off for a few glorious minutes [I told you I love this stuff] I turned off my radio, closed my window, opened the door and stepped out of the car. As I made my way across the parking lot toward Roche Brothers, I heard a loud, indeterminate, guttural sound that seemed to reverberate across the parking lot and bounce back and forth off the walls of the store. 

I looked around to see if I could locate the source of this horrible noise and spotted yet another older man sitting in his car, choking and wheezing so bad that I came close to calling 911. This guy was hacking up a lung! 

Always the Good Samaritan, I started walking toward this guy to see if he needed any help or maybe CPR. As I got within about 20 feet of this poor guy, he pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket, lit it up, took a long, slow drag off it and again started choking and hacking before sticking his head out the window and firing a huge, gooey phlegm-ball about six feet out into the parking lot. Nice! Very, very nice! 

I’m telling you folks, you just can’t make this stuff up! 

Oh, one last thing. A word of caution! If you should find yourself in Roche Brothers parking lot, watch where you step! 

Make it a great week! 

Bob Havey is an Easton-based freelance writer and a consummate trouble-maker. His column, The Way I See It, runs every other Wednesday at Norton Patch and his column, "The View From Here", appears each Tuesday at Easton Patch and on Wednesday at Mansfield Patch.