Diving into the Wreck
Who else would go from the Pony Polo Club to the digging in the dumpster in one night? From beside linened tables to the side of Trader Joe's, it's a wonderful life. And the punch-line. The Polo Club gourmet meal was mandatory. The dumpster was for fun. Due to a freak monsoon, delicate hot house hydrophobes all of them, Greenhouse diving in the downpour was put off till next week. April (showers sometimes and brings May flowers) says Tuesday nights bring the freshest poetry from diving into the wreck of waste of culture crawling from the wreckage of its own mistakes into a brand new car. Story goes if they've overestimated the previous order, like some Horace Mann husbands, they throw the old shipment away when get a newer model in (although if you've ever gotten chocolate from Oma at Christmas I'm thinking the stuff they throw away's gotta be really old, even older than the sale chocolate, and whatever the righteous sisters of the House say, that must be beyond stale.) But the militantly correct (the sign on the basket letters gets dropped into says femail and mail) are right about some part of it. Traitor Joes, trade up Joes are part of our culture, eager to overconsume, and overeager to throw people, slightly damaged, or food, "perfectly good," away. I don't like Adrienne Rich and I don't want the food, not even rich treasure, the fortune of pounds of dark chocolate dug up one night in the spring. Springing into action, the House intrigues as the counter-culture hero dumpster divers. Counting on the surplus, feeding off the excess of the excessive craze it condemns, the House might be rooting around in refuse but we're not the ones who'd starve if the country slimmed down and de-super world power sized, if the country was lean, skin and bones, used even the useful bones, every last scrap of the animals the House doesn't touch, if there wasn't discarded fat to flavor the empty stomach of an ignored fate. With Yale degrees to come and a steady summer income, a pack of Greenhouse dogs gone to town at the junk yard, joyriding through dumpsters and burning stories to fuel an anarchist hippie reputation will get you far in some loopy circles, I don't imagine we'd look like the revolution, yet. Besides, April, a journalist who works in Waterbury wants to get a cameraman next time for the local news and everyone knows that the revolution will not be televised. And the solution we'll come to with our Yale degrees and freedom of a room and thousands a year, will not involve everyone weekly feeding from dumpsters.
The weekly feeding of the fellows was from the opposite of a dumpster. Or due to my cooking food insecurity, I was the dumpster there trying to down all of the delicious vegetarian lasagna option. It was rich and the solution will not involve everyone eating constantly at the Pony Club, either, but it was an excellent meal. In front of me was first put warm bread, then lasagna, then creme brulee that I listened to intently as I cracked its crust. At my elbow was set a Southern gentleman, Brett's older brother, courteous and cogent as I listened to his intent explain its shift from going into the theater to entering law school. He presented an exterior no one could crack. But I did a quick geologic survey of the crust of himself he gave away. Brett's a President's fellow with political maners, like her brother up from their Florida home for a visit. He was tan carefully handsome, with wavy groomed hair and a wavy Wickham personality. He winked too well and winked at the waitlist he hoped to charm his way off of at Georgetown or Stanford. He smiled telling us how he'd suffered. He hadn't had the advantages of a Yale undergrad education in such a beautiful place. It was hard to come from an ugly state school, and although he didn't have that quite a bit of money, Yale, Georgetown and Stanford were such good financial investments. He wasn't going to bet on someone turning down one of his places though. They had sincerely wounded him, but he'd make the merriest of any situation. He seemed to have a talent for making the best and hadn't even flinched when a barricuda almost bit his hand off. He'd always wanted to go close to home and it was better to learn in the state he was going to practice on, he said with a shrug that seemed to think it'd look fine in his regimentals of Florida State Law. If Wickham had a smooth Southern accent, he'd be Brett's brother.
The weekly feeding of the fellows was from the opposite of a dumpster. Or due to my cooking food insecurity, I was the dumpster there trying to down all of the delicious vegetarian lasagna option. It was rich and the solution will not involve everyone eating constantly at the Pony Club, either, but it was an excellent meal. In front of me was first put warm bread, then lasagna, then creme brulee that I listened to intently as I cracked its crust. At my elbow was set a Southern gentleman, Brett's older brother, courteous and cogent as I listened to his intent explain its shift from going into the theater to entering law school. He presented an exterior no one could crack. But I did a quick geologic survey of the crust of himself he gave away. Brett's a President's fellow with political maners, like her brother up from their Florida home for a visit. He was tan carefully handsome, with wavy groomed hair and a wavy Wickham personality. He winked too well and winked at the waitlist he hoped to charm his way off of at Georgetown or Stanford. He smiled telling us how he'd suffered. He hadn't had the advantages of a Yale undergrad education in such a beautiful place. It was hard to come from an ugly state school, and although he didn't have that quite a bit of money, Yale, Georgetown and Stanford were such good financial investments. He wasn't going to bet on someone turning down one of his places though. They had sincerely wounded him, but he'd make the merriest of any situation. He seemed to have a talent for making the best and hadn't even flinched when a barricuda almost bit his hand off. He'd always wanted to go close to home and it was better to learn in the state he was going to practice on, he said with a shrug that seemed to think it'd look fine in his regimentals of Florida State Law. If Wickham had a smooth Southern accent, he'd be Brett's brother.
