Scroll 057: The Man at the Counter

About a week ago, I sat down at a diner counter in Torrance and struck up a conversation with a 96-year-old man named Eric.

What started as a simple breakfast turned into one of the most meaningful conversations I've had in a long time.

As I watched the waitresses, bussers, and owner stop by to greet him, I couldn't help but wonder:

Who is this guy?

Over the next hour, Eric shared stories from a life that included professional hockey, military service during the Korean War, business success, family, loss, and a lesson that took him nearly a century to learn.

A lesson about happiness.

A lesson about productivity.

A lesson about why so many of us spend our lives waiting for the next chapter.

And perhaps most importantly, a lesson about why your best time might not be somewhere in the future.

It might be right now.

In this scroll, we explore presence, participation, inner peace, and what it truly means to live a life that others don't just remember—but genuinely miss when you're gone.

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:00

What's going down and welcome to the Story Samurai. This isn't just a podcast, it's a dojo for the soul. And we're not here to ship content. We're here to shape culture. The Story Samurai exists to transform introverted, growth-minded rebels into sovereign storytellers, where clarity, mastery, and meaning shape every move. And every week I bring you a new scroll, a lesson, a story, a practice, something you can carry into your own sovereign path. I'm Carrie Hokama, creative entrepreneur, storyteller, and student of self-mastery, helping growth-minded rebels master their craft, rise to the challenge, and get their greatest work out into the world. And when I say rebels, I mean the kind that refuse to conform, the kind that rebel against the noise, the shallow shortcuts, and the copy and paste culture the world tries to drown us in. If this is you. And if you've ever felt overlooked, underexpressed, or like you were built for more than what the world expects of you, you're in the right dojo. Yoko Sol, welcome to the dojo. Glad you're here. Let's begin. About a week ago, I was back in SoCal for work. It also happened to be my birthday weekend. And I spent time with my family and revisited a few familiar places from the area where I grew up. Whenever I'm in torrents, there's an old diner I like to stop by. Nothing fancy, just one of those places that's been around forever. Every once in a while, I'll grab a seat at the counter, order breakfast, and enjoy a little time alone. No headphones, no agenda, no listening to podcasts, just enough space for life to happen. And on this particular Saturday morning, life showed up in the form of a 96-year-old named Eric. A few minutes after I sat down, Eric took the empty seat next to me and we exchanged a few words, then a few more. And before long, we were having one of those conversations that reminds you why it's important to leave room in your life for strangers. But before I tell you what we talked about, something else caught my attention. Everybody seemed to know this guy. The waitresses, the servers all knew him. The busers came, gave him a fist bump. The owner knew him. People kept stopping by to say hello, not because they had to, but because they genuinely wanted to. Then one of the servers walked by and said, Where the heck have you been? We haven't seen you in a few days. A little later, another employee said something similar. Then the owner shared that she had actually gotten Eric's number from someone because they hadn't seen him recently. She called him just to make sure he was okay. And I remember sitting there thinking, Wow, this was someone whose absence was noticed. And there's a difference. We notice when people arrive. We care when people are missing. And that's when I started wondering, who is this guy? And as our conversation unfolded, I learned that Eric had lived what felt like multiple lives in one lifetime. He had played professional hockey, he had served during the Korean War, he had built a successful business overseas. He had children, grandchildren, great grandchildren. And somehow at 96 years old, he still trained six days a week. Six days a week. And not only that, he's still living independently. Now his wife passed away 18 years ago. Now think about that for a moment. Many people spent 18 years plus raising a child from birth into adulthood. Now Eric had spent 18 years navigating life without the woman he loved. Yet there he was, driving himself to breakfast, talking with strangers, sharing stories, laughing, still participating in life. And whenever I meet someone who's done something I haven't done, I get curious. So eventually I asked him, I leaned over, I said, Eric, if you don't mind me asking, after 96 years, what's one of the biggest lessons you've learned that I can apply today? And he smiled, he leaned over and he said, Well, I'll tell you what, when I was five, I wanted to be in grade school. When I got to grade school, I wanted to get into middle school. And when I got into middle school, I wanted to jump into high school. When I got into high school, I wanted to get into college. And when I get into college, I wanted a job. And when I got a job, I wanted to get married. When I got married, I wanted to start a business. And then he paused. He tapped my shoulder and said, Carrie, your best time is right now. Man, that one hit me. He's saying, You and I, right here, this conversation, that's the best time right now. Because what Eric had just described wasn't only his life. He had described all of us. How many of us are still doing exactly that? Waiting for the next chapter, waiting for the next opportunity, waiting for that next breakthrough, waiting for the next version of ourselves, and always believing life starts after the next thing, always moving the finish line, always postponing life. And after 96 years, Eric had discovered something most people never do. The milestone arrives, then another one appears. The goals get reached, and then a new goal takes its place. The chapter ends, and another chapter begins. And somewhere along the way, we forget that life was happening the entire time. Not after the promotion, not after the relationship, not after retirement, and not after success. Right now, this conversation, this meal, this walk, this workout, this ordinary day that will never get back. And then Eric added something else. He said, Carrie, nobody cares what I did 50 years ago. Nobody cares what I did 25 years ago. No one cares even what I did five years ago. And as I looked around the diner, I realized, dang it, he is right. The servers weren't talking about his hockey days. The owner wasn't talking about his international business. The bustlers weren't talking about the Korean War. Nobody was celebrating his accomplishments. They were celebrating Eric, the man, the person, the presence. And maybe that's why everyone was so happy and eager to see him. Maybe that's why they noticed when he wasn't there. Maybe that's why the owner picked up the phone to make sure he was okay. Not because of what he had done, but because of who he had become. As our conversation continued, we started talking about happiness, our goals. And Eric told me something that caught my attention. And he said he's never understood why so many people make happiness the goal. And at first I thought that was an interesting take because isn't that what everybody says? I just want to be happy. But then he explained, someone you love passes away. Then you become sad. You buy something that you've always wanted, you become happy, then life changes, and guess what? You're sad again. His point was simple: life changes, circumstances change, emotions change, happiness comes and goes. Then he says something that really surprised me. My goal isn't happiness, my goal is productivity. Now, first, productivity felt like a strange word, especially coming from a 96-year-old man. But the more I thought about it in real time, the more I realized I don't think Eric was talking about productivity the way most people use that word these days. I don't think he meant hustle and bustle. I don't think he meant just being busy. I think what Eric called productivity, I would call participation, engagement, remaining involved with life, participation in your health, participation in your relationships, participation in your community, participation in your conversations, in your own life. Because when I looked at Eric, that's exactly what I saw. A man who was still participating and engaging in his own life, still training six days a week, going out for breakfast, meeting new people, still sharing stories, making people smile, still fully engaged in the game. This wasn't a man who had avoided suffering. This was a man who kept choosing life after suffering. Then another conversation emerged. The staff started talking about another regular customer who had recently passed away. He was also in his 90s, but they remembered him very differently. Angry, negative, always complaining. Eventually I brought that up to Eric, and he simply shrugged and he said, Carrie, if you're positive, people like you. If you're negative, people don't. Simple, yes? Almost too simple. But when a 96-year-old healthy man says it after nearly a century of observing people, it lands differently because he's not sharing a motivational quote. He's sharing his findings. And suddenly everything around me made sense. The servers, the busers, the owner, the welfare check, the concern when he was absent, the joy when he returned. At 96, people weren't celebrating what Eric had done. They were celebrating who Eric was. Now before I left, I asked him something. I said, Eric, I know this sounds a little strange, but would you mind taking a photo with me? I just like to remember this moment. And he laughed and he said, You know what, Carrie? The funny thing is, I get asked to take photos quite a bit around here. And after spending an hour with him, I completely understood why. Because he wasn't famous, at least not in the way most people think about fame. He had simply become someone people were grateful to know. Someone whose presence mattered, someone whose absence was felt. And before leaving, I excused myself to the restroom. And on the way back, I quietly paid for his breakfast. And I didn't tell him. I didn't want a thank you. I don't want a recognition. I just felt like the right thing to do. Here was a man who had given me more wisdom over breakfast than some people give in a lifetime. It was just a small gesture, but it was my way of saying thank you. And as I walked out that diner, I kept thinking about something. Maybe the goal isn't happiness, maybe it's not achievement either. It's participation, engagement, being fully present to the chapter you're already in. Maybe your best time isn't waiting for you somewhere in the future. Maybe your best time is right now. So here's your Kaizen move for today. Take one moment this week that you would normally rush through and fully participate in it. The conversation, the workout, maybe it's a meal or your walk, the drive home, the person sitting directly across from you. Because if a 96-year-old man taught me anything over breakfast, is that life isn't hiding in the next chapter. Life is hiding in this one. Because here's what most people get wrong: they spend their lives waiting for life, waiting for the next milestone, the next achievement, the next chapter, thinking fulfillment lives somewhere out ahead of them. But fulfillment doesn't come from arriving, it comes from participating, not from waiting for life, but from engaging with it fully, right now. Information alone doesn't transform a life. Awareness alone doesn't transform a life. Transformation happens when wisdom becomes participation, when insight becomes action, when presence becomes practice. And this is why you're a story, samurai. Because while most people spend their entire lives rushing toward the next chapter, you learn how to find wisdom in the one you're already living. While most people overlook ordinary moments, you recognize that those moments are often carrying some of the deepest lessons in life. A diner counter, a breakfast conversation, a 96-year-old man, a lesson that no book could have taught quite the same way. Most people would have seen an old man eating breakfast. A story samurai sees a lifetime of wisdom waiting to be uncovered. And now if this scroll hit home, please pass it on to another Kaizenite. Someone who's been waiting for the next chapter. Someone who's forgotten that life is happening right now. Someone who needs the reminder that fulfillment isn't found in someday, it's found in participation, in presence. It's found in fully showing up for the life that's already in front of you. Because Kaizenites aren't just thinkers, they're builders. You are refiners. People who take that's real and do something with it. Until next time, Kaizenites, be steady, live sovereign, and never stop writing your own story.