Asilomar State Beach, Pacific Grove, California
Let’s not pretend. The wolves are telling the sheep what’s for dinner. What is there to say? The sky is falling, but the diner’s full of lunch guests, not one empty table, and a rush of lively conversations fills the room. A busboy with graying hair and a heavy Mexican accent brings me my iced tea, “The waiter will be right with you,” he says with gentle reassurance. Shadows of tolerance denied, and refuted equality fill my heart and mind with dread. My veggie burger arrives smothered with grilled mushrooms and onions.
A flimsy January sun streams in the southern-facing door. A man with a bleached mohawk orders the tortilla scramble while an older man in a white shirt pounds ketchup from a bottle onto his fries. The room is colored by the audacity of setting violent criminals free; the violent acts a political favor, violence conducted on behalf of men in gray suits and red ties, with power and influence pulling the handle. Across the room, a young woman in a too-tight T-shirt bites her sandwich with the vigor of a hungry teen.
The couple beside me orders a slice of chocolate cake large enough to feed a family of four. The smell of burgers and fries fills the diner, and barely audible is Dylan’s voice spilling from the ceiling speakers, sounding freshly cathartic. I keep thinking of an album I recorded years ago by singer-songwriter Zamp Nicall titled Whose County Is It? “They’ve taken our democracy and put it up for sale.” The table to my left orders a to-go box for a half-eaten tuna sandwich. And the same busboy works the room, cleaning tables and filling coffee cups in his calm easy manner and sharing his kind smile.