The place was quiet and I nabbed myself a prime seat at the window. As I sat there munching my bagel, I couldn’t help worrying about my parents, what with Daddy heading off to Cousin Cindy’s wedding in his toupee from hell. But as I told Mom, compared to the rest of the Austen clan, Daddy was the picture of mental health.

No, what really had me worried was the thought of Mom and me becoming “roomies.” Mom periodically threatens to move in with me when Daddy’s driving her nuts, but Daddy somehow always manages to worm his way back into her good graces. Nevertheless, I live in fear that one day she’s going to show up on my doorstep, suitcase in hand, expecting me to stay up all night ordering fake diamonds and polyester pantsuits.

I was halfway through my bagel, wondering if I could fib and tell Mom my cable company didn’t carry Home Shopping, when I looked out the window and saw a shabby guy in tattered clothes staring at me. All his worldly possessions were piled into a supermarket cart. His long matted hair hadn’t seen a bottle of shampoo in years.

I averted my eyes, and pretended to be looking for something in my purse, hoping that by the time I looked up again, he’d be gone. But, no. When I sneaked a peek out the window, he was still there, staring at me with the same intensity The Blob used to watch Saturday morning cartoons. Suddenly, I lost my appetite. This poor guy was probably starving. I remembered how I’d been mistaken for a vagrant myself the other night, and how miserable that felt. I wrapped up the other half of my bagel, and ordered another to go.

The guy was still there when I got outside, still staring into the latte shop. I tapped him on the shoulder.

“Here,” I said, holding out my care package, and trying to ignore his heady aroma of wine and urine.

“What’s this?” he asked, eyeing me suspiciously.

“Bagels with cream cheese. I thought you might be hungry.”

He looked at me like I’d just handed him one of Tommy the Termite’s cockroaches.

“Sorry,” he sniffed. “I don’t eat dairy products. Too many toxins.”

Welcome to L.A., where even the vagrants eat organic. I swear, if the Statue of Liberty had been built in Los Angeles, its motto would have been: Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to eat a macrobiotically correct diet.

Stowing the bagels in my purse, I bid my shabby friend a fond farewell, and headed north a few blocks to the address Eduardo had given me—a cute little $50,000 blue clapboard bungalow now worth close to a million in the maniacally inflated Westside real estate market.

I walked past a picket fence into a tiny front yard and rang the bell. Eduardo answered the door wearing nothing but a towel draped around his waist.

“Sorry,” he said, beaming a seductive smile. “I just got out of the shower.”