Pampered

The fellow who prepares my taxes commented on how much I eat out. He says if he needs a restaurant recommendation, he will call me. I don't think that I do eat out that much. It seems as if I cook an extraordinary amount of meals. They are always good and wholesome meals, organic or non-hormone/non-antibiotic whenever possible which is almost always. But when I look at the Amex statement, it seems he is right. There are not many good places to eat where I live, very few that serve even decent food. And so we go to the same few places over and over again. We are known by the owners (never eat anywhere that doesn't have an owner in the building) and staff, and so it is doubly good.

Last night, I was eating at an Italian bistro, and jokingly told my friend about my tax accountant's statement. "I think I'll write a book called 'How to Eat Well on $100 a Day,'" I said. We were sitting outside overlooking a lake. It was a beautiful evening. Just then a man with long, blonde hair came up non-aggressively to the table and asked sheepishly, "Can you spare any money for food?" He did not look like the usual panhandler or drug-dependent beggar. He looked like someone who worked for a living, clear-eyed, handsome, and ashamed. I shook my head and he turned and left. I saw him ride off on his bicycle a minute later.

"Man," I said to my companion, "that was awful."

"I would have given him money," she said.

I rarely have any, and this night I hadn't a dime in my pocket. As usual, I was traveling by credit card.

"Why didn't you?" I asked. She just looked at me without saying anything.

Times are tough. I kept thinking that this guy had a wife and kids and lived in a rental apartment somewhere close by. He was probably a carpenter or a painter who hadn't had work for a while. His money was gone. The kids needed food. They were close to being evicted. He was desperate and so had resorted to this.

I didn't know if any of that was true, but it could have been. There are millions of people like that all over the country. Suddenly, sitting in a restaurant worrying that Ed Ross was going to make circus photos didn't seem so rough. OK. It seemed luxurious.

I'll quit whining about stupid things. What the hell.