mashed potatoes

i said where ever, so she sat me in the front window beside the cash register. The elderly man in the maroon cashmere sweater and 4 pound frames around his eyeglasses was eating fish and chips.

it was 12 degrees in greenwich village and as the people came in one by one, they unwrapped themselves from their striped scarfs at the green cash register and i kept wondering if when the scarfs and coats came off, if any of them were going to be anyone famous. or famous to me.

i looked through the menu and wondered who would even know if milton glaser, massimo vignelli, mike doughty, or ryan adams, michael beirut, or josh davis walked in through the door. i thought about how many people in here were famous that i don't know. then i thought about if mike doughty would walk in, who would notice but me? and what would i really have to say to him? suddenly among the fish an chips and the ringing of the cash register i made a clear distinction between the work i admire and the people who are responsible for making it. there are are few people who are famous to me. but there is people's work that i find a deep connection and inspiration in. it is work and music and art and words that make me nervous and make me fumble my speech in a dry mouth around. and i have no desire to be recognized when i walk into a diner and take off my scarf by the cash register. but to make the scarf striped and to make the cash register green is what i want to do.

i ordered a sandwich with french fries and considered what disease i had that makes my mind think the polar opposite of it's surroundings. new york shivered in the sun outside the diner window and my mind thought about prefabricated suburban homes and with the 2 car garages filled with things and attics and basements stuffed with all the material that keep bank accounts and free living space with just enough room to breath. which, ironically enough, is exactly what the midtown apartment i just looked at feels like.

i waited on my sandwich and french fries and thought about where i was and the unexpected situation i was in. This was not planned. This was not intended. This was not what i chose. I thought about everything that has ever happened to me and none of it has ever been like i have planned. none of it has ever been intended. none of it has ever been chosen.

the waiter brought my lunch. he sat the oval porcelain plate down on the table. a sandwich and mashed potatoes sat in front of me.

I smiled at the plate. the old man in the maroon cashmere sweater and 4 pound frames around his eyeglasses was singing to himself. i picked up my fork and understood that some things are bigger and last longer than the people who make them. i thought about everywhere in the world but where i was. i reveled in the unpredictability of life and the washington park diner wait staff. i enjoyed my lunch in the front of the diner by the green cash register, and swallowed my expectations and my mashed potatoes as new york shivered in the sun outside the window.

Posted by Todd Roeth at January 9, 2004 08:55 PM