Columnist Susan Snyder: Unexpected comfort from Scorebucks

Tuesday, July 23, 2002 | 8:22 a.m.

All coffee shops are not created equal.

Granted, you can't fling a fake roofing tile out in Cookie Cutter Estates West without hitting the telltale green logo of that national coffee chain from Seattle.

But even in this mega-corporate atmosphere, people manage to connect.

I've been going to the same Scorebucks since moving to CC Estates a little more than three years ago. At the time, it was the only one in that area. Now, of course, there are something like eight or 10 or 35 -- hard to keep track.

I can't tell you the name of the shopping center because I've never needed to learn it. And I can't describe how, exactly, to get there because somewhere after the second roundabout the trip becomes a lot like driving through a small intestine.

They were still building the shopping center when I started showing up on my bike just after dawn on weekdays. There was a guy who arrived about the same time with a journal and a thick book on some metaphysical hoo-ha.

Of course, he hardly read one or wrote in the other because we'd end up talking instead. He was one of those guys who didn't have a trade but always had a job. He read a lot and spent vacations finding himself at resorts in such places as Big Sur.

His day job involved delivering personal oxygen tanks for a medical supply company, and his district stretched from Beatty to Needles, Calif. One of his clients was at Angel's Ladies brothel. He described how he'd show up with the tank and sometimes have to wait to see the guy to whom it belonged.

"I'd sit there flipping through magazines and stuff and try not to, you know, look around too much," he said.

He often spoke of moving back to Palm Springs, Calif. One morning I showed up and he didn't. That was almost two years ago. Guess he moved.

Some regulars are known only on sight. There are a pair of school teachers who, I'm guessing, teach elementary school. It's interesting to watch them sip coffee, nibble on scones and talk like old girlfriends do. You wonder whether their students ever think about their teachers as people who enjoy sipping coffee with friends as the sun comes up.

Some people are known by their dogs. Junior is a lovable keg-head whose breed I never can remember. I don't know his owner's name, but we've all watched Junior grow into those enormous paws.

Junior's best pal is Dakota, a huge, fluffy, white pooch who visits daily with his human mom. She and I exchange smiles and nods, and I pat Dakota's head.

One morning last week, a small crowd of the regulars gathered around her usual outdoor table. Their tone was solemn. This wasn't the usual morning banter.

"He was in perfect health," she said. "There isn't even any history of heart disease in his family."

Dakota yapped and came over to sniff my water bottle. Dakota's mom and I nodded. We didn't say anything, because we rarely do. Introductions at this point didn't seem right.

I don't know her name, but I know loss hurts when it takes someone close so suddenly. There are dozens of coffee shops that look like ours, but none felt like ours did last Friday morning.

Hugs to Dakota's mom.