LET'S HAVE LUNCH IN THE RAIN

Let's Have Lunch-In the Rain

by Frederick B. Hudson

A few months, a potential client for my video production services drastically disappointed me-no, let's correct that-he left me holding the bag. Literally. The bag contained the props for a fashion advertisement "shoot" scheduled in Central Park. My production partner and I had gone out of our way to give the fashion designer a reduced rate for an advertisement; we were told the designer would have his models, both children and adults, appropriately attired, sitting at a bench by a bend near the rowing pond.

I had called the designer at 1 p.m. to ensure that everything was in order for takeoff. Assurances were given that the guided missile was ready for launch. It began to rain at 2 p.m., harder at 3, then slighter at 4. By 4:30 p.m., the sun's rays had begun to dry the shimmering puddles in the gutters.

The onslaught of charging umbrellas on the sidewalks was replaced by folded raincoats over swinging arms, marching to the drumbeats of a silent song: I'm already late/got to make this light/this is the kind of day I hate.

When the designer and entourage had not arrived by 6 p.m., I called his home. "What's the situation?" "Oh, I thought we should cancel because of the rain. Besides, I talked to my mother and she doesn't think it's a good idea." "Well, I think you should have proceeded with the plan, not only for my benefit, but for the models who committed their time." "I'm sorry, but I just thought it was best."

My mental computer screeched out a couple of polite statements from the software package called "Politeness At All Times" I have installed in my professional hard drive. Then my rage took over and I terminated the conversation by saying I had to call another client.

When I spoke to the person who had recommended the client to me, he promised to get back to me after speaking to the target of my anger. The intermediary also mentioned that the designer's mother had died a few months ago, thus making any earthly communication with her somewhat difficult.

After two days, the intermediary spoke of the designer's regret at breaching the oral agreement. "He is going to take you out to dinner to make it up to you." "Oh really, and if it rains, I guess he won't show up, right?' That last bit of sarcasm only coated the deep resentment I felt about that occasion and other situations when individuals attempt to assuage guilt about their lack of sincerity, trust, honor and other spiritual lapses by offerings of food.

Historically, the breaking of bread has been a ritual of belonging and caring. Shepherds and hunters welcomed nomads around their campfires to feast. Hoboes shared their cans of heated pork and beans with other riders of the rails. Honest migrants, down on their luck, could knock on the door in many small havens, and fill their empty bellies. The leavening, rising action of the bread's yeast symbolized the spiritual lifting found in strangers becoming friends.

A poet, whose name escapes me, once wrote: "when you travel among strangers and they offer you food, do not refuse it-they will hate you." This wisdom was brought home to a Peace Corps Volunteer in Africa who refused to eat from the communal dish of rice and vegetables in a village, crying out: "I ain't eating that s-t!" He was soon sent back to the United States for cultural insensitivity.

Frequently, when telemarketers call homes at mealtimes, they are reproached with "We're eating." But can our larger selves, our more complex identities indeed be disrupted by a meal? The ritual of dating often begins with an invitation to dinner. But since what is included in the sharing of steak and/or a lobster is the tentative searching for sexual sparks under napkins, these invitations often carry the weight of badly digested undercooked rice.

An invitation to a meal can also carry the pressing stillness of a gift never intended to be given, a service never meant to be honored. I once sent a resume and accompanying supporting material to a former employer who was advertising for a new position. He called me and began talking about everything but the posted job.

After ten rambling minutes, he mentioned that position required someone with lots of experience in an area which my resume indicated at least fifteen years exposure in six states. He closed the conversation with a promise to call back so we could "break some bread" as soon as his schedule lightened.

Would that meal have been comprised of chewing on forks heaped with insincerity, of sips and swallows by two men too "well -behaved" to broach the realities of why one feels uncomfortable with hiring the other?

A theologian once described Christianity as "a beggar telling another beggar where he found bread." When we sit down to eat today, which of us is the mendicant? The one bringing insincerity of the other accepting the dishonesty?" A nun once explained her calling by saying: "If everyone were a chalice, there would be no need for alms." What offering can be made to cover contempt or dishonesty?

Many people literally choke to death at mealtimes on food stuck in their throats. How often is the real obstruction really forbidden terrain stumbled over in an insincere communion dance? But back to the fashion designer who promised me a meal. What would be the price of the meal? A loss of my self-respect? A diminishment of my dignity?

Could abrogation of an oral contract coupled with the imaginary advice of a deceased mother be resolved by chewing shrimp scampi washed down with Mums champagne? And after the meal, supposed he wanted to do business with me again? Should I "forget his previous offenses or should I hold him forever at arms length?

A river runs to the well of our loneliness. Its streams are full of ash from forgotten cigarettes and fireflies flickering. The bag of props-magical beach balls and Frisbees-intended to sprinkle stardust on a videotape of frolicking adults and gleeful children has long since morphed into ordinary toys.

The park is still there. The aborted commercial was to use a background song called "Come Into My Garden." Lyrics from the song include: you know you lived here all your nights, all your days, you know you lived here all your life. I'll take your hand and lead you through all the bad places. I'll take your hand and give you mine."

I will look into the puddle of rainwater for the answer. Perhaps I will see clasped hands shining back at me. Perhaps the fashion designer's mother will bring me an answer and a mea