A chapter of the Land With no Chairs story series:
Markus knew he would eat that day. Maybe.
The county foodstamp lady said he would get his foodstamps in seventy two hours. It took the full ninety days for the birth certificate to come out of his birth county. From the panoramic windows in the social services lobby looking south into the next county the hospital where he was born can be seen as a grey smudge nooked into the folds of a distant valley.
He checked the day before and yesterday. He still ate stale fast food out of fifty five gallon drums on the beach. If the rats, gulls, ants, and other homeless hadn't gotten to it first. His heart pounded with the thought of joyously going into the store and purchasing more than four dollars worth of food. He thought of the orange juice as an icy cascade slucing down his throat. And STEAK a nice chunk of beef with fat seared crisp and the meat tender and juicy.
But how Markus wondered? The beach has fire pits but the metal grilles for barbeque had fallen rusted on their pillars and had to be removed. A park perhaps?
Regardless he would figure it out later. Stuffing his folding mat under the brush above his head sprouting from the road edge next to the bridge. Markus tried to shake the grit off of his skin to no avail. Sweat cemented the dust to his hide far too well.
He wound his way through toxic oleanders acting like a sound barrier buffering the roar of the freeway. He popped out onto the frontage road just as a CHP car entered that section. Nothing he could do. Just keep walking and hope he doesn't land a 72 hour detour for ticking off the officer. The Chippie handled his radio staring at Markus and then the trace leading to the bridge. Markus will have to lodge elsewhere.
After clearing the industrial section next to the freeway, a steady mile of ranch style houses dominated the drag that connected to the freeway. In the far distance the garish fuel station signs told him the cross street would have some sort of commerce that accepted ebt. He hoped.
Markus kept moving. One foot and then another, one step closer each time. Someone in one of the ranch styled houses was cooking bacon. His stomach lacked the strength to rumble but saliva filled the area between his teeth and tongue in a flash. Keep walking.
The two closest fuel stations only sold candy and sodas from grimy rooms next to the pumps. But across the street was a full bells and whistles mini mart attached to the fueling enterprise. And down the crossroad from there was a grocery store. El Dorado.
Going into the store Markus did his best not to toss everything that he wanted to eat into the cart. First some juice and then down the meat aisle. The juice was outrageously expensive. But he got it anyway. A stroll down the meat case to decide where he needed to search brought out the butcher. Yes I'm sure the butcher drops everything and strolls out to the case in a gore streaked apron for every customer. Markus scanned the steak prices after looking at the discount meat. Appallingly a fairly small T-bone cost sixteen dollars. Outrageous. Markus kept looking. "Can I help you sir?" rang out from directly behind him.
Markus bruskly said no and begain compairing tiny tri tips for the best deal as they were on sale. Grabbing a steak that was the smallest there Markus contunued to the spice aisle. Looking for italian dressing mix and olive oil. Also some garlic and rosemary to flavor the rest of the olive oil to sprinkle on bread. Next stop the bakery, for a hard french loaf in a crinkly paper bag. Markus stemmed his urge to look at candy, sodas, and snacks easily mostly because such fare is the convenience food of choice when he has some change. Sweet and fat for the calorie cravings and crunchy chips for the pica. Not today.
Markus rued the fact he could not purchase coals to cook his food. Nor napkins, plates, soap or toilet paper. Oh well.
Going through the line announcing he was paying with food stamps was not easy. But it is a requirement so he got it over with. His announcement got a sharp look from the cashier at the meat he was getting. Markus was currently immune to the shaming he was supposed to absorb in being a spendthrift
Markus grabbed a phone book from the stack by the door. He found his location in the thirty pages of maps and started for the nearest large green square. Making the most out of the still icy oj as he strolled to the park that fine morning. The sugar from the juice brought sweat to his upper lip the second time he took great swallows from the jug. So he placed the slightly lighter bottle into the bag and continued, his step a little lighter.
Soon he was near the park. A green anomaly surrounded by concrete, stucco, and asphalt. A few trees dotted a plain of picnic tables with barbeque grills standing sentry at the head of every table. Wonderful.
Markus began by pulling a grocery sack out of the nearest trash can. And then another plastic bread bag for his hand. Going to each bbq Markus was able to pull together nearly a plastic grocery sack full of coal.
Finding a likely table. Markus sprinkled the dressing mix and some olive oil on the meat. He was almost able to re wrap it in the stretch wrap it came in to marinate. Pulling pages from the white section Markus wadded up the phone book sheets and placed them in a pile on the bbq. He then piled coals on top of those. Looking for the stinky self lighters first. After piling his coal stash in the bbq. Markus rooted about for some matches he remembered having. They were nowhere. Then he remembered the jumpy prostitute needing a light, and handing them to her before getting away from her tweak agitation. Great now what?
Markus dumped copious amounts of garlic and rosemary into the olive oil bottle. Tearing a piece off the french loaf he sprinkled the now flavored olive oil on the bread and enjoyed with relish.
As he ate he watched joggers and moms pushing souped up prams through the park path. Nary a smoker amongst them. At least in public. It wasn't till after noon that a pickup truck pulled in and soon plumes of burning plant matter could be seen exiting the open windows. It wasn't tobacco, not that it mattered to Markus, and all they had was a wilted matchbook with two matches remaining. Markus thanked them and hurried to his unlit pyre. Taking both weak looking matches out Markus pinched them together so their heads were touching and hoped for the best as he drug one side down the strike strip. A fizz and tiny puff. He tried the other side. This puff had flames that ignited the remaining sulfer heads. Quickly he lit the protruding page ends. And got out of the acrid soy ink smoke that soon erupted from several smoldering wads.
Markus sat back sipping the oj and waiting for the ash to coat the coals. He thumbed the paperback he was currently reading. It was crap like most of the books passed from one homeless person to another. Facile repetitive story lines are fine when you can barely keep your eyes open but annoying when trying to pass time.
By one pm the coals were hot. A small grey disc of ash had marred the grease crusted bars of the grill. Markus unwound the steak from the plastic wrap and dropped it onto the grey circle. A satisfying hiss resulted. The sugars in the packaged dressing mix created a tantalizing aroma of spiced carmelization. Soon followed by the scent of char as the sugar turned to carbon. This was a thick steak, Markus judged the coals and left the grill at the middle setting letting the meat cook slow without charring.
Because the wind seemed to pick up and suck the heat from the bbq as he tried to cook Markus had to wait till two before the meat was ready. He stabbed it with the two chopsticks he carried and had ussd to turn the meat. No plate meant the grocery bag was where the meat would rest until cool enough to consume. Markus made a studied effort to not see the grime embedded in his fingerprints and under his nails as he dug them into the beef in order to take a first bite.
The seared fat crinkled and exploded across his tounge carrying the romantic spices the meat was seasoned with to his tastebuds. The meat was tender from the slow roasting and came away easily enough. A mom jogged by with a pram fit for Olympic use and said nice day for a picknic before taking in the scene and quickly looking away.
Markus enjoyed his steak and bread and oj like it was a grand buffet.