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Southside Progressive Buffet
Not awake enough to face opening the shop this morning, I take a detour on the way to work and hope for some quiet reading time before showtime begins.
New York Times tucked under my arm, I negotiate with two McDonald’s clerks, finally obtaining a tray complete with paper placemat, icy water, scrambled egg, grits, sausage patty, biscuit, and some packets of substances dyed to look like butter and jelly.
I secure my bottom against the seat of the chair, spread my goodies about me, chastising myself for failing to bring earplugs to stave off the outrageously artless and booming music cut through with the distorted voices of employees making various jumbled announcements.
I say my mantra to reduce the ambient sounds inside my head and go through the ritual of preparing to eat and read.
As I try to ignore the world around me, things begin to catch my eye.
Two tables away, a middle-aged man keeps getting up to cross the room. I follow him with my eyes. He walks to the large trash receptacle, opens it up, bends over to rifle through previous customers’ leavings, retrieves a cup, fills it at the drink dispenser, and returns to his table, talking constantly to no visible person.
I assume he is speaking into one of those ear pod devices, but this turns out not to be the case. His animated conversation is with himself, or with a friend invisible to me.
After a bit, he returns to the trash, digs out the remains of a sandwich and commences to have breakfast.
I try to concentrate on my own breaking of the fast. I read the sordid news of the day. But part of me continues tracking the activities of this unnamed man.
This is not exactly something new to me. Now and again I see pedestrians near my downtown shop, unselfconsciously digging through concrete trash containers to assemble the makings of a decent meal. I long ago learned to keep to myself, just as they are plying their temporary trades by not intruding on my space. It’s a mutual demonstration of respect and manners.
But all this does remind me of the days, decades ago, when my kids and I would tour the drive-throughs of Southside Birmingham, putting together our own special dinners—each getting exactly the right thing. I preferred McDonald’s fries, Captain D’s catfish filet, Burger King’s Whopper Junior, Mac’s One-Stop’s Diet Dr. Pepper. The kids all had their special combinations, too. Once we were satisfied, we’d find a place at Phelan Park or the front porch of our house and dig in. We called it the Southside Progressive Buffet. Life was complete.
At any one moment, several billion people are eating what they can obtain, mostly enjoying their camaraderie or their alone time, doing the best they can do at staving off the encroaching, meandering thing called Activities of Daily Living.
And in silent homage, some of us quietly do our part—tip a little extra, donate something special, support causes that truly assist, pay a little more attention to those whose dignity is just as important as ours
© Jim Reed 2015 A.D.