On Cooking Pot Roasts (or, (whisper): She Has Other Talents)

“Because everyone knows this:

That the impossible happens once to each of us.”

~The Impossible Lives of Greta Wells, by Andrew Sean Greer (TILGW)

“You can just say no. You don’t have to give a reason.” It’s May, 2014, I’m 44 years old, and my pal is talking me through the mechanics of turning down a particular invitation. And although I am a little embarrassed to be this far into the game to be learning her lesson, I also remember with painful clarity every “no” I’ve ever uttered. Maybe that's hard to believe, but I swear: I’m telling the truth.

*** 

If you had asked where I lived back in the early 2000’s, I would have said on “King of Curls Way” and you would have known that was just off Freeport Blvd., across from Raley’s, on the street with the 24-hour hair braiding shop at the corner. Mine was the fifth house in on the left, the one with a combination of wooden shakes, blue siding, and white trim. A charming original 960 square foot 2 bedroom/1 bath 1939 Hollywood Park home: built-in book cases, wall heat, leaded glass, swamp cooler. There was a wall of windows on the west side of the living room with a door that opened into a courtyard behind a breezeway connecting the house to my detached single car garage. I used to sit out there on weekday mornings, drinking coffee, reading the paper, drying my hair in the sun. I’d ripped up the carpet myself to discover real hardwood flooring, the kind I’d dreamed about when planning my exit from the marriage to Max, Annie’s dad. Although kitchens in the late 30s didn’t have garbage disposals or dishwashers, my little dream cottage had a stove, from the 50s, I think. In its day, I understand it was pretty kick-ass, top-of-the-line, shipped special all the way from the East Coast. By the time I moved in, it had one working burner, perfect for making soup. Otherwise, we ate a lot of salad, me and Annie. My oven was a cold and dark place, and that worked for us.

*** 

Saturday morning, Spring, 2002: Neighborhood kids were playing with Annie in her room, she was about six years old. I’d been sitting at the kitchen table, people watching, and noticed a homeless man in the yard next door. He was picking oranges off the tree.

“That’s cool,” I thought. I mean, we had a lot of citrus in our neighborhood, we could afford to share. Next thing you know, the guy’s walking up to my house. I didn’t have a screen door at the front, so I opened up a side door and talked over the courtyard fence.

 “Don’t be afraid,” he started.

I was afraid.

My little heart beat faster.

The guy fumbled with his pants. Thinking quickly, I grabbed my phone; I had children in the other room, and he was big. And greasy. Then this happened:  He whipped out a pot roast from his jeans, and waved it around, in the air. (Yes. A big chunk of raw meat.)

“I just need you to cook this for me,” he said, a little desperately.

“Oh, man,” I said, wide-eyed, serious-faced, “I can’t do that.” On some level I felt the ridiculosity of the situation. Nonetheless, I didn’t laugh.

“No, you don’t understand,” he persuaded. “I won’t stay. I’m just going to leave this here, and I’ll come back in a couple of hours to pick it up, when it’s done.”

This was said as if we were in some alternate universe, as if he had just asked to borrow a cup of sugar, like a neighbor. And guesswhat? If my oven had been working, I might have said yes. I considered it, I really did. My only problem is that I didn’t have a working oven. He could see that I was thinking about it, but he wasn’t buying my obviously unbelievable excuse. People who look like me live in houses with beds, showers, toilets. . . and ovens that work.

We dialogued, me and the big greasy man. He became agitated with my story and gave me a glare that said “You dirty liar.” Finally, he advanced toward the gate opening.

“Sir, you need to step back,” I squoke, but forcefully. He put his hand on the gate.

“I’m going to call 911 if you don’t leave immediately,” I said, authoritatively.  “You’re not welcome here.”

He didn’t retreat, so I punched the number into my handheld, shaking.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“There’s a man in my yard who won’t leave. He wants me to cook his pot roast.”

“Do you know this man?” she asked, routinely.

Seeing me talking live with the 911 operator, he turned to leave, but not without a parting shot: “You. . . Bitch!”

“No, I’ve never seen him before. But he’s leaving now that I’ve got you on the phone. I told him I’d call if he didn’t leave.” I gave details, and we wrapped up the call.

Later, SacPD arrived anyway, and the cop filled out his report after he drove around in search of a man brandishing a pot roast. We bantered about the randomness of it, like professionals. This one would go down in the special book of anecdotes kept back at the station, he assured me. Never had a call like this.

“When you were a little girl, madam,” he said, gesturing to her, “was this the woman you dreamed of becoming?”

~TILGW

(No.)

For a while I wondered what became of him, and whether he found someone to cook that pot roast.

(I never dreamed of becoming the woman who would refuse to cook a hungry, desperate man’s pot roast. I can’t explain why I’m so sorry, still, over saying no to him. But bottom line: sometimes no is the only answer, no matter the excuse.)

(Right?)