1
The time is 7am. Our bodies are hot and sticky. It’s incredibly humid, unbearably warm—the second day of a heat wave. We slept nude. August finally figured it’s too hot to lay with us and found a cool spot on the floor. He lay panting softly.
I roll over growing a slow erection. Her backside and bare ass stare at me. She’s deep asleep. Her body shines from the sticky film of thick, hot air and dewy sweat. I massage her soft breasts and tickle her nipples. She mechanically turns over; her face slowly alters, changing from blankness of deep sleep to cognizance of what I’m attempting to do. A smile forms on her oily face. Her eyes remain closed. I feel grimy and greasy though aroused…
2
I arrive at the pantry door. The First Ebenezer Zion Church. I don’t believe in god. A small round West Indian woman answers the door and asks if she can help me. She seems skeptical of my presence; her tone of voice is firm. I explain to her I am the new Pantry Chef Instructor—PCI. The round woman smiled then pushed the door open, playfully proclaiming that she did not request a man for the volunteer position. I smiled and entered.
Setting up my station I pulled the apron I received from the PCI orientation, out of my bag. A tall, wrinkled, light skinned man complimented it saying it was nice. I thanked him and explained how I acquired it. He didn’t seem to care.
The church gave certain relief from the sweltering heat outdoors. The AC pumped avidly, quiet, effective. People lined up outside along the church’s service entrance awaiting their share of fruits, vegetables, meat and cheese. I hadn’t much to do today. The West Indian woman asked that I give a brief talk on some of the unusual vegetables of the ration.
I gathered a tray of Japanese turnips, red chard, purple haze carrots, yellow wax beans and sugar snap peas. The latter could be eaten raw and in it’s pod, perfect for sampling.
The heat is unforgiving. I stand in the middle of the wayward line—more like an organized crowd—I begin to speak of the vegetables on the trey. These individuals awaiting their rations are mostly people of color. Black Americans—or rather, Black Caribbean Americans. They are mainly middle-aged women and were very receptive to me. I take advantage of their attention. I begin flirting and charming an interest of the food in my hands. I feel as though they are all distant relatives. I am in the presence of aunts and grandmothers I had never known existed before today.
There were a few Asian families. One family consisting of three older women and a middle-aged man were the most affable. After de-veining it I offered a sugar snap pea to the eldest—or so she seemed. She was uncertain what to do with it and did not speak English. Finally, taking my lead—I ate one—she motioned toward her mouth; I nodded, confirming she could eat the fat green pod. I watch her hand, it’s wrinkled, pale wheat hued and spotted brown, her knuckles are swollen and misshapen. As she placed it in her mouth it seemed her old age would melt away, the fresh, raw vegetable would rejuvenate her youth.
Back inside, where the church volunteers packed brown paper bags with the pantry items, everyone seemed to be finishing up and near ready to open the doors. The round West Indian woman offered to lead us all in prayer. I felt awkward and uncomfortable—somewhat reluctant. We formed a semi-circle and the round woman with her firm voice uttered a profound oration, imploring god to help us end hunger…
3
Later in the day I had an appointment for an information session with a political activist group Working Peoples Rights—WPR. The session was lead by a young white man. He had fluffy shoulder length hair tucked behind his ears. His face was slightly scruffy with a thick mustache under his nose. He wore a neatly tucked plaid shirt, close fitting blue jeans and boat loafers—no socks. He’s a hipster. He spoke swiftly, weaving in jokes that were executed dryly. I liked his humor. The information session lead into work opportunities. Paid work. Mostly, those of us interested would go door to door to elicit voters to support grass-roots candidates.
I’ve been here before. I worked for this group two years ago; depressed, suicidal, my existence in peril and jaded toward their efforts. I didn’t care about the groups cause. I simply wanted a check. I needed cash to drink away the realities of life. Depression usurps one’s joy when life seems to cease existing like some form of art—a film, spectacularly written prose or a bittersweet song where the guitar strings never cease their strumming. Monochrome. Living death. All that’s left is the stench of raw reality. I worked for this political movement when such a stench haunted my every breath … Now actively involved in my own cause—uttered in a prayer, not my own—motivated and aware, what could I do for them and what could they do for me now?
The Day
JA Freeman
2012/6/25
The time is 7am. Our bodies are hot and sticky. It’s incredibly humid, unbearably warm—the second day of a heat wave. We slept nude. August finally figured it’s too hot to lay with us and found a cool spot on the floor. He lay panting softly.
I roll over growing a slow erection. Her backside and bare ass stare at me. She’s deep asleep. Her body shines from the sticky film of thick, hot air and dewy sweat. I massage her soft breasts and tickle her nipples. She mechanically turns over; her face slowly alters, changing from blankness of deep sleep to cognizance of what I’m attempting to do. A smile forms on her oily face. Her eyes remain closed. I feel grimy and greasy though aroused…
2
I arrive at the pantry door. The First Ebenezer Zion Church. I don’t believe in god. A small round West Indian woman answers the door and asks if she can help me. She seems skeptical of my presence; her tone of voice is firm. I explain to her I am the new Pantry Chef Instructor—PCI. The round woman smiled then pushed the door open, playfully proclaiming that she did not request a man for the volunteer position. I smiled and entered.
Setting up my station I pulled the apron I received from the PCI orientation, out of my bag. A tall, wrinkled, light skinned man complimented it saying it was nice. I thanked him and explained how I acquired it. He didn’t seem to care.
The church gave certain relief from the sweltering heat outdoors. The AC pumped avidly, quiet, effective. People lined up outside along the church’s service entrance awaiting their share of fruits, vegetables, meat and cheese. I hadn’t much to do today. The West Indian woman asked that I give a brief talk on some of the unusual vegetables of the ration.
I gathered a tray of Japanese turnips, red chard, purple haze carrots, yellow wax beans and sugar snap peas. The latter could be eaten raw and in it’s pod, perfect for sampling.
The heat is unforgiving. I stand in the middle of the wayward line—more like an organized crowd—I begin to speak of the vegetables on the trey. These individuals awaiting their rations are mostly people of color. Black Americans—or rather, Black Caribbean Americans. They are mainly middle-aged women and were very receptive to me. I take advantage of their attention. I begin flirting and charming an interest of the food in my hands. I feel as though they are all distant relatives. I am in the presence of aunts and grandmothers I had never known existed before today.
There were a few Asian families. One family consisting of three older women and a middle-aged man were the most affable. After de-veining it I offered a sugar snap pea to the eldest—or so she seemed. She was uncertain what to do with it and did not speak English. Finally, taking my lead—I ate one—she motioned toward her mouth; I nodded, confirming she could eat the fat green pod. I watch her hand, it’s wrinkled, pale wheat hued and spotted brown, her knuckles are swollen and misshapen. As she placed it in her mouth it seemed her old age would melt away, the fresh, raw vegetable would rejuvenate her youth.
Back inside, where the church volunteers packed brown paper bags with the pantry items, everyone seemed to be finishing up and near ready to open the doors. The round West Indian woman offered to lead us all in prayer. I felt awkward and uncomfortable—somewhat reluctant. We formed a semi-circle and the round woman with her firm voice uttered a profound oration, imploring god to help us end hunger…
3
Later in the day I had an appointment for an information session with a political activist group Working Peoples Rights—WPR. The session was lead by a young white man. He had fluffy shoulder length hair tucked behind his ears. His face was slightly scruffy with a thick mustache under his nose. He wore a neatly tucked plaid shirt, close fitting blue jeans and boat loafers—no socks. He’s a hipster. He spoke swiftly, weaving in jokes that were executed dryly. I liked his humor. The information session lead into work opportunities. Paid work. Mostly, those of us interested would go door to door to elicit voters to support grass-roots candidates.
I’ve been here before. I worked for this group two years ago; depressed, suicidal, my existence in peril and jaded toward their efforts. I didn’t care about the groups cause. I simply wanted a check. I needed cash to drink away the realities of life. Depression usurps one’s joy when life seems to cease existing like some form of art—a film, spectacularly written prose or a bittersweet song where the guitar strings never cease their strumming. Monochrome. Living death. All that’s left is the stench of raw reality. I worked for this political movement when such a stench haunted my every breath … Now actively involved in my own cause—uttered in a prayer, not my own—motivated and aware, what could I do for them and what could they do for me now?
The Day
JA Freeman
2012/6/25
…
We make love?
Have sex?
No
We fuck
You like to ride on top. Your hips swivel with much ease. Your hands pressed into my chest. You glide on the moisture between your thighs and with each gyration of the warm, wet, grasp of your vaginal hold I feel I might burst.
I grab the callipygous flesh of your backside. With both hands full of warm supple skin I let my fingers, spread wide, move inward and out, following the movement of your lower end.
(My how wet you’ve become…)
I rise lifting your body, abruptly halting the ebb and flow of pleasure upon my hips. I swivel my position turning on the ball of my right foot, moving you to your back. Your head rests on the arm of the love seat we are fucking on. My hold on your middle back and right thigh is deliberate and careful. I’ve remained inside you. My left leg bent, an “L” shape, cradles your thigh; your foot and pretty toes dangle at my side. With one knee on the floor, pressed against your raw wool rug I thrust my erection further inside of you. I’m slow and firm at first but slowly increase my pace maintaining my vigor. My hands grip both sides of your waist; my hold is as strong as though my life were in danger; as though I strangle an assailant.
The pleasure is intense but I’ve grown to hate you. I thrust my hips between your sweaty thighs in efforts to destroy you. I’ll begin with your vaginal crevice and split your anus thrusting forth toward your innards. I will push madly; drawing my hips back then forth with repeated violent vigor until my erection penetrates your heart. Though you laugh and moan in the pleasure of perceived pain…
My (penis) acts independent of me, it finds sick pleasure in the mockery of your cackling laugh and shrill moaning. It grows thick and throbs inside you. But perhaps I delight in the same pleasure? I enjoy the sound of skin clapping disturbingly loud shortly after I turn you and enter your rectum from behind. Your moan is now a low hum; it reverberates through my belly as I press myself against you grabbing a tuft of your short hair. I yank your head back at the crown, you laugh a throaty laugh; it’s sexy and I grow angry because I like it. I increase the tempo of my brown hips crashing against your olive skin. I watch your flesh turn from olive to red with each collision.
The tease of orgasm builds to promise within my loin. I can feel the hot semen rush through my erection. I pull out of your tight opening feeling a pinch from your contracting muscle. As I grip my phallus an electrifying jolt forces my eyes shut. The thick white strings fly from my tip; I grunt then a low hum as each convulsion flies, further, harder the white streams of seed. They reach and splatter against the back of your head and you laugh.
The apartment fills with a primal odor; sweat, pheromones, ejaculate; the scent threatens to return my arousal. I slip away from your backside sweaty and fatigued; you release an amused giggle. You turn to face me sitting low in the love seat. Crossing your legs you begin rubbing the back of your head against the cushions by raising and lowering your chin. My semen will stain your furniture and, so long as you keep the dusty furnishing you will never forget me. I kneel before you almost breathless, my right knee stings from broken skin and invading perspiration—friction against your rug from eager thrusting. You are relaxed and glossed. Your skin is lacquered in oily sweat. Your plain grin explains your state. You watch me, slowly drawing your long elegant middle finger between your breasts, playing with sweat running toward your slender belly. I failed to destroy you. I pleasured and amused you.
You destroyed me. Not long ago you revealed my secrets to any person who passed your gaze or touched your hand and I don’t know what caused the betrayal. I came here to confront you. I wanted to hurt you, humiliate you as I have experienced by your doing. Somehow I think you knew of my intentions and upon my entry endeavored to seduce and mock me.
I was unaware when I arrived at your apartment, a small, single windowed room (with a neatly made bed and love seat now stained with sweat and seed) that I would experience pleasure and depart defeated.
Humiliation
JA Freeman
2012/5/3
We make love?
Have sex?
No
We fuck
You like to ride on top. Your hips swivel with much ease. Your hands pressed into my chest. You glide on the moisture between your thighs and with each gyration of the warm, wet, grasp of your vaginal hold I feel I might burst.
I grab the callipygous flesh of your backside. With both hands full of warm supple skin I let my fingers, spread wide, move inward and out, following the movement of your lower end.
(My how wet you’ve become…)
I rise lifting your body, abruptly halting the ebb and flow of pleasure upon my hips. I swivel my position turning on the ball of my right foot, moving you to your back. Your head rests on the arm of the love seat we are fucking on. My hold on your middle back and right thigh is deliberate and careful. I’ve remained inside you. My left leg bent, an “L” shape, cradles your thigh; your foot and pretty toes dangle at my side. With one knee on the floor, pressed against your raw wool rug I thrust my erection further inside of you. I’m slow and firm at first but slowly increase my pace maintaining my vigor. My hands grip both sides of your waist; my hold is as strong as though my life were in danger; as though I strangle an assailant.
The pleasure is intense but I’ve grown to hate you. I thrust my hips between your sweaty thighs in efforts to destroy you. I’ll begin with your vaginal crevice and split your anus thrusting forth toward your innards. I will push madly; drawing my hips back then forth with repeated violent vigor until my erection penetrates your heart. Though you laugh and moan in the pleasure of perceived pain…
My (penis) acts independent of me, it finds sick pleasure in the mockery of your cackling laugh and shrill moaning. It grows thick and throbs inside you. But perhaps I delight in the same pleasure? I enjoy the sound of skin clapping disturbingly loud shortly after I turn you and enter your rectum from behind. Your moan is now a low hum; it reverberates through my belly as I press myself against you grabbing a tuft of your short hair. I yank your head back at the crown, you laugh a throaty laugh; it’s sexy and I grow angry because I like it. I increase the tempo of my brown hips crashing against your olive skin. I watch your flesh turn from olive to red with each collision.
The tease of orgasm builds to promise within my loin. I can feel the hot semen rush through my erection. I pull out of your tight opening feeling a pinch from your contracting muscle. As I grip my phallus an electrifying jolt forces my eyes shut. The thick white strings fly from my tip; I grunt then a low hum as each convulsion flies, further, harder the white streams of seed. They reach and splatter against the back of your head and you laugh.
The apartment fills with a primal odor; sweat, pheromones, ejaculate; the scent threatens to return my arousal. I slip away from your backside sweaty and fatigued; you release an amused giggle. You turn to face me sitting low in the love seat. Crossing your legs you begin rubbing the back of your head against the cushions by raising and lowering your chin. My semen will stain your furniture and, so long as you keep the dusty furnishing you will never forget me. I kneel before you almost breathless, my right knee stings from broken skin and invading perspiration—friction against your rug from eager thrusting. You are relaxed and glossed. Your skin is lacquered in oily sweat. Your plain grin explains your state. You watch me, slowly drawing your long elegant middle finger between your breasts, playing with sweat running toward your slender belly. I failed to destroy you. I pleasured and amused you.
You destroyed me. Not long ago you revealed my secrets to any person who passed your gaze or touched your hand and I don’t know what caused the betrayal. I came here to confront you. I wanted to hurt you, humiliate you as I have experienced by your doing. Somehow I think you knew of my intentions and upon my entry endeavored to seduce and mock me.
I was unaware when I arrived at your apartment, a small, single windowed room (with a neatly made bed and love seat now stained with sweat and seed) that I would experience pleasure and depart defeated.
Humiliation
JA Freeman
2012/5/3
I hear birds announce their presence and call to others requesting conference on the days foraging and possible mating. The sun’s white gold forces its way through the cracks of my windows guard. My window is slightly ajar and the smell of spring encroaches my room. The metallic aroma of pollen, new flora and freshly turned humus hover as I lay still.
It’s beautiful.
Yet I slumber. I disregard the beauty of the morn. I will not rise to meet my day. I delay its start. I stuff my ears with cotton to no longer hear the chatting fowl. Draw my head into the folds of cool linen. The suns false gold is lost on my hidden eye.
If I rise, I must submit membership of existence and all it implies. Duties, obligation, daunting responsibility and expectation the religious conundrum I wish to evade. Instead, I choose the realm of subconscious wandering.
Lost in foolish absurdity I capture stars in my grasp, crumbled in my bare hand they turn to crumbs of sweet wafer. I eat the stars destruction and laugh madly, licking my palm with glee. The night sky of my dream continues to sparkle with sweet wafers for infinite consumption.
In slumber the vast landscape of eternity is my treasure. In this land I am looming and large, a deity—a deity of creation for this land is my creation. It is the realm of my mind. Here, white gold of the sun fills my wallet with the currency of my desire. With it, I purchase the still of dawn. Lavender, violet streams of hue fill my heaven with folds and streaks of silver while the morning star burns my pocket eager to rise. I deny it. I too remain at rest. I will not escape my land of slumber my land of eternal dawn …
Escapism
JA Freeman
2012/4/18
It’s beautiful.
Yet I slumber. I disregard the beauty of the morn. I will not rise to meet my day. I delay its start. I stuff my ears with cotton to no longer hear the chatting fowl. Draw my head into the folds of cool linen. The suns false gold is lost on my hidden eye.
If I rise, I must submit membership of existence and all it implies. Duties, obligation, daunting responsibility and expectation the religious conundrum I wish to evade. Instead, I choose the realm of subconscious wandering.
Lost in foolish absurdity I capture stars in my grasp, crumbled in my bare hand they turn to crumbs of sweet wafer. I eat the stars destruction and laugh madly, licking my palm with glee. The night sky of my dream continues to sparkle with sweet wafers for infinite consumption.
In slumber the vast landscape of eternity is my treasure. In this land I am looming and large, a deity—a deity of creation for this land is my creation. It is the realm of my mind. Here, white gold of the sun fills my wallet with the currency of my desire. With it, I purchase the still of dawn. Lavender, violet streams of hue fill my heaven with folds and streaks of silver while the morning star burns my pocket eager to rise. I deny it. I too remain at rest. I will not escape my land of slumber my land of eternal dawn …
Escapism
JA Freeman
2012/4/18
My arm extends, bony, pale and weak, reaching from the dark abyss I am coalescent with. My hand leads attempting to escape for a moment, longing to put words on record, hoping to bring the remainder of my being solace from the blanket of melancholy.
Prose far beyond the coming lines will be forced. This stream of troubled thought will cease expeditiously. My words are reluctant prisoner of the daunting will of depression. My hand and wretched arm retreat to the lightless specter of what I have become…
Depressive Ramblings
JA Freeman
2012/4/17
Prose far beyond the coming lines will be forced. This stream of troubled thought will cease expeditiously. My words are reluctant prisoner of the daunting will of depression. My hand and wretched arm retreat to the lightless specter of what I have become…
Depressive Ramblings
JA Freeman
2012/4/17
It’s funny.
My sister complained about the state of the kitchen in her small condo. “ …And I’m tired of the stove being a rest spot for pots!”
The clang and crash of iron cookware and the slamming ring of aluminum doors shutting could be heard from the living room. She storms off, out of the kitchen towards her bedroom.
I wait.
I rise and creep toward the kitchen to surreptitiously make a sandwich. I stand in front of the clean stove. The unsullied burners are free of stored pots and pans, now placed neatly in the draw beneath, in what used to be the broiler.
I pause.
Looking at the stovetop I smile remembering the salty fried fish my sister made in the large cast iron skillet last weekend. The large black cooking vessel remained for the week and now, still soiled; blackened bits of breading float in the week old grease. This pan belongs to her, I thought.
My Sister’s Kitchen
JA Freeman
2012/4/9
My sister complained about the state of the kitchen in her small condo. “ …And I’m tired of the stove being a rest spot for pots!”
The clang and crash of iron cookware and the slamming ring of aluminum doors shutting could be heard from the living room. She storms off, out of the kitchen towards her bedroom.
I wait.
I rise and creep toward the kitchen to surreptitiously make a sandwich. I stand in front of the clean stove. The unsullied burners are free of stored pots and pans, now placed neatly in the draw beneath, in what used to be the broiler.
I pause.
Looking at the stovetop I smile remembering the salty fried fish my sister made in the large cast iron skillet last weekend. The large black cooking vessel remained for the week and now, still soiled; blackened bits of breading float in the week old grease. This pan belongs to her, I thought.
My Sister’s Kitchen
JA Freeman
2012/4/9
Love. You cannot apply overt thought to such an emotion. You cannot choose who you will embrace; drape in such profound sentiment. When she first arrived, immense beauty abounds at her will, and you believed “this is the end of my search”.
Though beauty of character lacked and escaped her realm. Such disappointment is unfathomable. You are foolish to press and fight to search her deeper being. Your discovery yields a quagmire of disenchantment and offers angst.
Let her go.
Watch the young couples of spring embrace and suckle tongue—emerald flora proliferate. Accept that you may never experience your greatest love …
Acceptance
JAFreeman
Though beauty of character lacked and escaped her realm. Such disappointment is unfathomable. You are foolish to press and fight to search her deeper being. Your discovery yields a quagmire of disenchantment and offers angst.
Let her go.
Watch the young couples of spring embrace and suckle tongue—emerald flora proliferate. Accept that you may never experience your greatest love …
Acceptance
JAFreeman
I’m intimidated, at times. I find I’m subdued by writers, educated, avid readers, with a memorized vocabulary daunting and vast. I’m not certain they are aware of the exhausting population of words in their repertoire. They are good friends with F. Scott Fitzgerald, took classes on American Literature. With amazing ability they can regurgitate an eloquent verse from Robert Frost. Walt Whitman’s decayed hand guides their written form.
While I scribbled obscure words found in a ragged thesaurus, stoned, smoke still bellowing from my nostrils, my writing peers deciphered Othello. My words on paper soiled by ash and carbon phantasm made little sense. And what great literature have I read to date? Nothing of Whitman, I know little of Hart Crane—something of Frosts drifts vaguely through my thoughts as a dream that threatens to fade if gripped too eagerly. Even Langston Hues’ work slips my grasp.
How then, do I dare call myself a writer? Am I really an artist of written word? I ask myself these questions. I swallow a putrid solution of self-pity and doubt. My only remedy are these words, my only solace is to write.
As for these literary giants, I won’t ever conquer them or make their work obscure. Yet if I eat their rotting words and suckle their dusty bones can I then call myself a writer?
Written Angst
JA Freeman
While I scribbled obscure words found in a ragged thesaurus, stoned, smoke still bellowing from my nostrils, my writing peers deciphered Othello. My words on paper soiled by ash and carbon phantasm made little sense. And what great literature have I read to date? Nothing of Whitman, I know little of Hart Crane—something of Frosts drifts vaguely through my thoughts as a dream that threatens to fade if gripped too eagerly. Even Langston Hues’ work slips my grasp.
How then, do I dare call myself a writer? Am I really an artist of written word? I ask myself these questions. I swallow a putrid solution of self-pity and doubt. My only remedy are these words, my only solace is to write.
As for these literary giants, I won’t ever conquer them or make their work obscure. Yet if I eat their rotting words and suckle their dusty bones can I then call myself a writer?
Written Angst
JA Freeman
He stands before us as a thespian offering an acute performance. We sit unwillingly in attendance. Our seats are musty, soiled, plastic shapes; its filth deeply ingrained in its form. The orator grabs the metal poles jutting from ceiling to floor; he steadies himself as the train moves forth. Turning forward to back he belts his words, his plea for aid.
He begins with an apology for disturbing our quiet commute. He explains the severity of his family’s situation. He’s homeless. He has a three-year-old son, whose presence is unaccounted. His wife is hungry. He points to her; she stands against the metal doors ignoring the sign that forbids leaning against them—as we all are guilty of—her face cupped in her hands. She weeps. Or, she’s fraught with shame.
He calls to our empathy and judges our complacency; he says, “I know what its like to sit on those seats and hear someone like me. I’m sorry if I disturb you but I was once just like you. Anyone of you can be where I’m at right now”. The way he conveys his words is eloquent, with sincerity and moves many.
As he walked the aisle of the undulating train, dollars and coins fly at his pocket. I too offer my last bill. Very few commuters proffer scowls of skepticism.
Entering a station, we slow to a stop. As the doors open, the man grabs his wife and hurries through the exit. As they depart he says to his spouse, “We got it.” he threw his arm around her frame with vigor and shook her with a bit of excitement, he repeated, “We got it, don’t worry baby, we gonna score”.
Dollar for Dopamine
JA Freeman
He begins with an apology for disturbing our quiet commute. He explains the severity of his family’s situation. He’s homeless. He has a three-year-old son, whose presence is unaccounted. His wife is hungry. He points to her; she stands against the metal doors ignoring the sign that forbids leaning against them—as we all are guilty of—her face cupped in her hands. She weeps. Or, she’s fraught with shame.
He calls to our empathy and judges our complacency; he says, “I know what its like to sit on those seats and hear someone like me. I’m sorry if I disturb you but I was once just like you. Anyone of you can be where I’m at right now”. The way he conveys his words is eloquent, with sincerity and moves many.
As he walked the aisle of the undulating train, dollars and coins fly at his pocket. I too offer my last bill. Very few commuters proffer scowls of skepticism.
Entering a station, we slow to a stop. As the doors open, the man grabs his wife and hurries through the exit. As they depart he says to his spouse, “We got it.” he threw his arm around her frame with vigor and shook her with a bit of excitement, he repeated, “We got it, don’t worry baby, we gonna score”.
Dollar for Dopamine
JA Freeman
I once sweated and burned over gas fumes and carbon stained pits of metal filled with scolding oil. Wearing all white I commit myself, half-heartedly to the grueling work of the professional kitchen.
I once thought romantically of this profession. Reality aggressively groped my genitals and gave a hearty tug. I awaken in pain. I find myself under fluorescent lights surrounded by stainless steel shelves, racks, tables and beams. A demoralizing voice dominates the kitchen noise; it barks commands. I place porcelain plates decorated with delicious morsels under warm lamps; an orange hue. Morsels, I would at times, rather eat than give away. The voice quiets for a moment to scrutinize my efforts laden on white plates. The face gives a nod of approval. Then the voice demands, “more!” Sometimes I love this work but I mostly hate it.
Service is complete. The doors of work fly open. With changed garments— shedding our costume whites—we lurch outdoors. There’s no sun. I won't see it again till my beloved day off in a fortnight. We are understaffed.
We can't go home. We won't. It's 1 am. We still heave robust breath from the rush of the evening’s labors. Placed under a nose, remnants of fish, garlic and onions emit a gross fragrance from the nail beds of our battered fingers. From afar we smell good enough to eat. Splatters from hot peanut oil and clarified butter is barely rinsed from our faces. From afar our skin looks taut and young. We should long for a shower of hot mineral water and white vinegar. Instead, we choose to drink.
Some do coke, others pop pills. I’ve—on occasion—done both with a drink in hand. At the nearest tavern, we convene around pints of lager and ounces of bourbon. We jest and burst with laughter then reminisce of the night’s service. Like veterans of war we recall the glory. How many did you kill? I collected this many ears. She survived the minefield. Twice! Then went back for her hat. There's little difference between war and cooking, save the life threatening danger. Not that it does not exist but thrives on a smaller scale in the kitchen. A cook may or may not die during service but he can kill someone. Be it a patron or a fellow cook. We live the disaster but chef gets the glory. Nay, we live the glory; chef takes the credit.
Food Workers Lament
JA Freeman
I once thought romantically of this profession. Reality aggressively groped my genitals and gave a hearty tug. I awaken in pain. I find myself under fluorescent lights surrounded by stainless steel shelves, racks, tables and beams. A demoralizing voice dominates the kitchen noise; it barks commands. I place porcelain plates decorated with delicious morsels under warm lamps; an orange hue. Morsels, I would at times, rather eat than give away. The voice quiets for a moment to scrutinize my efforts laden on white plates. The face gives a nod of approval. Then the voice demands, “more!” Sometimes I love this work but I mostly hate it.
Service is complete. The doors of work fly open. With changed garments— shedding our costume whites—we lurch outdoors. There’s no sun. I won't see it again till my beloved day off in a fortnight. We are understaffed.
We can't go home. We won't. It's 1 am. We still heave robust breath from the rush of the evening’s labors. Placed under a nose, remnants of fish, garlic and onions emit a gross fragrance from the nail beds of our battered fingers. From afar we smell good enough to eat. Splatters from hot peanut oil and clarified butter is barely rinsed from our faces. From afar our skin looks taut and young. We should long for a shower of hot mineral water and white vinegar. Instead, we choose to drink.
Some do coke, others pop pills. I’ve—on occasion—done both with a drink in hand. At the nearest tavern, we convene around pints of lager and ounces of bourbon. We jest and burst with laughter then reminisce of the night’s service. Like veterans of war we recall the glory. How many did you kill? I collected this many ears. She survived the minefield. Twice! Then went back for her hat. There's little difference between war and cooking, save the life threatening danger. Not that it does not exist but thrives on a smaller scale in the kitchen. A cook may or may not die during service but he can kill someone. Be it a patron or a fellow cook. We live the disaster but chef gets the glory. Nay, we live the glory; chef takes the credit.
Food Workers Lament
JA Freeman
I was on my way to attend a private lecture on Nutrition at the Johrei center in Brooklyn. Johrei is a religious movement started in Japan two centuries ago, it's concerned with nature and spirit. I learned of it through my sister. My interest is in their explanation of proper farming practices and nutrition. I'm agnostic.
I had previously attended a lecture concerning farming practices. Their philosophy on such reflects a similar thought in Steiner's Biodynamic farming; allowing nature to do what it must and working with biological forces.
My story is not about Joheri or the lectures I attended. It's of what occurred on my way to the Johrei center. I was a little early and decided to stop at a major sandwich chain (ask Jared which one). This is as close as I get to a major fast food chain. Considering it's a good model to work from.
Though I was disappointed. The bread was incredibly stale. To the point that it was more like eating a sandwich on large crackers rather than soft, warm and delicious bread. I thought about complaining, asking for new bread but I felt in my gut this would cause conflict I was not ready to engage in. Despite my rights as a paying customer.
I ate the stale sandwich, glad to at least have something to eat before attending a lecture/discussion translated in Japanese. On my last few bites an elderly woman walked in to the eatery. I sat nearest to the door so she approached me immediately. She stood so close I was a bit startled. Holding out her hand she held a few quarters and a nickel. One quarter had a blue "X" etched out on the heads side from a sharpie marker. At first I wasn't sure what she wanted. Moaning and gesturing with her coin filled hand I realized she wanted money. I paid with my debit card and didn't have any cash. I apologized and said I didn't have any money. She continued to moan and gesture, stepping closer to me as I tried to finish my meal. There's something primal about the feeling of annoyance as a stranger comes uncomfortably close as one eats a meal. I said once more that I did not have any money but offered the elderly woman--possibly of Indian descent--my potato chips. I thought she would take it. The woman grabs the bag and peers at it for a moment then puts it down and shakes her head. I'm nonplus. She then turns to me and opens her mouth touching her teeth-less gums with her index finger. I gather my garbage too disgusted to eat the last bite and I leave after discarding it all.
I felt conflicted and very guilty about my feelings of annoyance. I felt almost ashamed of having more than this woman. For having enough to feed myself. I also felt regretful for this older woman. That she is possibly someone's grandmother but is forced to beg on the streets. At least she didn't seem homeless, I thought, hoping to ease my ails.
I checked my watch as I turned the corner of an old church just blocks from the Johrei center, still brooding over the incident moments ago. As I passed the church there was a sign that called my attention. It read "Free Lunch today from 12-2pm". For a moment I considered going back to the elderly lady, who likely did not speak English and drag her several blocks to get a free meal. I suppose I could have picked a meal for her and tracked her down. Instead, I shrugged at the irony and continued on to my destination ...
I had previously attended a lecture concerning farming practices. Their philosophy on such reflects a similar thought in Steiner's Biodynamic farming; allowing nature to do what it must and working with biological forces.
My story is not about Joheri or the lectures I attended. It's of what occurred on my way to the Johrei center. I was a little early and decided to stop at a major sandwich chain (ask Jared which one). This is as close as I get to a major fast food chain. Considering it's a good model to work from.
Though I was disappointed. The bread was incredibly stale. To the point that it was more like eating a sandwich on large crackers rather than soft, warm and delicious bread. I thought about complaining, asking for new bread but I felt in my gut this would cause conflict I was not ready to engage in. Despite my rights as a paying customer.
I ate the stale sandwich, glad to at least have something to eat before attending a lecture/discussion translated in Japanese. On my last few bites an elderly woman walked in to the eatery. I sat nearest to the door so she approached me immediately. She stood so close I was a bit startled. Holding out her hand she held a few quarters and a nickel. One quarter had a blue "X" etched out on the heads side from a sharpie marker. At first I wasn't sure what she wanted. Moaning and gesturing with her coin filled hand I realized she wanted money. I paid with my debit card and didn't have any cash. I apologized and said I didn't have any money. She continued to moan and gesture, stepping closer to me as I tried to finish my meal. There's something primal about the feeling of annoyance as a stranger comes uncomfortably close as one eats a meal. I said once more that I did not have any money but offered the elderly woman--possibly of Indian descent--my potato chips. I thought she would take it. The woman grabs the bag and peers at it for a moment then puts it down and shakes her head. I'm nonplus. She then turns to me and opens her mouth touching her teeth-less gums with her index finger. I gather my garbage too disgusted to eat the last bite and I leave after discarding it all.
I felt conflicted and very guilty about my feelings of annoyance. I felt almost ashamed of having more than this woman. For having enough to feed myself. I also felt regretful for this older woman. That she is possibly someone's grandmother but is forced to beg on the streets. At least she didn't seem homeless, I thought, hoping to ease my ails.
I checked my watch as I turned the corner of an old church just blocks from the Johrei center, still brooding over the incident moments ago. As I passed the church there was a sign that called my attention. It read "Free Lunch today from 12-2pm". For a moment I considered going back to the elderly lady, who likely did not speak English and drag her several blocks to get a free meal. I suppose I could have picked a meal for her and tracked her down. Instead, I shrugged at the irony and continued on to my destination ...
