Lunch Time
I have a meal on the curb, sharing my shames with the
indigents. My name is not of importance to them,
they don't care that I am a failed fighter for the
people. To them, I am only another sad story being
shouted into the ears of the deaf.
We stayed a good while, and without pressing
appointments, we swapped great tales of government
conspiracy and
corporate espionage.
It would seem that I had chosen quite the corner for
conversation. A larger man, with
questionable dental history, told me to call him
'pops' he laughed and said out here everone calls me
pops,says I always popin' my mouths off to that old
lady at Mother Mary soup kitchen.' he paused, smiling
that horrid gaping hole of a mouth, nudging my arm for
my complete attention, 'Now I tells that old lady at
Mother Mary soup that I gotta have a clean
spoon,and she looked at me like I's crazy, -Clean
spoon?- she say, and turnen around to
Beth she say' Again he pauses, this time for emphasis
'now I like Beth she always given us a little extra
butta for our toast, but any how, she turn to Beth and
she say -lookie here, this here bum says our spoons is
dirty! He livin in the streets in his own wastes and
he says OUR spoons is dirty?- and you know what I tell
that old lady from Mother Mary?'
I give an interested shrug,
'I look right in her eye and says mam, I do
apoligize, I do, but this here is a fine
establish'ment, Mother Mary's soup,
'fact best kitchen past Reynolds Street, I just
figure you don't want word gettin round that yall be havin dirty spoons, might
hurt business.' again with the smile.
At large, his story seemed to amuse our other
dining associates, his face bright with the
anticipation of my response.
For the sake of camaraderie I give a hearty chuckle,
'Might hurt business!' I shouted, slapping him firmly
upon his back, this summoning the expected roar of
laughter from what had now become our audience.
The laughter died, and Pops shook my hand with
conviction, and went on down the street shouting at
various people as he went by. I stayed sitting on the
curb.
A sullen and weather worn country boy sat to my close
right and hungrily devoured an onion and mayo sandwich
for lunch, he smacked his lips, and licked his filthy
fingers clean.
He breathed heavily into my direction. Smelling his
dank aroma reminded me of something, something that
there are not words for, it was more like a vague
memory of an emotion. A twisted moment of fate, and
then it was gone.
The world was sneaking up on me, as I remembered that
I still had a life (no matter how dismal) that had
nothing to do with
poverty.
None the less, I enjoy being with the people, my
people, and it is the reminiscing (about the beautiful
Beths, and the old ladies chasing us through doors,
and hurling dirty spoons) that keeps me coming back. |
