Monday, February 09, 2004
Breaking BreadThere I was, flush off of accepting my new job offer, playing games in my mind with how to spend the money, what new part of town to move to, which free toys I could get my hands on through the different funding sources and how I could subvert them for personal pleasure and creative expression during my off hours. Stuffed like a ripe olive in a drink too expensive for any moral person to drink, belly filled with more food than I can handle, having hit up an all-you-can-eat gluttonery of the Chinese variety just because I could, because the food was ready and I could get to league bowling on time. There I was, hitting up the KFC afterwards, polishing off the second chicken and wondering whether or not the biscuit's carbs where overkill, priding myself on...
Sitting at Lestat's coffee shop, I'm trying to write this blog post while it's still fresh in my head and some blowhard is telling me old war stories of his company and programming skills back in the day. Sounds like he's recruiting for a new company, can't tell, I'm typing away and he's not caring at all, I gave up feigning interest about 30 minutes ago... at what point is it rude to start ignoring someone so you can get back to what you're doing? at what point is it rude to keep talking after it's clear you just like the sound of your own voice? at what point is it rude to criticize and judge, especially when someone is lonely enough to share their hard-won wisdom?
Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, there I was, priding myself on my decision to throw away the biscuit and to not feel guilty about it when in walked the personification of scruffiness - a construction worker? slacker grungy trendy twenty-something? a homeless guy? - and halted that train of thought instantly. I had my back to the counter, a growing hunch that throwing away the biscuit was immediately, irreversibly wrong. I don't even believe in Hell and I'm sure I'd go to at least three rings deep out of Dante's seven if I threw away perfectly good unspoiled food mere feet away from a man that scrounged together the change for his. I glanced over my shoulder, looking him over to be sure he was what I thought, didn't want to perpetuate an embarrassing case of mistaken identity; I had a friend in high school who always dressed so shitty that somebody once threw change into his coffee-filled coffee cup while he was waiting for the school bus. Looking at his clothes, just a few seconds really, didn't want to cause a scene, yep, they're a bit torn and worn, dirty work boots, nothing outrageous, not sure yet, but there, there's the giveaway, the hands, dirty, unmistakably dirty. Certainty sets in. Turning back to my biscuit. Look at the biscuit. I don't really want to say anything to a stranger. Guilty feeling yes, but let's admit how often we take the easy way out, just throwing away the biscuit is the easy way out, don't have to say anything to anyone, don't have to be confronted with the unfairness of it all, don't want to feel guilty for having... having... having anything, staring at a face like an empty hand, somebody's son.
Too much thinking - shut the hell up. I wait for him to get his food and start sitting, get up to go, get a good look at his face for some reason, then ask him if he'd like my biscuit. Sure, thanks. No problem, you have a good night. Yeah, you too.
Is it wrong to talk about it? Ruins the point of doing a good deed if you describe it after? Aiming for sainthood with a single piece of bread? Shut the hell up again - do what feels good, what feels right. Giving felt right. Writing feels right.