May
20, 2019
Greetings from
the instigator,
The clerk behind the counter is watching us. I can tell she does not like the fact that I
turned my chair. There is a transistor
radio behind her. She walks over to it
and adjusts it a fraction to solve the static, paces back to the counter. She
calls “Niney ONE!” When no one moves
there is a frank look of disapproval.
She tries again, and then, to show she will not be trifled with, moves
on immediately. “Niney TWO!”
We are waiting for her to call 94. It is a strange decorum, hushed, like a lot of
waiting places, public, but there is some unwritten rule about talking too loudly.
Behaving. We are sitting in plastic government
issued chairs lined up in rows. I turn mine
so I can talk to Harrison. He’s my son; not like I just picked a stranger to
talk to at the Secretary of State office.
Though I would.
I ask Harrison how he got so engaged in cooking. I can tell from our other conversations it
has become a passion, and I am curious. He
thinks for a moment, which is a beautiful thing to watch.
Harrison had to work a couple part time jobs to make ends meet, which even
with a pricey college degree is what you have to do. Bike to the bus. Bus across town. Bike to the job. Reverse the process. For minimum wage. Somehow, he eked out a living, scraping
together what he needed for rent and food and the occasional movie. In that process he took up cooking. Creating his own recipes out of the most
inexpensive content; cheaper than whatever you just imagined. Dollar Store food. He said that he had eaten ramen noodles long
enough that he had to make them taste better.
“I started watching cooking shows on YouTube. There was this one I like called ‘Cowboy Chef”.”
he explained.
“Why is he a cowboy? Does he wear
chaps while he cooks?” I am a smart aleck. So is Harry.
“Well, no,” he says, smiling, “but he has a handlebar moustache. I like him because he uses sort of unconventional
approach.”
“Like what?” I ask.
“Like what?” I ask.
“Well, for instance he doesn’t believe you should have to truss a
chicken.”
I look at him. “Why would you
have to trust a chicken?”
Harrison looks down, stifling a laugh.
Before he can reply I say: “Is there something in the cooking process
that demands a certain level of confidence in the chicken’s integrity?”
Harrison is already losing the struggle with his laughter and cannot
respond.
“Are some of them not trustworthy because of their fowl personality?”
I ask.
Now we are laughing so hard people are noticing. I look up to see that the security guard has
moved from the door so he can get a better look at us. He looks like an underfed Barney Fife, and I feel
confident that if it comes to it, I can take him out.
Harrison takes off his glasses and wipes the tears from his eyes and
we both pause to catch our breath. We
agree we have to calm down. People in
other plastic chairs are looking at us out of the corner of their eyes.
“So,” he says, trying to control himself, “another example is that he says
you don’t have to proof bread.”
I let that hang, and then say: “Why would you have to prove it’s bread?”
Harrison is laughing into his hand. “Isn’t bread self evident? Is there some existential question the bread
must answer to?”
I have sort of a distinctive laugh, the one that I don’t always give
in to. It is why you don’t want to go to
movies with me. Or church with me. Or sit in the library with me. I let it out in the Secretary of State’s office
and the woman behind the counter shoots me a look meant to enforce a number of laws
and regulations. Now the security guard
is watching us, hands on his hips, where if he were a real cop there would be a
gun, but in his case there is only empty belt loops. This image does nothing to help the comic madness
I am stifling behind my hand.
“Niney FAWR!” the counter woman calls out, and it reminds me of a scene
from ‘Cool Hand Luke’. I want to tell
Harrison but it will be too much when we are already in this near hysterical
state. We snap out of our seats, I pause
to straighten my chair, and fastwalk to the counter, not wanting to miss our
place. The woman behind the counter sees
us. She points past me: “Excuse me,
please straighten that chair.” I look back,
tempted to find the humor in this moment, but resist. I go back and adjust my
chair, and now I am thinking of ‘Rain Man’.
Definitely.
At the counter
we explain our business and she efficiently reorganizes our paperwork and
starts tapping things into the computer.
I apologize for our somewhat silly behavior, trying to reassert my
mature demeanor. I know she has the
power to make our day more complicated.
To my surprise she asks what we were laughing about. We do our best to recreate the moment,
Harrison tracks it exactly, and she smiles.
“I’d rather
hear that, I guess, than what I usually get from people here.” She looks at me, a softer look on her face,
and says “I’m used to people yelling at me.
Yesterday I had a guy here using all kinds of foul language…” she trails
off, tapping whatever mystery morse code that transfers a title.
“We want to be
the best part of your day.” I say. And
Harrison looks at me, and we both know we are.
Later, the two
of us are settled in front of outrageously large hamburgers, sitting on the
patio at Stella’s, enjoying the fresh air, the warming day. We talk about a mishmash of things, the way
people do who are trying to fit in things to catch up on with just a limited
window of time.
Somehow I tell
him I am proud of him. Proud that he has
managed his life his way, quietly, at his pace, in the manner that suits
him. Now a job that pays, a car that
runs, a place to live that doesn’t require cardboard in the windows. It doesn’t come out the way it feels in my
heart, but he understands.
He doesn’t
hear that I respect his life, how he moves through the world, that I admire his
resourcefulness, his calm persistence. As
we sit there, I remember when he took karate classes and everyone in the class
was half his age and size and how kind he was with his classmates, never giving
into self-conscious awkwardness. Just
doing what he wanted, doing it his way, and soaking the joy out of it.
He grew up to be
this thoughtful, intelligent, creative young man, one who doesn’t take life so
seriously that he can’t give in to his Dad’s ridiculous humor at the DMV. And the kindness in him makes it possible for
him to share the best part of my day with someone else who needed it.
When we hug good
bye and I tell him I love him, and I watch him walk to the house, i
n his
trademark outlandish shirt, which I also love.
I see his life stretching in front him, not the details, just the theme of
it, and I am happy for him. So happy I
am smiling out loud. I am still laughing
when I drive home. Trust the chicken. Too funny.
Hope this finds you in good company,
David
Copyright
© 2019 David Smith
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