“Appetizers”

By Connie Woodring

 

Appetizers

We sat at a table facing the busy city street. We ordered appetizers (clams casino)

and engaged in casual conversation.

What would we get for dinner?

What movie would we watch in our hotel room?

We reminisced about the last time we were here, many years ago.

I remember the steamed clams were very sandy. The waiter said that’s the way they were

supposed to be.

When our appetizers came, we looked outside. A homeless man was staring at us.

His bare hands were on the window.

His beard was crusted and his face (what you could see of it) was dirty.

We looked away and continued our conversation.

“I’m going to get the sword fish. What about you?”

My husband answered, “I’m going to get the surf and turf even though it is quite expensive. We need to splurge sometimes.”

The homeless man continued to stare at us, knocking his fist on the window, and we became self-conscious.

We couldn’t talk to him, but it felt cold to ignore him. He walked a few feet and looked into the next window at the table of diners.

 

“I hope he’s not there when we come out,” I said.

My husband replied, “He probably does this all day long. Maybe somebody who works at the restaurant gives him food.”

Our entrees came, and we enjoyed the fruits of our labor. Our idle chatter became more serious as the homeless man returned to our window.

Did he enjoy taunting us? Was he just a panhandler dressed up as a street person? Did we look like kind-hearted people who would give him money?

What misfortune doomed him to a life of begging?

As we pondered these questions, another homeless man carrying a paper bag with an obvious bottle of liquor in it walked up to his comrade in arms.

They staggered down the street and out of sight.

 

As we walked out, I mused about the last time we ate at a restaurant in Los Angeles. We had to step over countless homeless people sleeping on the sidewalk.

None of us said a word, as if it were as commonplace as waiting for the traffic light to change.

At least our city wasn’t that bad (yet.)

 

My husband died recently, I am retired, and my income is less than desired. Certainly not enough to go out to eat.

 

I have started to go to food banks. Standing in line with people who could have been banging on restaurant windows. Some look like they didn’t sleep for three days. Others smell of urine. A few are dressed well, as if they think they are going out to eat. A few mumble to themselves, others are hippie throwbacks.

 

I walk by volunteers who say, “One per family “or” Take anything you see on this table only.” I look closely over cans of small shrimp, smoked gouda and pimento cheese spread, sour cream dip and whole wheat crackers. I muse: What kind of appetizer could I make with these?

 

When the food bank is over, there are breads, canned goods and teabags left over. No one picks them up. We are all full.

 

 

I am a 79-year-old retired psychotherapist who has been getting back to my true love of writing after 45 years in my real job. I have had many poems published in over 40 journals including one poem nominated for the 2017 Pushcart Prize by Dime Show Review.