Datesville: Out of the Land of Bondage!

Chapter 5 — An Orwellian Supper

 

Concerning my pen name, as mentioned earlier, I began using Harvey Orange in order to disguise the authorship of my articles, though I can’t honestly say that it has helped any.  But there is a second reason:

Though I hate admitting cowardice, I have become somewhat paranoid about Meilin—the young and beautiful chef who cooked for me at Purcell’s that afternoon—after the bartender inferred about her what he did at the Speedway.  It sounded to me like he was saying that she moonlights, God forbid, as an assassin, or something of that sort.  No, I’m not afraid of Meilin, per se.  But I have been living in Tulsa now for several months and right under the nose of Marcus Purcell.  And I must wonder what might happen if, perchance, he learns that I live, literally, right around the corner from him on West 4th.  I just want to remain as low key as possible, at least while I’m here.  With this in mind, I’ve grown my hair out and don’t shave as regularly as I used to, so it’s not entirely neglect on my part.  Anyway—

I may also admit that I’m not adapting well professionally to my change of status.  To put it differently, my new domestic situation is affecting my writing—negatively.  Consequently, I haven’t written a single article worth selling since moving into the Bermuda Hotel.  I don’t know what’s wrong; maybe I’ve lost my confidence.  But I do know that in journalism it’s who you know that gets you work.  And, now,  I’m persona non grata just like all the other homeless people on this planet:  And I don’t know anyone, and no one knows me—not as Harvey Orange, anyway.

A few good things have happened, however—highlights, you could call them—during my months here in Tulsa at the Bermuda.  For one, I’ve met so many beautiful people and grown to appreciate the good, honest, authentic folks that they are.  They are truly good souls at the core.

But the brightest highlight so far has been the meals I’ve taken at the Dairy Daisy Cafeteria—the “DD” as people here like to call it.  I eat at the Dairy Daisy twice a day.  Its about three blocks southeast of the Bermuda on South Boulder.  Everyone who can afford it goes there.

Locals say it’s a “new” establishment, though it opened about ten years ago.  It is fronted by an expanse of windows, facing west that lets in a fantastic bank of sunlight during lunch meal which is especially enjoyable during these winter months.

Inside the cafeteria is a large dining area, well lit, and clean.  And at the head of this dining room runs a long, glass and stainless steel service counter which offers customers a delicious panoply of hot and cold dishes.  Customers are given large stainless steel trays, divided into six molded sections for organizing their meals.  One is allowed to choose six full-orders or twelve half-orders of food selections, except in the case of meat entrees which only come in full-orders.  All of this—with a choice of coffee, milk, orange juice, or tea—for the nominal price of a fifty cents.  Quite a bargain, if you ask me!

Every hour, that the DD is open, its dining hall is packed with hungry people.  It opens twice a day, everyday for lunch and dinner.  So for a dollar, one can fill his gut with two hot and substantial meals and enjoy the society of honest people.

I deem myself lucky because not everyone, living at the Bermuda or in Tulsa, has the two bits for a go through the line.  There is, however, a donation jar, placed at the register, where you can drop spare change if you have it.  I usually give any loose pennies or maybe a nickel, now and then, when I find it in my pocket.  Others do the same, and this collection of change is then used to provide free passes for those who have no money but need a hot meal.

Part of the reason the Dairy Daisy can price the line at fifty cents is because they have a gang of cooks, dishwashers, bussers, and cleaners who work for twenty-five cents an hour.  Basically they work for passes through the line, and there is never any shortage of help willing to work at the DD.

And today is Friday! which means tonight is Salisbury steak night, one of my favorites.  Sunday is my other favorite—ham with brown sugar glaze.

Of course, the DD will have all of its usual selections, such as mashed potatoes, chicken and homemade slickers, creamed turkey, biscuits and sawmill gravy, spaghetti and meatballs, tuna casserole, chili, fried rice, as well as hot corn, peas, green beans, buttered beans, and squash, among others.  And this list doesn’t include the cold things like sandwiches, veggies and dip, and salads of various kinds, if you go for that.  I don’t; I stick to the hot dishes.

The DD offers a few desserts but not many and some canned fruit, also.  It’s all typical cafeteria-style food, nothing fancy, but well prepared—the entrées alway good and hot—and everything tastes great.  The food is packed with calories and carbs, so it sticks to your ribs for a while.  And, as mentioned, tonight is Salisbury steak night, so I’d like to get there a little early if possible.

The dinner menu begins at five.  Sometimes, they run out of the daily entrée later in the evening, so it’s prudent to get there early if you can.  Right now it’s 4:45 p.m.  The sun is already setting.  It’s a cold night—another cold night.  Seems like we’ve had too many, lately.  I’ve layered up for the walk down to the cafeteria.  Other residents I recognize from the Bermuda Hotel are also headed down.

Jack and Polly Russell with their two kids are ahead of me, up the street a little ways.  Ricky, their eight-year-old son, trudges behind his parents and sister with his eyes glued to the pavement.  It’s hard to fill a hungry eight-year-old.  Hunger is a cruel tormentor for a boy Ricky’s age.  I remember being eight.  I was always hungry no matter when I had eaten last or how much.  Millie, the Russell’s six-year-old, has her mother’s hand clamped in hers and swings it wildly as she skips and chatters cheerfully as they walk.  For Millie, this is like a family outing to the beach on a summer’s day.

I’ve noticed at the DD that Jack and Polly go through the line by themselves after they’ve situated Ricky and Millie at a table.  They always ask the children what they want before they get in line.  Millie invariably asks for a dessert, and her mother invariably fails to talk her out of it.

Then Jack and Polly go through and bring back two trays.  The four of them share the food.  But I’ve decided tonight that I’m going to spend an extra dollar and buy both of the children their own passes through the line.  I know I shouldn’t, really, because every dollar matters at this point, but I just can’t stand to see an eight-year-old boy disappointed about his meal even before he’s had it and hanging his head like that.

Jack and Polly both work in the DD kitchen as often as they’re allowed, but it’s a rotating schedule and different people get to work different days.  I have no idea how they afford a room at the Bermuda Hotel.  They must work some other odd jobs.

Speaking of the Bermuda Hotel, I have finally made a decision.

Tonight, I’ve packed up all of my belongings—my camera, laptop, sundries, books, writing pads, clothes and such—stuffed everything into my small backpack and big gym bag and rolled up my sleeping bag.  I’m taking everything with me to the cafeteria, just in case that butthead manager decided to change the key code while I’m out.  See, I was supposed to have paid him for next week’s rent today, but I just couldn’t because I only have twenty and change left on me.  I’m going to need something in my pocket if I hit the road tomorrow.

And if the manager was to change the key code tonight, and I had left my things in the room, then I’d have to pay for an extra day just to claim my belongings.  And I’d have no guarantee I could find the manager tonight to get back into my room.  My luck, I’d to have to pay the extra day tomorrow to get my gear out and still spend tonight in the parking lot, in the cold.

So, basically, I’ve made my decision: I’ll be hitting the road in the morning.  So if the manager doesn’t change the key while I’m at supper, then I’ll squat one night at the Bermuda and, in the morning, leave my key in the room and be up and gone before daybreak, before the manager arrives for work.  He rarely shows up before eight a.m.

And, of course, I’ll eat breakfast one more time at the DD before setting out.  I only wish that leaving Tulsa didn’t mean I had to leave the Dairy Daisy behind, as well.  Who knows how far nineteen dollars and change will go after I’ve committed myself to this journey.  But I’ve decided I must go; I must leave Tulsa for somewhere warmer.  Where, exactly?  I guess I’ll have a better idea in the morning.

The DD is especially crowded tonight.  I suppose I’m not the only one who likes Salisbury steak.  I’m standing behind the Russells in line, outside the cafeteria.  They’ve only just opened the doors; and the line is moving along pretty well; but it still takes a few minutes before we reach the front doors.  I’m standing behind Jack and looking for my chance to talk to him, but he and Polly have been talking since they’ve arrived.  Then their conversation ends and Jack turns and greets me, giving me my opportunity.

I give Jack what, in the old days, we called a “Pentecostal handshake”.  That’s where you fold some money up in your palm, hold it in place and conceal it with your thumb, then shake hands with your brother or sister and leave the money in their hand.

As I shake Jack’s hand, I tell him I’m headed for California in the morning and just want to thank him and Polly for their friendship before I leave town.  Then I ask, close to his ear, if he’d please not say anything to the kids about this, but let them go through the line too, if he doesn’t mind, as a personal favor to me.

“Jack, it isn’t charity,” I tell him.  “It’s just my way of celebrating having known you and your family.”  Then I grip his hand a little tighter and look him in the eye.  He nods in acceptance.

“I won’t say anything,” he says.

“Thanks Jack.  You’re a good friend.  I’ll send you a postcard from California.”  He laughs and slaps my back.

“We’ll miss you too, Harvey,” he adds.

A few minutes later, when Polly tells Jack that she’s going find a table and settle the children while he holds their place in line, Jack says, “I thought that, maybe tonight, we should all go through the line—the kids too.  How does that sound to everyone?”

Polly’s face blanches and an expression of concern creases her forehead.  But Jack winks at her and throws a subtle nod in my direction.  Polly appears embarrassed but quickly conceals the naked emotion with a nervous smile and mouths a “thank you” in my direction.  Ricky doesn’t notice any of this because he can’t contain his excitement: he’s leaping up and down and cheering the news.

“Thank you, Daddy!” he repeats over and over as he bear-hugs his father’s waist.

“Well, let’s just hope they don’t run out of mashed potatoes tonight,” says Jack which only dampens some of Ricky’s jubilation for a second or two.

As we reach the long service counter, Ricky has to make a couple of quick inspections of the food up and down the line.  He does so by moving in and out between other customers who, in good nature, allow him to view the steaming chafing dishes of food and answer his questions.  Then, in constant consultation with his father, Ricky moves slowly down the line and carefully makes his selections.

He has the Salisbury steak with lots of brown gravy and scores an enormous mound of mashed potatoes smothered with creamed turkey.  The servers of the hot entrees seem to enjoy Ricky’s enthusiasm and ask him: “Can you handle this much?” of whatever it is they’re serving.  “Now remember, you have to clean your plate,” one server tells him.  “Think you can you do that?”  Ricky vigorously and with the face of a judge bobs his head up and down in affirmation.

In watching this scene, I am reminded again of the special love affair boys have with food.  It’s one devotion they never grow out of.

I make my way to the end of the counter and pay the young woman who works the register.  She’s friendly and talkative.  And as I leave her station, she says she hopes I enjoy my dinner and sounds sincere in the way she says it.  The coffee smells rich and strong tonight.  It’s turning out to be a better than normal evening.

Already, the spacious dining hall is filling, and there’s still a line of hungry folks stretching down the wall and outside along the front windows.  The place is blooming with the music of conversation and laughter and the percussion of eating utensils playing on metal trays.

It’s funny, but even though I don’t have what you might call a coterie of friends at whose table I am expected, or even a circle of close acquaintances from the Bermuda with whom I associate, I still feel I belong here.  I feel like I’m a part of this, and it’s something good, something big, something we all need in order to survive.  It’s bigger than a cafeteria and food.  It’s a whole living, breathing world and it matters.  It’s a “We” with a capital W, as in “We the People” or something similar.  But it’s not that exactly; it’s a more personal we.  It’s an intimate we.  It’s just hard to explain, but I belong to this thing we are, or maybe you could say:  I belong to them, and they belong to me.  I guess I realize, for the first time in my life, I love these people, who are my people now.  And I love them like Ricky loves food.

I make my way through the tight spaces between tables, out toward the front windows.  There are more empty seats up there.

What’s also nice about the Dairy Daisy is that they have a coat check area toward the front where you can check your coat or bags—whatever it is you are carrying—and your stuff will be safe, so you don’t have to worry about it while you eat.  It’s nice to eat without worrying about my gym bag or bedroll.  I guess a lot of people carry everything they own with them, all the time.

But really, I haven’t heard of anyone getting robbed.  All the people I have met have been very respectful of personal property and privacy.  In fact, people are much more apt to share a possession of theirs with you than they are to try to steal something of yours.  That has been my experience—so far anyway.  I guess the idea of ownership has a broader, more communal meaning here.  “Share and share alike” as the saying goes.  People around here say that a lot.

I’ve maneuvered my way to the middle of the crowded dining hall without spilling my coffee.  My focus is on a table in the corner at which only a couple of people are sitting.  It looks like a good spot.

“Hey Mack!  Over here!” I hear someone holler.

I look down.  To my right, sits a short, rather roundish man with dark, wavy hair, somewhat sparse on top, which he has slicked back on his round head.  His hair gleams with some kind of hair dressing.  His eyes are as dark as his hair; they’re intense and wary and fixed on me.

He stares at me while rapidly chewing then gulps the mouthful prematurely.  He has a pair of dark rimmed eyeglasses pushed up and resting above his forehead like one might do with sunglasses, but these are clear—corrective lenses, I suppose.

“Hey Mack, yeah you, why don’t you park it here.  I mean, there’s a place here if you want it.”

He adjusts his tone slightly so that it sounds less like a command and more like an offer, then fakes a smile as punctuation.  He glances down at a narrow opening beside him and scrunches to his left to make it wider.  Then he fastens his eyes on me again.

To tell the truth, I would rather sit at the table in the corner, but there’s an unspoken rule of etiquette we all obey:  Don’t turn down a gift, offered in friendship, even if that gift is a place to sit.

“Sure!  Thanks,” I say and begin wedging myself toward my new friend.

“Great!” he says.

This time he smiles for real, causing the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes to branch deeply toward his temples.  He stands and extends his hand for me to shake.  This surprises me a little because he’s even shorter that he seemed sitting down; the top of his head is no higher than my chest.

“Yeah, good to see you,” he tells me like we’ve known each other since grade school.

“Hey, could you scoot down a little and give my buddy here some more room.  Thank you.  Appreciate it.  Thanks.”

His neighbors at the table mutely obey, and I sit beside him.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Harvey,” I answer.

“Harvey what?”

“Orange.”

“Harvey Orange?”  I can hear the suspicion in his voice.  He studies me for a second.

“Yeah, well, I’m George—George Orwell,” he says and pokes out his pudgy hand again for me to shake.  The handshake this time makes the introduction official.

“It’s not your real name, is it?” he asks.

Now, he’s sawing away at his Salisbury steak with the dull table knife.

“No,” I answer.

“I didn’t think so.  But that’s okay; George Orwell isn’t my real name either.”

He scoops a blob of mashed potatoes onto a chunk of meat, impaled at the end of his fork, and forces the oversized glob into his mouth.

“I kind of wondered,” I say with a smile.

George just raises his eyebrows, smiles back, and rocks his head.  Now he chews energetically again and swallows hard.

“It’s my pen name,” he blurts with a gasp.  His mouth still isn’t free of food.  He gulps again, then takes a swig of milk, leaving a white bar on his upper lip.  He lifts a paper napkin from his lap and with both hands wipes his lip.  Beads of sweat glisten on top of his head.

“So, are you a writer, Harry?”

“Harvey.”

“Right! Harvey.  I ask because I’ve seen you in here before, writing in a legal pad while you eat.”

“Yeah, I write a little.”

“You published?”

“Yes, a few periodicals, news blogs, that sort of thing.”

“That’s good!  So what are you into now?”

“Well, I’ve been in a funk lately so haven’t written much, but my main interest is in documenting the depression.  I want to know people’s stories—where they’re from, where they’ve been, how their circumstances have changed, and how they’re doing, now.”

“Ah!  Human interest stuff—history and all that.  That’s good; I guess someone should write it.  Probably a lot of demand for that kind of stuff, eh?”

“Not so much anymore, but it used to be pretty good.  I think everyone is tired of reading about the depression.  So how about you, George, what are you doing?” I ask.

“A novel!”  He half shouts his response.  “A dystopia—kind of like ‘1984’ only different, of course.”

George excavates a mound of corn.

“That’s why I use Orwell as my pen.  I’ve set my dystopia in 2084.  Just hope I can finish the book before then; 2084 ain’t that far away.”  George looks up from his tray and chuckles.  “Right?”

I laugh.  I’m beginning to feel better.  I’m beginning to like George Orwell.  We have things in common.

“But aren’t we kind of in a dystopia already,” I ask.

“Yeah, but mine’s a political dystopia,” says George.

He reads my expression.

“Yeah, all right, I know what you’re thinking.  ‘What’s the difference?’ right?  Well, yeah, maybe it’s a problem, but I’m really into these characters and setting—into the world I’ve created.  I’m on a roll.  And it’s not like anyone’s going to publish my magnum opus when it’s finished, right?  But I have to say, it’s pretty good.  I’ll let you read it sometime.”

We eat for a few of minutes without talking.

“Say, let me ask you something,” says George.  He has almost finished his meal.  He’s down to the applesauce.  “How did you come up with Orange—Harvey Orange?  How’d you come up with that, as a name, I mean?  Because, to me, it doesn’t sound real.  Sounds like a fake name, don’t you think?”

“And ‘George Orwell’ doesn’t?” I ask.

“Well, you know what I mean.  Besides, most people these days have never heard of George Orwell, so it works—I guess.  Anyway, so what’s the story with Orange?”

“I’ve always picked a color for a last name,” I tell him.  “Last time it was Monty Green; before that Dudley Brown; and before that Terrance White.  I just wanted something a little brighter for a change.  Orange seems kind of lucky is all.  So this time, I’m Harvey Orange.”

“Seems like I’ve heard of Terrance White.  Wasn’t he an athlete or something?”  He doesn’t wait for me to answer.  “But Monty Green?  Dudley Brown?  Are you shitting me?  Did you really use those?”

“Yep, for bylines, no less,” I say, “though Dudley Brown was kind of a joke.”

“God, you’ve got balls.  Hey, why not Blue?  I’ve heard of Blue as a last name.  How about Barry Blue, or something?”

“Yeah, well, maybe next time,” I shrug.

“Right.  Hey, maybe next time I change my name, I’ll keep the George and change my last name to, say—Lucas or Jones or Washington.  Or how about Eliot—George Eliot?  How does that strike you?”

“I’d go with Eliot,” I say.  “Now that would take some pretty big rocks to pull off.  Well, on second thought, maybe not.”  We both laugh at my stupid comment.

George asks where I’m staying.  I tell him about my imminent departure from the Bermuda Hotel and my plan to set out west for California.

“I’m leaving in the morning,” I tell him.

“Bad idea,” says George.  “They’re having severe drought and water shortages out there right now—in fact, it’s the same all across the Southwest, too.  You could die of dehydration before you even get there.  Yeah, I hear it’s pretty bad.  Hey, have you heard about this town called Datesville?  I saw a little article in the paper a couple of weeks ago.  Now if you want to document the depression, Datesville’s the place you ought to go.  There’s some real interesting shit going on out there.  I’ve been thinking of going out myself.”

“What kind of interesting shit?” I ask.

“Riots!  Neighborhoods burning!  Mass arrests.  A bunch of these squatters in town, in this one neighborhood, went nuts and started rioting.  The article said that more than half the town are squatters.  Local police called in the Feds.  The Feds sent in an army of ICE agents.”

“ICE?  I thought ICE was Immigration?”

“They are, but they have a domestic side too.  It started out for gang violence, stuff like that, but expanded quite a bit over the years.”

“So, it was some kind of gang war?”

“Naw!  Just a bunch of yokels protesting over the city shutting off their water and ruining their tomatoes.  City wanted to force the squatters out of this one neighborhood. That’s what the article said.  Said it started out peaceful—people marching on City Hall, raising a ruckus, that sort of thing.  Then the local police shot rubber bullets into the crowd; put this teenage girl’s eye out, and that’s when the thing blew up.  It was the spark, you know.  So the police lost control and had to call in the Feds.  Yeah, I guess these squatters were just some hippie-types growing okra and raising chickens and shit.  Otherwise a pretty peace loving bunch of granolas, it sounded like to me.”

“But I still don’t understand why they called in Immigration?  That doesn’t make sense,” I ask.

“ICE! man.  It’s the new FBI.  Didn’t you know that?  Except they’re under Homeland Security.  Different rules.  No, you don’t want to mess with ICE.  They’ll shoot your ass first, then throw you in prison if you’re still breathing.  I’ve heard that some people, who’ve gotten arrested by ICE, disappear.  When they grab you, you’re considered an ‘enemy combatant’—a domestic terrorist.  You could spend the rest of your life in a gulag in Illinois.  Where have you been, man?  I thought everybody knew this shit.”

“I just thought ICE was strictly Immigration, that’s all,” I try to explain.

“Not anymore, and now you know different.”

I look around the table.  Three other men are listening to George’s story and agreeing with him about ICE by bobbing heads and raising their eyebrows.  “That’s damn straight,” says one fellow.  “Don’t go messin’ with no ICE,” he warns solemnly.

“So why would you, or anyone else, want to go to a place like this—”  I can’t remember  the name of the town.

“Datesville?”  George fills in the blank for me.

“Yeah, Datesville?  Especially if it’s some kind of war zone?” I ask.

“To record it!” says George enthusiastically.  “I don’t know, maybe you wouldn’t want to go.  But look around you, man.  Doesn’t this depress you?  Something’s got to change.  I just think a story like that is kind of hopeful, don’t you?  Maybe it’s a sign or a beginning.  Maybe these granolas over in Datesville are tired of getting pissed on and, finally, someone in this whole damned country grows the balls to do something about it.  Doesn’t that seem hopeful to you?  I don’t know about you, but I’ve been a camper for nine miserable years and jobless for twelve.  I’m fucking tired of it.”  The men watching George agree.

George pauses and peers at his tray for a moment as if looking into a deep pool of water.

“I don’t have much to lose, anymore,” he says quietly.

His sudden change of mood causes a dark cloud to settle over the table—over the whole room, it seems.

It occurs to me that I’ve only been observing the Grand Depression from my somewhat elevated perch, not fully living it on the ground level as George and the tens of millions like him have been doing all along.  Then it hits me, and I understand something I’ve never understood before.  Suddenly I realize how rich people do it, how they live so completely oblivious of the human suffering all around them.  I realize that suffering is relative, that all I’ve been able to see is my own suffering.  My experience has been a veil.  It clouds my vision and dulls my perception of the intensity of pain that people like George or the Russells or any of the other men and women sitting at this table experience.  We each have our own individual world, our own customized Grand Depression to deal with.

“Hey Orange!”  George nudges me with his elbow.  He’s smiling again.  He takes the eyeglasses from his head, folds them, and stuffs them in his coat pocket.  And the gloom suddenly lifts.

“You wanna smoke?” he asks.

“Sure,” I say.

“Got any cigarettes?”

“Yeah.”

“Then let’s go.”  He nods at the door.

We get up and step outside for a smoke.  The air is much cooler now; it’s going to be a cold night.  All in all, it has still been a better than normal evening.

Copyright © 2023 by Dale Tucker  All rights reserved.