CHAPTER VI. "LONG FALL TO THE STREET CAFE"

I was at my last party, the one where we had Mel Gibson, a live orchestra and lobster. I was dancing with a man whom I loved. It wasn't Bill. And he was tall; my head was on his shoulder.  I couldn't see his face, but I knew he was everything I ever wanted in a man and in the dream, I was very sure of his love for me. My heart was filled with all the joy that existed. We were waltzing and my guests couldn't take their eyes off me. Was it that this man was important? Or was it that they thought Bill was angry? In the dream, I turned to look. Bill was talking to clients and didn't seem to notice or care. Suddenly, a hand shook my shoulder. "Wake up Avery, We're going to the farm."

"The farm? " Isn't that where the CIA trains assassins?

"Riiiiight. Tell ya what. Let's institute download procedure," she said, putting a mug of black coffee in my hand.

* * * *

The farm was a public garden in the foothills where Carla rented a plot. Ten acres fenced, a door with a lock, but it was open in the daytime and gardeners dug and planted. Children picnicked. Some old men in old farmer's jeans strung wire for grape vines. The land had been divided into hundreds of 8 X10 quadrants that were lush with vegetables and fruit bushes. A raspberry patch fenced the walkway where we had entered "Costs me 20$ a year for my plot", Carla explained. She saw me eyeing the ripe fruit and gave a long heavy sigh that said 'I know. But other farmers' goodies are seriously off-limits.'

She instructed me how to pick her own crop of tomatoes with manicure scissors. "I don’t take theirs, they don't take mine. Take the stem too, Avery. Stems are why we get the big money. And cuz I let them get red, ripe and sugary."

They were indeed sugary, miracle tomatoes, no doubt about it. They had fragrance, which no tomato in the supermarket had anymore. We filled several crates. Next, she had me top off the basil plants, placing the stems immediately in jars of water that she had fitted carefully into a crate.

Finally, I lay back on a patch of lawn while she was sowing a second crop of basil. The air above me was full of pictures. The mansion atop the mountain, the rats in the tree, the empty greenhouse, the empty closet. My eyes filled up with tears.

"Good afternoon," came a male voice.

"I opened my eyes. It was God in heaven high above me, played by John the senior Carradine. Concern, wisdom and humor beckoned from his eyes. "What's good about it?" I said glumly.

"Beautiful sunshine… flowers. No bombs today, you notice? They can't say that in Iraq."

"I suppose."

So seeing as how humans live this beautifully everywhere that's not Iraq and here is not Iraq, what are you crying about?"

"Because in thirty days my rent will run out. I don't have a dime. I'm going to be on the street."

" Thirty days? And you're already worrying? Sufficient unto the day the trouble thereof. Today is a thousand hours away from a rain cloud. You've got a low tolerance, gal. In thirty days, you'll have a job, a slick boyfriend and a new home.

"I'm fifty. We don't attract slick boyfriends. And I can't work. No skills."

"Skills don't mean beans. Lemme tell you a little story about skills." He lowered himself onto the grass. "Summer 75, I'm a PhD in Western Civilization, a married man, lovely home, terrific job as a History teacher at a private school. My youngest son gets interested in this new street drug, crystal meth. Supplier's keeping him stocked and the stuff's not expensive. You can stay pretty stoked only meth makes you into a monster. An ugly drug, so one day I follow him to the barrio, visit the dealer. In the scuffle, the guy hits his head on a Chevy fender. I got twenty for manslaughter, served ten, lost the house, wife and my son OD's anyway. I got out of jail last year. A hundred resumes to school systems across America. PHD in History, no one will hire me. I've got a parole officer breathing down my neck making sure employers know about the scarlet letter on my forehead. Lady I can't work. YOU CAN WORK."

I absorbed the implications."Avery Wendell." I said, extending my hand. "I stand corrected."

"Dr. Charles Carter. Say, lovely Avery, what do you say we dine together tonight? The Presbyterian church does a lovely little bean thing. We can sneak beer in, with that purse."

* * *

"He's elegant, Carla."

"He's old funky and he smells."

"He's picking me up at seven."

"Oh he's got the limo tonight. That's different. Date a murderer. I think it's folklorico. Go for it! I'm all for folklorico."

"Carla, you invented it."

"I should offer him the use of the shower first. And I will if you are up to cleaning the shower  with bleach."

"Before or after he bathes?"

She cocked an eye at me, clocking me for mouthy.

* * *

Dr. Charles picked me up on foot. I told him that he could have a shower and he took me up on it. His hair was damp but we walked through the twilight to the church. We sat at a trestle table with a hundred other homeless people. I produced the iced beer from my purse. Carefully, below the table rim, Dr Carter filled his paper cup, sipped, then gave a satisfied grunt.

"So what cloud did you fall from, beer angel?

"Beverly Hills. And yourself? Where do you live?"

"Since the YMCA raised their rates I live in the park. Not a problem in summer." He sniffed the armpit of his suit.

"Mosquitoes?."

"Yes and with them goes West Nile Virus. At my age, very nearly always fatal. So I sleep under a thrift store sheet. Clothes pin to keep it attached to my hair.

I winced and tried the beans. "Next time we bring some seasoning salt. That's one thing I make well. Celery powder, garlic powder, paprika, thyme. Now you know all my secrets."

"And I'll bet your recipe for seasoning salt really is your biggest secret."

The Minister passed by our table. I reached for his elbow. "Sir? Head lettuce? Nobody eats head lettuce any more. There's no nutrition in it."

"That's probably why we get so much of it donated to us, Madame."

"That and the fact it's wilted.. Could you try to get spinach?" But I was talking to air for the man had ambled off. I tried another bite., chewing reflectively. "Spinach has iron." I murmurred.

"Look on the bright side. Free salad and beans, a veritable feast! Don't look a gift horse in the eye, my mother used to say."

"It's tasteless salad dressing, Doctor Carter. " I set my fork down. "I can't live like this. It repulses and terrifies me."

"Avery, life has put this fine meal in front of you. I don't see any other meal here. Which means that this un-nutritional head lettuce came straight from God. Actually, this is the only variety of lettuce that is related to the poppy family and it is a major soporific. Morphine vinaigrette. Happy Greens. Insomniac's delight."

"It is?"'

"Really and truly."

"Well that IS the bright side, isn't it!"

"A Legal high. So don't choose the low, dear. When you're repulsed by something God sent, and you don't consider his gift a learning experience and an adventure, the whole carousel grinds to a halt. Not 'til you're able to honor what God has provided does the dance start up again."

The ball was in my court. "Well, the other diners certainly seem to love it." I indicated the dozens of other homeless citizens shoveling beans and salad down and I meekly polished off my bowl.

* * *

In the parking lot, cartons of canned food and staples were being opened and distributed. Carter nodded to a tramp with hair that frizzed out to the sky.

"Frizzy Bob. I'm good for two or three boxes."

Frizzy Bob nodded. I watched as Dr Carter walked around to the other poor people, making arrangements of some kind. Money changed hands.

"We hit a good night," Carter said, returning to her side. "There's rice, cheese, tuna cans, beans, more salad and mayo. You must bring some kind of beginner's luck with you, Avery. Now, just stand here. I need to make a phone call."

I watched him talk animatedly into a public phone.

The minister arrived and the boxes of food were distributed. Carter returned. "I'll buy everything you can schnorr so ask for as much as they'll give. Tell them you have children.."

"I can't lie."

Mrs. Wendell, It's yer ole friend Charlie here. Lie for Charlie. Give it a shot.

I nodded and steeled myself. The Minister was markering boxes with names. I went up to him.

"I could use some groceries. I --uh --- feed four children,"

"It's just head lettuce, you know."

"I'll take it. Any rice, flour beans, tuna? And I'm so sorry about that remark about the salad.

"You're new. I know it's hard at first".

"Yes." Real tears welled up in my eyes.

"So that's why you forgot to ask for the cheese.

"There's cheese?"

He nodded, started to walk away then turned. "It's just Velveeta you know. Nobody that matters eats it any more but it has a nice creamy softness and ripe effleurance they love up in Napa County.

I laughed uneasily. The minister smiled a Cheshire grin. My leg was being pulled.

"That's a good one."

* * * *

We waited for the crowd to leave. Somehow a dozen cardboard boxes full of food were on the asphalt around Dr Carter. The church was dark. Everyone had gone. A truck pulled to a stop. The driver got out and handed the doctor some cash. Carter counted it. The two men loaded the food in and then the truck roared off into the night. Carter handed fanned the bills and gave me a twenty. "Frame that Andrew Jackson, it's the start of a brilliant black market career."

We walked down the boulevard . Dr. Carter walked on the outside, holding my elbow, twirling his cane occasionally to give their stroll a jaunty Chaplin signature.

"I know that guy."

Which guy?

"The hooker. Red wig."

"That's a guy?"

You bet. Ed spotted me, came over and embraced me. "I want to give you that five back, Ed."

"You got yourself a John, eh? Congratulations, gal. You rock!" Ed made change, gave me the high sign and went back to the curb.

We walked on. "I can see it now. Embezzler's wife found patronizing trannie hookers on Hollywood boulevard, after black marketing church giveaway food.

"And Dating an ex convict and murderer."

"You aren't that."

"None of us are what we've done. They're all red wigs, Avery. WE are not any of our choices Sure, I'd rather be back at the prep school and you'd rather be with Mrs. Astor. Life, however, is writing another script and we are obliged to hit our marks and act out this crummy soap opera with elan as if our souls depended on it And very probably, they do. Life's but a strutting shadow, a poor player who struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.' The point being, don't get attached. Don't think. Just improvise. Minute to minute, Avery. No choices, no decisions. Great actors don't think. They just go with the flow and do it loud! In the immortal words of Stanislavsky, 'use everything.' And make believe everything is real at the same time as you know it's not. It's just an endless improv, A test. A five finger exercise. No hope of ever getting it right. You just gotta do it as well as you can. Say, we're rich. Whaddya say we get a couplea burgers." He pointed to a Burger Hut.

"Relish, catsup, can we order some fried onions?

"Looks like a slow night. they might fry 'em for us."

                                  <----- PROCEED TO CHAPTER VII