Who are we kidding? P. Jones is the kind of guy who is actually pretty shy. He doesn't like eye contact and hates getting in others' way. Like I said earlier, you know he wants something, but he's always trying to be inconspicuous about it; almost in an obvious sort of way, but he doesn't know that. P. Jones is special. Watching him can bring much joy, but you have to be in the right mindset to really appreciate him. Maybe one has to be hungry before P. Jones can become more than a curbside annoyance. Children almost always love him, but in a malicious sort of way.
The other day I did a terrible thing. Blood is on my hands and I feel no remorse. Actually, I feel pretty good about it. Maybe better than ever before in some kind of sick way. Anyway, here is the story and why P. Jones has anything to do with it.
It was late in the day on a Sunday, one of my days off. And as usual, I was hungry and wanted to go out for something to eat, but what? Feeling social, I thought I would go sit at a restaurant bar and order food in the midst of strangers. I parked my car a few blocks from a place I had been once before. Beginning the short walk toward soon-to-be biochemical peace, I found myself lulled by the echoing saxophone of a street musician. In fact, I didn't even notice the music until I realized I was humming along because it fit the evening so well. When I saw how busy the bar was, I immediately felt less social and thought it better to choose an option that would take less social confidence and certainly less of a wait. But, finding it better to eat now rather than later (which usually makes sense, I think) I walked inside. Turns out, I would have no wait- there was one seat left at the bar. This is where the story begins to take a turn...
Sometimes, we are given choices, but some choices are like selecting a card from the deck of a musician with a deft hand. You see "choices" but have only one real option. I knew as soon as I saw friend/relative/colleague/whatever of P. Jones what I had to do. It almost seemed instinctual, so primitive, so wrong, yet so right. Taking the card forced upon me, I slid that sharpened steel into his leg, muscle tissue tearing as my blade glanced off bone.
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Without fear of sounding like a crazy person, sometimes I like to think of the pigeons on the street as my friends. I like watching them, their seemingly erratic movements in some kind of calculated harmony like a concerto of some composer I would sound smart if I could mention by name. But I can't. Anyway, now when I see P. Jones, I have a secret that I can never tell him, but it is a delicious, delicious secret and I wouldn't have it any other way.
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Squab with creamy farro, brussel sprouts, arugula, and pomegranate at Nopa.560 Divisadero (at Hayes), San Francisco, CA 94117
415-864-8643
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2 comments:
Holy shit, Moto. I thought you were talking about a homeless person and I was extraordinarily disturbed thinking that you had cut a human being.
Now I feel fine. and hungry.
I remember at one point telling you that I would start cooking if you would start writing.
Crap.
This was awesome, keep it up. Now I have to eat something for breakfast instead of continuing my poverty/lack of imagination diet.
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