A Random Person

I find the fork somewhat useless. The spoon is the instrument of preference. Spoons collect it all in one perfect scoop. Simple, efficient.

Green beans cooked in a pan with olive oil and salt and pepper. Clean, clear, good green food. They prosper with the fork. And the salad, with its lettuce scraps and sliced needle carrots and snapped sharp peas, is best with a fork. However, the salad, the green beans, are rarely in the forefront of American meals, of diner meals, like the ones I serve. The ones I serve here on Marketplace and 7th. Most of our meals are the American spoon-scoop type: mac-n-cheese, chili, baked beans, soups, puddings, ice creams. Spoonfuls to fill the mouth. Ever heard of forkfuls? Exactly.

It’s here on that corner of Marketplace and 7th at a table for two, with the servings of mac-n-cheese with extra cheese and chicken noodle soup with side of toast for dipping that life takes a turn, a spin, a change.

They were together. He wore flannel and hadn’t washed his hair, and possibly self, in days. She was in a summer dress belted at the waist with a cloth tie. They were tan, a bit sunburnt in places, not young but not old, alive in their skin and happy. Their "happy" was a blotch of sunshine in the dark dreary hole on Marketplace and 7th. It was annoying. They guzzled and gulped and devoured and slurped and were content in themselves and the diner and the food and the world and the everything. I hated them. It’s that one-with-the-world crap. Annoying.

They said little to me but the usual “thank you," “more coffee please,” “have a good day.”

They walked out and got into their minivan and drove away or so that is what Sheila my co-worker said later.

Left on the table a small black notebook, the kind for writing thoughts and ideas and journaling. I could see what looked like a too thick stack of green bills shoved into it and I cautiously opened it. Not out there at the two-top mind you, but in the bathroom. The restaurant’s bathroom with faded pictures of women and men in yoga clothes doing yoga poses left over from the original owner. In the book one hundred dollars bills. They totaled in cash - CASH - $20,000 dollars. I sat down on the toilet - our seats have covers so it was not difficult. There was a message on a ripped spiral notebook page. It read: “So you are now part of the $20,000 club. We give you this to spend as you like in the course of ten days. Make smart choices for yourself and others. A hero’s journey to what? Up to you to decide. The email address is for you to contact to receive $40,000 in cash. This you will pass on to someone else, someone random whom you believe will make a difference with the money as we believe you will.”

I opened the black book again and saw that they, the others in the “club” had used it as a journal. Skimming quickly catching names and dates and how they spent the money, invested it, helped someone out who needed it. “Hi this is Jared…” Hi I’m Maggie” “Hi! Can you fucking believe this…” I’m 62…” I’m 25…” I’m 32…” All in pen, all neatly written as if the book and the words meant something, were to be part of something. One page a sentence, highlighted, ”Who started this? Does anyone know?”

I took my pen out from my apron and wrote, “Hi this is…”