Prior to 2017, the year I set sail leaving Los Angeles, California, and everything familiar in the rear view mirror until Brexit and Covid came along and shattered my rear view mirror, I thought everywhere had 4,371 coffee's.
According to Central and South America, Europe, England, the Middle East and a handful of Asian nations we've had the opportunity to live, however, there's only two:
Regular / Decaf.
Creamer, pssh, no-brainer—French Vanilla all the way. Coffeemate, by Nestle, French Vanilla flavored is the only reason I drink coffee—scientifically concocted poisonous heaven sent syrup available only in the Land of The Free to graze:
I met Larry at those refrigerator doors.
Child inventor extraordinaire genius—Larry. Achievements like that are forever. I was unaware of all his accolades until after I helped him out and went home and researched his business card.
Right now he's blocking the French Vanilla.
He opened it, grabbed a bottle and let the door close itself while standing in front of the cooler. Held the creamer in his hand, turned it around and scanned the ingredients. Opened the same door, turned the creamer back around and returned it where he got it, closed the door and continued scanning.
I don't care.
I got all the time in the world.
He's got plenty of room, I distanced myself a good 20 feet off to the side, no rush. Take all the time you need, I thought, no pressure.
Waiting..
He opened the door again, grabbed a different one, turned it around and scanned the ingredients. Turned it back around and put it back, again, allowing the weight of the door to close itself. Again.
Scanning..
He did that another time before noticing me, I startled him—didn't mean to do that—didn't see me standing there. He hesitated, "I'm sorry." I acknowledged with friendly body language and a fake smile, assured him he's not holding me up.
Take all the time you need, I'm in no hurry.
I never had'ta shop fer'myself.
He mumbled timidly under his breath, but I heard him loud and clear. Well into his 80's, I'm guessing, and never shopped for his self.
Take your time, seriously, I'm in no hurry. French Vanilla's the best.
Which'uns that?
The light blue one.
Best'n??
Yes, sir. All the other ones are just a reminder why I like French Vanilla.
He thanked me and put a bottle in his shopping cart. I put one in mine, too.
My pleasure. I'm Arts. Need a hand with anything else while I'm here?
He extended his hand to me.
I'm Larry. My wife did all the shopping.
Don't ask / Don't tell.
Something changed. Life does that every day. Hopefully it's something other than the worst case scenario my imagination painted. I shook his hand.
Nice to meet you, Larry.
Would'ya mind showin me to the pork?
Hell no I wouldn't, let's go.
We went to the meat section. I showed him how they identify the different meats and poultry and stuff by color and where it's shelved, et cetera. He was super appreciative. American markets are ridiculous—massive intimidating things. Then he stuck his hand out to his side, parallel to the floor at knee level, indicating how small he used to be..
When isa real young boy, I'm prolly twice yer age now, my daddy's in a baaaadd accident in a real bad way and eez arms's froze up like dis'eer.
He made two fists and brought them up to his chin like a squirrel.
Eez in a coma so long, day-juss froze up like dat and'n he come home ain't none us think he'd ever move eez arms again so I went out and gathered some pedal bikes...
He told me about a machine he made. Said he was only 5 years old when he made it and didn't know what else to do but knew he couldn't just sit there and do nothing while his dad deteriorated in bed incapable of moving his arms.
He built a machine out of various bicycle parts: cranks, pedals, chains and whatever else to reach his dad's hands they'd strap to the pedals with shoelaces while he lay upright in bed. At the foot of the bed, he set up another bicycle and anchored the two together in the ceiling. He said he could sit on the bicycle at the foot of the bed and pedal, forcing the pedals strapped to his dad's hands to move, eventually retraining his brain how to move his arms.
The coolest part was when he described how big his dad's eyes got to me. "They were this BIG!" he told me with both hands doing the 'ok'. His dad's obviously astonished at the sight of this machine his young son built that's actually working and making a difference when no one else could.
His dad recovered and gained full mobility. Shortly thereafter, the two worked together perfecting and patenting Larry's machine—Quadriciser. Said he called it that because it exercises all four limbs; if someone's legs need retrained, move them with the hand pedals and vice versa. He's got thousands of them in multiple hospitals and universities all across the world now.
Crazy, right? Larry the child protege and I in the same market together for coffee creamer and he didn't know French Vanilla's the best. I told him about 
My buddy's son grew too fast or something like that. I'm gonna tell him about you. They travel between Washington State and California regularly for therapy to correct his spine, something - something, I forget exactly what but something like that.
He named all the treatments Splatts's boy is likely receiving, said his machines are all over California and gave me a business card.
Give'eem one-uh deez.
I told him I'd relay the message when I got to the car, asked if he needed help checking out or to his car or anything else. I'd finished grabbing everything I needed anyway.
I'll drive you all the way to your house if you want.
That got a laugh out of him. He nodded and smiled ear to ear in gratitude, shook my hand again, said he enjoyed meeting me. I returned the compliment. Told me he's got it from here, if he doesn't do it now, he said, he might not get to.
Better do it when'ya can cuz'ya never know when'ya can't.
We went separate ways. I purchased my things and left, never saw him again. Got to the car and called Splatts on my way home like I said I would. Told him the story I just told you.
