A gesture worth more than money in Cayucos

February 16, 2025

By DELL FRANKLIN

Editor’s Note: The following series, “Life in Radically Gentrifying Cayucos by the Sea,” to be posted biweekly includes the notes, thoughts, and opinions of an original American voice: author Dell Franklin. 

Franklin’s memoir, “The ballplayer’s Son” and “Life on The Mississippi, 1969” are currently on Amazon.

As an 81-year-old, my memory on some accounts is nowhere near as good as it once was, and especially in recognizing people who say hi to me and ask how I’m doing. And I in turn say hi and ask how they’re doing without a clue as to who they are.

I squint in concentration as I experience this increasing dilemma, trying to remember who I’m talking to. Sometimes it takes a day or two to figure out I once waited on them as a bartender in Morro Bay for nine years, or played basketball against them in Morro Bay or San Luis Obispo, and I go yeah, that’s so and so, but I still have no idea what their name is.

A month or so ago in the Schooner’s Wharf bar in Cayucos, somebody tried to buy me a drink and seemed to know my name during a conversation, but I didn’t know them and thanked them for the thought as I’d had enough and was ready to leave.

“Good to see you,” I signed off, clueless.

As time goes on in these situations, I’ve become fairly skillful at faking it and going on and on, as if I really know this nameless person, male or female, asking about this and that, answering questions as to my current situation, even discussing my hip replacement and topspin forehand in tennis as I feebly continue to try and figure out who the person is and what my relationship with them once was, almost always drawing a blank.

But always, while completely lost and groping about blindly, I make it a point to be friendly and engaging, I think, and perhaps that is why a friendly man immediately paid for my groceries at the check out line in Spencer’s Market when my credit card kept claiming an error.

I tried four times and was about to go to  my wallet when this guy, with whom I’d exchanged greetings at the produce section minutes earlier—having no clue who he was—immediately insisted on handing the checker a hundred dollar bill to cover my bill of $25 and change.

I was shocked and tried to refuse, but the checker had already taken his bill and handed him change. And when I tried to pull some money out of my wallet to pay him, he said, “I love your writing, man. I got it.”

I still don’t know who he is, but I thought to myself, ‘As a writer being published in several alternative papers and magazines since 1981, including New Times, I have never made enough money to support myself—not even with two books published.

Most serious writers work at odd jobs and write out of passion, out of a need to express themselves, and if they are fortunate enough to receive doodly squat, well, so be it. Which is the situation a writer lives with and accepts unless he is writing specifically for money, something I never have.

To me, having somebody offer to pay for my groceries should be truly embarrassing, as I am not homeless, though I sometimes appear homeless because, out of superstition, I have been wearing the same hoodie sweat jacket when playing tennis mornings—which I found in a thrift store around 2003—and often keep it on to stay warm afterwards when I hit the markets.

And yes, I did have the shockingly ravaged and threadbare hoodie on!

But no, this guy knew who I was, knew what I write about and how I do it, and appreciated it. And his generous gesture moved my heart and made me realize that writing something good that means something to somebody is worth more than all the fucking money in the world.

Thanks again, pal.