Well go ahead
and call the cops.
In case I’ve never mentioned it, Waits knocks me to my knees. Like Raymond Carver used to do in short stories, Waits takes mangled guts at the low ebbs and margins and transmutes the pain of hookers, junkies, thieves, the used up and the terminally lost into something sacred.
And he's right; you don’t meet nice girls in coffee shops.