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Shane Koyczan
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Restaurant
I met a man who makes meals at a restaurant where there's no menu, but everything's on it.
Impossible, I know.
But I met a man who makes meals at a restaurant called Death Row.
I met a man who makes last meals.
And I know way too many people who would attack him asking him how it feels to be part of something like that.
So instead I just let him chew the fat and I listen.
And he tells me about a 31-year-old boy.
A 31-year-old boy because he was convicted at the age of twenty-two been waiting nine years on death row and last week was his turn so he asked for sourdough French toast and a side of magic beans.
Because he'd rather face down a giant
Rather take his chances with a beanstalk than walk down that hall where every footfall echoes down into that same oblivion
Where every experience he never had congregates to create a world he never lived in.
So yeah,
You find yourself asking for things like magic beans.
And a cook finds himself understanding what it means to be desperate.
He tells me that most of his food never gets touched.
That doesn't stop him from being exact.
Even though the fact is he'll never make a meal as good as Mom could.
It'll never taste as good as it would coming from the one who raised you
And he knows this but he's meticulous.
Even though he knows that this 31-year-old boy grabbed his arresting officer's service revolver
Tried to use it like a problem solver
He knows this.
But he makes French toast with sourdough as though he was cooking for a king.
Because the last thing you should do is eat well
Especially if there's a family prayin'
That you have to go slow
When you take that walk through hell
So everything's fresh
And the egg's are free-range
And there's a last minute change of pans
Because the last hands to wash that pan
Missed a spot
And this cook's got a vision
Of French toast that falls apart
So softly
It feels like lovers lying in bed
Breaking apart to sleep so deeply
The shallow of their dreams
Is enough for hate to drown in.
Because if you're gonna come up short
On a request like magic beans,
You better be sure
The first part of that meal
Means something.
He tells me it's a job
And as cliche as it sounds
Someone's gotta do it.
Tells me back in the day
They used to let mothers try
But most of them
Couldn't get through it.
So a job was born out of necessity.
And those struck by poverty
Didn't have false visions
Of turning this work into their legacy.
They didn't dream of a dynasty
Where the mountains
Were made of chocolate
Or sugar stood in for sand.
But they knew America
Would put a check in their hand.
So men and women were born into workers
Because ideas like
Right and wrong
Get outweighed by need
Anytime you've got mouths to feed.
He tells me that America failed.
That they nailed freedom to a cross
Because every boss in every office
Is in his own separate world
Having to be held up by the backs of
Employees expected to say 'Please'
Everytime they have to take a piss.
I know way too many people
Who would tell me
That it can't go on like this.
And we say this.
But we still set our alarms
To be up in time for our 9 to 5.
We're just reporters
Coming to you live
From bus stops and coffee shops.
We wear our lives
Like costumes
Use bills and coins like props
In an over budget production
That we cannot seem to stop.
So it just goes on like this!
As if we accept this
As if we've all become
Buddhas of mass production.
Our brains rotting
Like teeth
Under the sweet
Unending bliss of false enlightenment.
And he tells me
We used to be flint.
And we'd spark
Whenever struck by new ideas.
But now all there is is jobs
And someone's gotta do them.
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And isn't he lucky
That he lives in a country where
Everyone
Wants to be someone.
And isn't he lucky
That when the day's done
He can go home
And forget.
Like he played this hand
Knowing it was a bad bet
Because what you risk
Reveals what you value.
And this man
Ventured everything he knew
To the point where
His wife can no longer convince him
That her eyes are the color blue.
And what kind of life
Have you got left
If you want no one to know
What you do.
See, he lets everyone think that
He's just a cook.
Because he doesn't want his kids
To know what daddy does.
And is unable to tell his mother
Where he was
When they executed
A 31 year old boy
For killing the first son
Of the same mother.
He made the meal
For the man who took his brother
Because he did not trust
Anyone who was willing
To fill in for him that day.
Because they'd say things like
'Don't worry'
With just enough of a smile
If he ever stood trial
Trying to defend that meal
All he'd ever feel
Is guilty.
So he made French toast with sour dough
As though he was making
A monument to his virtues
That would never be brought down
By the half-truths
Of America.
In truth?
It never got touched.
And he tells me
When the skeletons
In his closet
Finally bust down the door
All he's gonna need
Is his fist
And someone's jaw.
Says regret is like
Living your life
As a blind man
Having to imagine
Everything you lived
But never saw.
He can't imagine it
Any different than
His mother at the execution.
Sitting in the front row
Clear tears mixing with
Blush and eye shadow
Sitting there
Looking as though
She'd been punched in the face
By a rainbow
But he says.
'I know I did the right thing.'
And I'm not here
To sing his praise
Or raise a big deal
made of granite and concrete
But America will never fall
To it's feet and say
'I'm sorry.'
And all this is
Is the story of a man
Who makes meals.
And how one day
He made a testament
To his ethics:
Golden brown
And stacked
A perfect 5 inches high
Tells me he feels bad
For the boys on death row
Who know America failed them
He says most of them
Still ask for apple pie.
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