What Goes Around...Comes Around by Den Watson

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What Goes Around...

   It’s 1962, and 2:30 AM on a dark and deserted street in one of LA’s many suburbs. Except it’s not quite deserted. Parked on the side of the road is an older model car with a black woman and a young girl standing beside it. I’m am on my way home from a late date in my even older stickshift coupe – just the one front seat.

   I pull over and a conversation begins. “Are you out of gas?” I ask.

   “I don’t think so,” she answers. “I don’t want to be a bother. Maybe you could stop at the next gas station and tell someone?”

   “No, ma’am” I say, “I’m not leaving you and your daughter out here at three in the morning. Where do you live? I’ll drive you home.”

   The protests begin. She might have been the most polite woman I’d ever met.

   “I can’t trouble you.”

   “It’s no trouble.”

   “I live too far away.“

   “Where do you live?“

   “Over near Atlantic.“

   “That’s only a mile or two away. Hop in.”

   We never exchanged names, but in a few minutes we were in a run-down neighborhood with dirt front yards and sagging chain-link fences. Except for one house in the center of the block with a white picket fence, a small green lawn, a well-tended flower bed, and a trim pathway the woman and her daughter now walked up and into their home which, I’m pretty sure, had a telephone.

                                                          ...Comes Around

   A few months later, I’m on the way home from night classes an hour away, and it’s about 11 PM when my car breaks down in South Central LA – also called Watts – pretty much an all-black area. I’m on one of the larger but now deserted city streets, standing next to my car with my books and my thumb out. Nobody goes by and I start walking. I’m at least 10 miles from home. A couple of cars go by but don’t stop. Then one car does. I approach the passenger window and look in at a black man in his 50s who says

   “Get in.”

   I do, and thank him.

   “You don’t wanna be out here this time of night. Where do you live?” 

   I tell him, and he says he’ll take me to the city limits. “I don’t want to be in your town this time of night, either,” he says, and drives me five or 6 miles closer to home.

   “Thanks for the ride. I really appreciate it. I can walk from here.”

   He u-turned and drove back to his neighborhood. It only took me another hour or so to walk home, and on that walk home, I thought, once again, about what’s wrong with this world—and what’s right with it.3

The VIP Lunch by Den Watson

The VIP Lunch

by Den Watson

 

 

   Stony suggested the idea, Chef Jose loved it, and Mindy had concerns.

   “I think I get the point,” she said, “I just hope our guests do, too.”

   “We’ll all be eating the same meal,” said Kate, “and I’m curious myself to see their reactions.”

   Kate’s guests were definitely VIP—former mayors and state senators were among them—and many had contributed significantly to the success of Kate’s project. But some of them could be scratchy at times, like the electric car guy, for example, who wanted the whole project named after him. Mindy was worried about what the guests’ reactions might be to what she knew would be an unusual meal, especially for people who were used to dining well.

   For this special VIP brunch, Chef Jose put several tables end to end, seating 12 guests on each side, and each place had a fancy silver dish and cover to be dramatically removed, revealing the special meal beneath—but not just yet.

   “Welcome to the very first VIP brunch at our new Home Park, which exists today only because of your help,” said Kate. “But I don’t want us to forget why we’re here, and that’s for the 46,000–minus 4,000 now, again thanks to you—the 42,000 people who may be going to sleep each night, hungry in one of the richest cities in the world. And what do they eat at their next meal? Now, please remove the covers at your places.”

   Removing the covers revealed a meal that threw the entire table into shock, surprise, and eventually laughter. Mindy sighed in relief. This is what they saw.
   On each plate were two packets of catsup, 1 packet of soda crackers,  2 packets of salt and pepper, and these instructions:

      Mix with hot water for tomato soup.
      Add crackers.
      Season to taste
 
   Mindy had worried needlessly. The unusual appetizer sparked conversations around the table about the Great Depression of the 1930s, which many of the guests still remembered. The noise level went up.

   “There were many nights as kids in Ohio we’d be glad of a meal like this,” said one of the richest men in the city.

   “I think the street people in New York City invented this—this homeless soup?” said a well-known stage actor from the East Coast. Most people didn’t notice, but at the words “homeless soup,” Chef Jose wrote something in his little notebook.

   “Yes! At the—what did they call them? You put a dime or a quarter in a slot and a piece of pie came around on a turntable.”

   “Automats,” someone said.

   “That’s it. Like an automated buffet.”

   “They had all kinds of food—sandwiches, meatloaf, chicken salad, pie—but the condiments were already on the tables—salt, pepper, napkins, and—”

   “Catsup and soda crackers.”

   “You had to walk over to the coffee stand to get a cup of hot water.”

   “Then open the catsup pack, crumble the crackers, and mix it all together for tomato soup.”
   “Not a lot of protein there.”
   “Not a lot of anything, but better than nothing, and then the automat manager ran you off after a few minutes.”
   By now several people had torn open their packets and were actually preparing the soup. Kate liked them best.
   “It doesn’t taste bad—it just doesn’t taste good either. And not much of it.”
   “Not much nutrition, not the best way to start the day. But if you were starving—”
   Kate stood and tapped her glass. “Thank you, Chef Jose for this totally unfulfilling meal.”   
   Laughter. “As our table is cleared, I want to assure you that Jose has more for us. And as many of you know, I am a bit of a gourmet myself. I like a good meal—and sometimes a very good meal.”
   “Hear, hear!”
   “But while educating myself about the homeless, I found I didn’t enjoy those meals as much, knowing that less than 100 yards from my restaurant table, people were going hungry and living in tents. But I’m happy to say there is no one going hungry here—in fact, the only hungry people here are us, and Chef Jose is about to change that.”
   Later, people said that Chef Jose’s asparagus-lobster omelettes with ginger ponzu sauce seemed to float off the plate.

Changing Water Into Wine by Don Taco

Changing Water Into Wine

by Don Taco

I've been changing water into wine

whether I want to or not

it's getting hard

to water the yard

or fill up the coffee pot

I've been hoping somewhere down the line

things get back to normal for me

I need relief

from brushing my teeth

with chianti or a fine chablis

I've been changing water into wine

just as if a button got stuck

my indiscretion caused

this ancient expression

to change into wine off a duck

I've been hoping somewhere down the line

things get back to normal for me

my investigation into

transubstantiation

has left me with a case of pinot gris

I've been changing water into wine

I'm not sure just why it began

it's hard to explain

why I had to drain

the whole cooling system of my van

I've been hoping somewhere down the line

things get back to normal for me

no one seems to care

that the sommelier

wishes he was just the maitre'd

I've been changing water into wine

before it can even reach my gums

I'm getting tired

of being admired

by all of the bowery bums

I've been hoping somewhere down the line

things get back to normal for me

wine is the worst

for quenching your thirst

regardless, have some wine, it's yours, it's free