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It was election night and Florida was up for grabs. I was depressed; depressed by the prospect of president Dubya, depressed by a society that could market competing political-moral viewpoints so precisely that both candidates obtained 50.01% of the vote, depressed that my post-college life hadn't offered any engaging Purpose or new deep friendships.
 

I needed to get out of the house, so I grabbed my coat and walked out the door without any particular destination. It was a weird night, charged with the energy of delayed change, like being in the eye of a storm and pressing the cosmic "pause" button. I walked up to Shattuck, turned left and wandered into the French Hotel coffee shop, a narrow brick building opening into the street. There was only one token table outside for smokers willing to brave the chill. Inside, the friendly white lights almost masked the overwhelming red glow of the garish neon above the door.
 

The two guys behind the counter joked in Spanish before taking my order. I could only catch a bit of the banter, but they were apparently blaming each other for being too slow in increasingly creative ways. Their laughter was comforting because it wasn't worried about the future or national affairs. After getting a cappuccino – two shots, caffeinated, 2% milk – I grabbed a copy of the San Francisco Bay Guardian and sat down. I opened it to an article about the death of David Brower, the founder of the Sierra Club. I had already read about his death earlier on Salon.com, but I wanted to read something. Besides, it's awfully hard to be alone in a coffee shop without having anything to do; although nobody else would care, I'd feel like a loser if I just sat there and sighed.
 

I sighed and gulped the top off my cappuccino. I was in a quiet mood and feeling confused about the world and my place in it.
 

Barely two minutes had passed before a disheveled woman walked up to my table. She might have been as young as 40 or as old as 60; it was hard to tell because her cheeks and eyes shone like those of a younger woman, but her soft, loose skin was crossed by wrinkles mapping a lifetime's worth of stress and anxiety. She wore the clothing of an upscale homeless woman – loose fitting slightly muddy cotton top, vest, decent sneakers – but she was too clean to be straight from the streets. Her wandering, spooked expression marked her as belonging to Berkeley's class of the marginally mentally ill.
 

"Who's winning the election? I asked them" she waved an arm at the guys behind the counter "to tune the radio, but they wanted their Mexican music. On a night like this! I mean, really! Well, didja watch the TV?"
 

These words were shot out in short bursts, alternatively aggressive and reasonable.
 

"Uhm, I was watching about half an hour ago but got fed up. Gore was ahead then. Er... well, y'know, who knows?"
 

"What? You said that too fast... don't – don't speak so fast! Who's winning?" she whined.
 

I repeated myself, slower this time.
 

"They said Gore will win, right? That's good. I hate Bush – I hate him!"
 

"Well, we probably won't know until tomorrow. I wish I could say that Gore will win, I really do, but who knows how Florida will go."
 

"Why does Florida matter?"
 

"It has 25 electoral votes, and at this point, this may swing the election either way..."
 

"'Electoral?' What's that mean? Don't use these... You sound like a guy who likes big words, but don't use words I don't know!" she sputtered.
 

I explained the electoral system, slowly.
 

"Well, I hope that Bush doesn't win – don't you?"
 

"Well, yeah! I disagree with his environmental policies, his take on abortion, and, well, I think he's an idiot. That would spell disaster for..."
 

"Oh! Idiot! Yeah," she chortled, "that's why I don't like him. He's... stupid. I heard him on the radio. Dumb. Everyone says he's dumb," She paused. "Oh, I'm Claudia." I introduced myself. She took this as a cue to sit down across from me.
 

"You seem like a nice guy. Not like this other friend I have -- this guy is rich. Rich! But he... aw, shit, he's a bastard. Can't even spare a friend the time of day. Told me he never wanted to see me again. But he's my friend. I mean, I don't have many friends and we used to be really good friends, hang out all the time. Then he got all mean. He's always been mean, always laughed at me, but he was my friend, but now he's a fucking asshole. He hit me. He's got millions and a nice house, but he won't let an old friend stay there. I don't know why not, not anymore. Rich. Hey, can I ask you a question?"
 

This was a weird monologue. Claudia was using the simple words and sentences of a jaded elementary school junior high kid, but her eyes said that she wasn't stupid, as though she wanted to push beyond her words and expressions to say something that eluded her. While she spoke, she kept her hands on the table, lifting them up in unison each time she said the word "rich" to emphasize the point. And when she said something negative about "the guy," her hands came down, a soft smack on the table.
 

Her question was really a plea for me to not kick her out (which would of course be masked as being busy or simply not paying attention to her; this is the way that we who live in cities learn to shield ourselves from the overwhelming pleas for attention from the street class). But, hell, she was there, so I nodded my head slightly. The monologue resumed its lumbering bursts.
 

"Well, we used to talk all the time but then he met this chick and she's moved in and – it's not like their they're sleeping together -- but he doesn't want to see me and when I say 'hi' he tells me to fuck off! A few months ago he just stopped calling me and was pissed off whenever I dropped by, but he's my friend, right? You can't quit a friendship! So I waited for him to call, but he never did. So I called him, and he told me to stop calling him – I asked him to call me sometime, but he never did. So I called him again a few weeks later and he said... he said some awful things. I mean, it was abuse. Abusive! But then we hung out later and it was cool. But since then he doesn't call and gets really really mean whenever I call and tells me to fuck off and die or now just hangs up and I... aw, hell, he's my only friend but he's an asshole... should I call him again? I don't know what to do... do you think I should call him or forget him?"
 

Needy, pathetic, and sad, Claudia waited for my reply. I knew that getting into this conversation with her would be a mistake because this woman was decent but nuts. But tonight was different. Tonight was not a night for turning away. The world felt small and melancholy and to shun human contact would be a sin against hope. I was felt like a pawn in some mighty game; I was meant to be there and play along as events unfolded.
 

Besides, her sadness resonated with my loneliness. She was drowning and my sympathy didn't cost me anything more than my time. If I could help her, maybe my own life would be enriched. (Hope of karma? Perhaps). And although she had basically forced herself on me to listen to her rage, rant and sniffle, I didn't begrudge her that.
 

Once I had decided to reply, I didn't know what to say. I'm neither a psychiatrist nor her friend. The obvious answer to her question was "you have mental problems, you need help," but that was outside the bounds of this conversation. Within the context of her story, I saw her terrible question: which is better, safe loneliness or hurtful human contact?
 

"Well, what do you want?"
 

"Nooooo... tell me what you think! I really don't know."
 

She sounded petulant, childish.
 

"I can't answer that. It's a hard question."
 

"Well, yeah, duh. It's fuckin' unfair." She stared out the window. "I can't stand to lose it... I mean, he's my only friend and at my age I can't make friends anymore!"
 

"Maybe you should call him back."
 

"Nooooo... I couldn't stand it if he called me mean names again. I mean, Chuck," she paused and touched my arm lightly, "he's a really mean guy."
 

"Then forget him! You know he's bad for you."
 

"I know I should, but..." she tossed her hands into the air and jumped into a10 minute meandering soliloquy that wound up re-affirming her friendship with this guy.
 

This went on for a while. Claudia was a scratched record, trapped by her fears to forever chase an infinite chain of thoughts. I cannot be his friend, he is mean. I should forget him. But then I wouldn't have anybody. I don't have any friends. I cannot make friends. He's my only friend. I cannot be his friend, he is mean. I should forget him.
 

I tried to derail this train of thought on its third revolution. "Claudia, this sounds like an abusive relationship. It's... dysfunctional." I inwardly winced at that loaded, clinical word.
 

"Ah, nah... besides, why d'you have to use such big words? It's not like I'm crazy. 'cuz I'm not. I don't need these psychiatrist words. You like big words too much, y'know."
 

Holding her eyes with mine, I said slowly, "Leave him; he will only hurt you, you need to move on. You will make friends. Perhaps you should join a group; there's people who you can meet with, to talk about things like this."
 

"Support groups – load of crap! Can't trust them, bunch of loonies! And I can't make friends... he's my only friend! I can't do that, I'd never make another friend!"
 

"Of course you'd make friends, Claudia!"
 

"No, no I wouldn't! I'm too old. I can't drop him. He's my only friend. How can you tell me to lose my only friend?!" she spat wrathfully.
 

"The why did you ask my opinion – Jesus!"
 

"Don't yell at me! I can't stand it when, when people get mad. I'm really sensitive." She sniveled.
 

"OK, I'm sorry."
 

"Just don't yell."
 

"OK." Jesus. This was worse than useless, suffering someone else's angst for them! It was time to leave. I mentally calculated whether it was better to stand up and walk out the door or try to end the conversation gracefully. Although the former risked her getting up to follow me, it was the better option. I stood up slightly in preparation to leave.
 

Out of the blue, Claudia's voice turned envious as she asked, "How do you make friends? You must have a lot of friends!"
 

With random precision, she had jabbed a really sore point. In the 5 months I'd been in Berkeley, I'd had a hell of a hard time meeting people outside my small circle of friends from college. I sat back down. The nagging suspicion that I was meant to be having this torturous conversation returned.
 

"Sure, I have some friends. You just have to find something you like doing and join a group that does it, you'll meet people, no problem." I hated myself for lying and spewing this trite garbage that had done me little good so far. Claudia ate it up.
 

"How did you meet your friends?"
 

"Ah, my roommate was a college friend..."
 

"You have a roommate? Oh, good, you're not a rich motherfucker who owns a house for himself. It must be nice having a roommate..." she mused. "How did you meet new friends?"
 

"Uhm... I also made some friends through Quaker meeting." I stared down at my now very cold cappuccino.
 

"Quakers? Like, the guy on the oatmeal boxes?" She giggled.
 

"Yeah, sure."
 

"Don't you all wear funny hats and live out in the country?"
 

"No, that's the Amish. Quakers are just another kind of Protestant." She looked at me blankly. "Y'know... Protestants – Methodists, Baptists, Unitarians, all those Christians that aren't Catholic."
 

"Oh."
 

Thank God that conversation was over, I thought to myself. I certainly didn't want to start a late night conversation in a random Berkeley coffee house with a stranger about the nature of God and my obscure religion.
 

"Do you believe in the Holy Spirit?" OK, so the religion conversation wasn't over.
 

"Well, Quakers don't really have a dogma. Some believe in the Holy Spirit, some don't."
 

"Well, you all are Christians, right?"
 

"Yeah, uh, that's a tough question. Quakerism is based on Christian teachings, but it's not necessarily Christian." That was pedantic; I tried again. "Most Quakers respect the Bible and its teachings but some follow other traditions, too..."
 

Claudia waved her hands at me, as though to knock my sentence down in mid-flight. "Wait, wait, you're confusing me, that's too many words. As a kid, I was taught to believe in the Holy Spirit and Jesus Christ. I went to church, and they told me all you had to do was have faith in the Holy Spirit and Jesus . And Mary, I guess. That's all you needed for God to love you." She sounded pretty sad about this last bit. "So, do you believe in the Holy Spirit?"
 

"Well... sort of. Quakers believe that every person is worthwhile, they have an inner light, which you follow to follow God's will."
 

"What? Chuck, you're confusing me. I don't get it. Why are you talking about light?"
 

I realized that Claudia couldn't follow metaphors. How can you describe a mystical religion in simple, concrete terms? I briefly thought, "why bother?" But given that I had just been talking about loving each and every person and accepting them, yada yada, I was immediately ashamed of the thought.
 

It was weird that Claudia's simple-minded objections and insistence on clarity had been so right on the mark, calling me on my bullshit, half-baked terms. Although I'm not much of a Bible buff, a verse suddenly popped into my mind and kept repeating over and over: "unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven" (Matthew 18:3).
 

"OK, I'm sorry. Uhm, we believe that all people have something good in them. This is the Holy Spirit." Inwardly, I groaned at this overly feel-good explanation. But it was the best I could do.
 

"So you DO believe in the Holy Spirit! Do you believe in Jesus?"
 

"Uhm... sorta. Jesus means a lot of different stuff." Claudia was about to indignantly demand an answer, so I cut her off by saying, "Quakers like Jesus." I marveled at my own lameness.
 

"Well, what else do you believe in?"
 

"Well, since everyone has the Holy Spirit, Quakers are non-violent. It's important to be socially active with, y'know, the environment and homelessness and stuff. And they don't think that heaven has to be after death, they think Heaven can be a way of living." I pointed around me.
 

Claudia waved her hands impatiently, apparently bored. "Hey, Chuck, I don't make friends all that easily. Will you be my friend? We could... we could hang out and talk over coffee all the time! Like, every night – or, I guess you're a busy guy, have a full life, so maybe just once a week, it would be great!"
 

All thoughts of godliness and religion and "be like children" stopped dead in their tracks. I didn't want to be around this crazy, frustrating woman ever again, especially not in a pity-friendship. Of course her question was undisguised pathetic manipulation, but that only made the situation even more pathetic and poignant. To reject freely offered friendship on the heels of discussing Heaven's grace was, well, terrible, awful, despicable. I suddenly felt very sad and weary. I mumbled something about not making friends outside my age group very well (a lie). Claudia looked stricken, but quickly recovered by making fun of the guys behind the counter who were still talking in Spanish. She babbled about anything and everything in an attempt to keep the conversation flowing, to prevent it from ending, to prevent herself from being left alone. A dozen times I tried to end the conversation, but every time she would mention how alone and sad she was and how great it was to be talking to someone, and I would resign myself to another few seconds of increasingly inarticulate banter.
 

After a while, I looked up at the guy behind the counter. He looked at me with bemused sympathy, and said, "We need to close."
 

I leapt at the opportunity. "Yeah, I know – I'm leaving. Bye!" I stood up and walked out the door. I didn't look back because I didn't want to see the face of depression staring at me.
 

I walked home feeling such heart-wrenching sadness that the air smelled like piss. Claudia's bumbling persistence had, with unerring precision, stripped me raw. She had shown me that my faith was a big, tangled mess, and that it was really impossible to unravel life's difficulties when seen through the lens of insanity or instability. I didn't have any simple truths to tell her. I didn't express a single meaningful religious idea without lying, heaping qualifications, or relying on metaphor. I could offer no rock-solid notions of friendship or self-reliance that could withstand the trials of unrelenting unhappiness and delirium.
 

I want so much to believe that It – the big It – is so obvious any kid can recognize It. God, love, friendships, meaning, you name It. "Become like children...". But what about Claudia, given a child's language and way of thinking, in an adult world that is falling apart, grinding her down, unrelenting?
 

I turned the corner of the block and looked up at my warm, inviting apartment. I realized I could walk in the door and easily forget that the whole thing had happened.
 

We are not equipped to stare at life's sadness all the time. Mercifully, the mind recalls joys and certainties, and dulls memories of pain and anxiety. But that fact has nothing to do with truth, just comfort. I stepped inside to forget the pain I could not answer, but promised myself to remember Claudia's questions.