I haven't cooked a meal in almost a year. Initially the string of surgeries that followed the crash left me too weakened to do much more than pour a bowl of cereal and even then I had to buy milk by the quart instead of the heavier gallon. I was mortified by my sudden frailty. Now I've just fallen into a pattern of letting others do for me what I previously did for myself; so most mornings I take breakfast downstairs at the Mexican restaurant built into the front-facing corner of our building. If the weather is decent I'll sit outside on the patio, adjacent to Houston Street. I prefer to take one of the handful of tables that line the iron rail bordering the sidewalk. Daily a stream of strangers pass and, if so inclined, I could stick out a hand and grab one.
Yesterday, as it happened, one grabbed me. I had just placed my food order with Mary Mary and was half reading the newspaper, half drinking my first cup of coffee, when a street fellow just pulled out the chair across from mine and stood there gawking at me. Presumably he was waiting for permission to sit, so I looked at him from over the newspaper and nodded in affirmation. It was too early for company, especially a stranger. But, eh, it was also too early for confrontation.
Mary Mary responded quickly to my raised hand and soon the fellow was sipping from a steaming black coffee. He had the look of a four sugar packet guy and cream spilled here and there on the table. I was relieved to learn he was not that fellow and told him breakfast would be my treat. His indifferent reaction suggested that had been a foregone conclusion.
Mary Mary took his breakfast order and got it caught up with mine in the kitchen so both orders could come out together. She's a pro and I like watching her work from behind a newspaper or magazine or book. When she puts the food down on the table she never says, "Here you go." I hate when they say that. Where am I going? I'm not going anywhere. "Where am I going," I'll ask. Then a confused "Huh?" always follows. One thing leads to another, inevitably. I hate that whole exchange.
My eggs were scrambled soft and his were over hard with extra picante sauce. Some people need proof that their food is cooked dead, so when he took a fork to the eggs it reminded me of a soldier bayoneting a fallen enemy. He got to the refried beans last, spooning them into his mouth while wiping the plate with a flour tortilla.
"I'm not going back."
I shifted in the wrought iron chair, nudging it over the brick tile, which produced a slight metallic squeal. Two pigeons pecking nearby startled, but only retreated a foot or so. I was no threat, they decided, noisy chair or not.
"Not going back where?" I asked.
"Death. Not going back to death. Fuck!"
"Yeah. I don't blame you. Where are you going then?"
"Life, man. Of course."
"Of course. Yeah. Sorry about that. Good luck then."
After the stranger put the last piece of tortilla in his mouth, Mary Mary cleared the table of plates and silverware, leaving only my coffee cup and teaspoon. She knew I was going nowhere. But there would be no more coffee refills for the stranger. No dawdling, sir. His time was up.
