Chicken Legs and Lima Beans

Last evening, February 3rd, was a cold, rainy night in Atlanta. I stepped out from under the awning of my hotel and onto the sidewalk. My destination, Gladys Knight’s Chicken and Waffles, was only three blocks away. The light rain was tolerable. Traffic was fairly heavy, and I found myself dodging the tire-splash from the gutters. By hugging the building exteriors, adjacent to the sidewalk, I was able to keep mostly dry.


In the middle of the second block, a man stepped out of the shadows and blocked my path. He informed me that he needed a hand-out and that the neighborhood was rough. He asked for an unusual amount, $17. Fight-or-flight, the natural reaction that I expected, did not arrive. Rather, I looked the man deep into his eyes, and I saw desperation mixed with sincerity. Perhaps, I am an easy mark; perhaps, I felt compassion; so instead of running away, I chose another tack – I asked the man to join me for dinner. He was taken off-guard by my invitation. I was just as surprised at the words that came out of my mouth. He reminded me that this was a rough neighborhood, told me that he had just been released from prison, having done time for murder, and then he offered to walk me to the restaurant.

The restaurant was less than two blocks from my initial encounter with the panhandler. In that short distance I was reminded repeatedly that this was a rough neighborhood and that the man needed $17. As we approached the restaurant door, I encouraged the man to have dinner with me. Reluctantly, he accepted. We walked in together, and the hostess welcomed us and took us to a booth to be seated. As we settled into the booth, the man’s tough exterior soon melted into gratitude. We ordered drinks – coffee for him, iced tea for me. A waiter handed us menus. A conversation began. I introduced myself and learned that Moses was my new companion. Moses ordered two drumsticks and lima beans. I ordered chicken wings, a cinnamon waffle, fried green tomatoes, and cornbread muffins to share.

While we waited for our meal, I learned more about Moses. We shared that we both had kids. He has a 26-year old daughter in the military. I have a 30-year old son. Moses told me that he had just served a 10-year sentence for killing the man, who had raped his then 14-year old daughter. I sympathized with his action, thinking that I might have reacted in the same way. I felt no fear being with this man; instead, I was glad that I had a dining partner. I told him of my military service and my current occupation. He asked me my age. We learned that there was only a year difference in our ages. I told him about my grandsons. He told me more about his daughter, sad that she was about to deploy to Iran or Afghanistan – he was not sure which. Moses told me stories from his imprisonment. For six years he worked in fields harvesting corn, potatoes, and watermelons. He said it felt like slavery, only more modern. His guards always had guns. Moses went on to say that for the last four years of his sentence, he got smarter in the prison library and did not have to work in the fields.

Our food arrived, and Moses ate like a man that had not eaten well in several days. He was concerned that if he ate too much, he would make himself sick. I said I understood, and told him that he could take any leftovers with him. He smiled. During the meal, Moses commented that it had been a long time since anyone had looked him in the eye and listened. I did listen. In that too short half hour, I realized that my simple gesture was more than an easy escape. It was a connection with another human being. When the meal was over, I paid the tab. Moses reminded me of the rough neighborhood between the restaurant and my hotel, and he offered to walk with me back to the hotel. Together we dodged puddles and tire-splashes. At my hotel we shook hands; I gave Moses $17 for his trouble, wishing him the best. He smiled, looked deep into my eyes and said, “Mr. David, I hope we cross paths, again, in this lifetime. Thank you.”

While I am not sure about the pairing of chicken and waffles, I am sure about the pairing of two people and the simple act of breaking bread together. Moses, wherever you may be, I also hope that our paths may cross, again, in this lifetime.

Fashion Statements

Oh, the split-gown! This year has been my year for donning a split, hospital gown. Each time has had moments to remember or not, because general anesthesia does funny things to me; sometimes I forget stuff; other times I just get the giggles and repeat questions, ad nauseam.

First there was the 10-year colonoscopy. I asked the staff whether they wanted the split in the back or in the front. Of course, they needed it in the back, but I had to ask, even if I already knew the answer – anything to make the situation lighter. I remember being whisked down a long, cold hallway on a gurney. I remember the gurney’s high velocity being notable, as was the chilly room temperature. I remember bursting through the batwing doors of the OR, but I do not remember the doors closing behind me. Later the same morning, I was enjoying breakfast in a favorite restaurant, but I could not remember getting dressed. So I asked. It seems I asked that question, repeatedly.

Next, was my annual physical. The nurse’s instructions were get into the gown and wait for the doctor. Front or back? This time the answer was, “makes no difference!” So, I took the front option and tied bows at the collar and at the waist and waited, legs swinging over the edge of the exam table. When the time came to cough for the doctor, the doctor praised my decision for the front split and claimed it would become his new standard. Wow, now I have become a trend setter.

During that physical a suspected torn rotator cuff was discussed. The full diagnosis would require an MRI. I reported to the imaging facility and removed all clothing, rings, watches, and any other metal objects. Once again, I was offered a split gown – front tie was OK, because the MRI machine did not care. For about 30 minutes, I laid on my back in the MRI chamber, listening to the pops, clicks, and humming of the scanner. At the end of the procedure, I hopped off the scanner table with gown bunched up to my waist. No problem, the MRI operator had already seen everything, anyway.

Sure enough, the rotator cuff was torn. On the scheduled surgery day, I reported to the hospital. Another gown was fashion-de-rigueur. Instead of asking front or back, I said, “if you want it tied in the back, I will need your help, because the shoulder will not bend to do the tying.” The nurse obliged and loosely tied the collar and waist in the back of the gown. I then padded down the hall to my waiting gurney. The back draft was a clear indication that I had left all modesty behind.

Just this weekend, a freak injury landed me in the ER. Something popped in my leg. My calf muscle was swelling and was getting as tight as a drum. The ER staff put me in a gown, split in the back. I was poked prodded and tested. At one point I was asked to roll on onto my stomach for more prodding and poking. A familiar breeze caressed by back. After much inspection by the doctors, my dear wife asked if she could cover me up. Oh sure, we are done now. To make a long story short, I spent a night in a split gown in a hospital room for observation. I have a torn muscle in my calf, an injury usually reserved for thirty-year old athletes that push their basketball game to the limits.

Through these experiences, I have learned a couple of lessons this year: 1) Growing old is better than the alternative, and 2) modesty is not all that it is cracked up to be.