Seattle Press on Line

Lunch

By Ken Parker

Mar 22, 2001 -- An ominous yellow building looms over the narrow cobblestone street. Cars pass with the soothing, rhythmic beat of rubber on stone. It’s an orchestra of sounds. First the Fiat, which seems to only hit the high notes and every other stone, followed by the heavy transit van bringing in the bottom, and a motorcycle for the added effect of reverberation.

Child crying.

The scooter drivers maneuver like ballet dancers weaving between moving cars, parked cars, steel pipes and pedestrians. A Frenchman clad in orange spandex passes by on a ten-speed bicycle, flowing against traffic.

Salad arrives.

Rhythmic pounding of hammer against chisel, chisel against stone, progress continues.

Cool breeze blows.

Dogs meander, mothers pass with prams, another minute evaporates. We’re in luck, the delivery van unloads crisps and Red Bull.

Adult laughter.

Friends greet and speak only to go their separate ways until the next chance meeting. Twin girls in red sweaters see the world from their pram as their grandfather makes his way down the sidewalk. Traffic jam: car parks, driver exits to buy cigarettes. Loose manhole cover sounds every footstep with steel on steel. Tap, tap, tap, chisel winning battle versus stone. Two hundred years ago someone placed that stone, today it is up-heaved.

Funeral procession,
the sign of the cross,
another adventurer into the great unknown.

Hola, hola como esta. Young man in a wheelchair propels himself forward. Many faces pass by, some with looks of determination and definite destination, others wandering, waiting, wondering where.
Cell phone rings, hola.

Horn sounds, another traffic jam, driver stops for lottery tickets. A chorus of horn blasts, irritated drivers. The dog in the VW Rabbit yawns, manhole sounds, dog relieves himself on the heavily burdened orange tree. Traffic jam clears and peace resumes. Scooter stops, delivery is made, dogs fight, car stalls, another potential traffic jam, car starts, progress continues. Sun breaks over building, spirits lift, jackets are removed. Coffee flows, silverware plays on china plates, desires are fulfilled.

Dog rests in the sun,
I hope he’s resting.
Dog rises,
he was only resting.

Oil and vinegar collide in a perfect mixture on Moroccan salad. Hands clap, lips kiss, dog comes running. Scooter starts, off to next delivery. Phone calls are made, people chat. Passerby whistles, horn sounds, manhole answers.

Adult laughter.

High-pitched horn sounds from down the street, erratic pattern, unknown origin. Sounds like child practicing clarinet, more practice is necessary. People pass with packages, books and papers.

Manhole sounds.
Table visitors whisper.

No, I see it, it is a plastic bugle, child plays on. Indicators blink, riders exit, progress continues. Horn sounds, another blast, accompanied by the bugle, a different horn, yes, it is a traffic jam. Police intervene, mayhem continues, more horns sound. Peace resumes. Beer truck passes, noisy muffler. Officer talks with driver, another kink in the flow of traffic, horns sound.

Sun grows hotter,
chatter rises,
somewhere a bell tolls.

Brakes squeak, plastic rustles, the bugler continues.

I smell a cigar.

The bugler marches into the distance, escorted by his father. Man hawks lottery tickets. Bugler has made a retreat and is returning. Small girl slurps sucker. Tourists pass, the seafood delivery arrives. Door slams, Farmacia cerrado. Hammer and chisel still wage war against stone. Dog barks, the first I’ve heard. Keys jingle, the deal goes down, keys are exchanged.

Diesel fumes.

Sun reflects off watch crystal, plays against wall of kiosk. Photo flash, memories preserved. Beautiful young girls tend to children. My face warms in the sunshine. Cool breeze blows.

Bird lands,
two more,
searching for scraps.

Unrelenting assault—horn blast—on stone continues. Bicyclist plays tune on manhole cover, shutters shatter the silence, Calu cerrado. Woman laughs, scooter starts, progress continues. Biker in leathers inspects CD case. Man buys two cigarettes, change rings, big truck passes. Bright yellow car glows in the street.

Car brakes,
woman dodges,
all are safe.

Police pass,
all are safe?

English language behind me, small talk, dogs are the topic. Waitress arrives, plates disappear, la cuenta en route. Uno mas Coca Cola, por favor. Red hair shines on the corner, noisy loader passes by, here’s the Coke. Voices rise and fall, siesta approaches.

2025 pesetas.

Tourists study maps and brochures, where to next, I wonder? Two guys pass on a scooter, homosexuals I suppose. They smile and wave.

Two-wheeled cart rattles on stone.
Red hair shines.
Women approach.
Chatter rises.
Sidewalk café.

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