Tula…her name is Tula…

• November
• 9
• 2008

7:30 pm by: Jason Posted in: Ethos, Subversive Thought

Yeah I know, I know…I am sooooo behind on posting on here.  I’ve got a couple of posts in mind, but till I get them written up and posted, here is something to wet your appetite. 

Here is a piece I wrote for a recent writing contest.  I didn’t win…or even get short listed…but I figured I would post.  It’s also in line with Shane Claiborne speaking at Quest tonight, and the on going Nickelsville struggle.

Next up is a small two part article I am working on called "Why I hate and love the ‘church’".

Enjoy:

Dense, sweltering air slammed into me as I opened the outer door of my office building. The sensation, like a hair dryer in a sauna, instantly created a sticky layer of sweat that my thick slacks adhered to. There aren’t many things more uncomfortable than summer in Baltimore, and this August day was no exception. It didn’t matter today though, because I was on a mission.

I’d been working in the city for only a few months for a large evil empire bent on world domination through high interest rates. Thanks to the rather incessant propensity of the Software Development Industry to lay me off, I was forced to take the job to feed my growing family of four with one more on the way. I found myself chained to a cubicle at one of the nation’s largest sub-prime lenders eight hours a day. The company rakes in billions, and I was but one insignificant tool. Like a stapler, but with better hair.

My office building is in the heart of the financial district. Massive steel and concrete towers pierce the hazy sky housing some of the most influential men and women in the city. They mill around downtown in perfectly tailored suits worth more than some cars. Their flawless teeth shinny and blazingly white. Chattering into cell phones as they brave the oppressive heat, they broker deals and make decisions that will change the course of people’s lives forever. Significance, it seems in this battle ground of investments, is determined by how many calls one takes while at lunch.

I don’t even notice them today. All I can think of is a hotdog. The craving for two of them covered with chili, sauerkraut, mustard and ketchup hit me about mid-morning. Today was also the day I would do it. I would talk to her.

During the summer months, hotdog carts line the streets of Baltimore like mailboxes or parking meters. I noticed one out of the corner of my eye a block up as I turned to head the opposite direction towards the harbor. That’s the one I took Frank to a few weeks ago.

Frank is a middle-aged man with a pronounced limp, grey speckled wispy hair, and usually about two days growth along his sharp chin. His teeth are slightly yellowed with a few missing, and he wears worn, liberally stained jeans topped off by a faded nylon windbreaker despite the heat. He’s also a recent heart attack victim and the doctors had to remove a vein from his leg to repair a damaged artery. Due to the long recovery time, he couldn’t continue to work his manual labor job, and was laid off. He now lives in shelters across Baltimore while trying to return to the workforce. It’s hard, he told me, without a permanent address to put on the application.

He has lunch every day at the Episcopal Church’s soup kitchen right up the street from my building. He was late that day and missed the meal time. His walking problems were to blame. As I was milling towards my own impending lunch, swallowed up by the heard of expensive suit wearers, Frank was asking everyone who passed for food. All of us were ignoring him, trying not to make eye contact. There are nameless, faceless, insignificant people all over Baltimore begging for various things. After a while, they tend fade into the background of the city landscape like trashcans or discarded cigarette butts. Frank caught my attention that day for some reason. So I spent $2.40 on lunch for him. I bought him a hotdog with ketchup and mustard plus a 20oz cola from cart a block up from my building.

Spending some time talking with him is how I heard his story. Unfortunately, Olga’s was a little too far to walk for Frank, given his limp. Her little metal cart was my destination today though. The stand is three blocks away. It’s adjacent to a quarter block section of concrete with three anorexic trees, and a small round fountain that never seems to have water. It’s ringed by cement benches stained with pigeon droppings and I’m not sure I want to know what else. This is what passes for a park in Baltimore.

I willing trudge the three blocks through the swamp like climate to her stand whenever I want a dog. She has decent food, and the prices are reasonable, but that’s secondary. The real draw to me is Olga. She intrigues me. Olga is an elderly woman from Slavic descent, a first generation immigrant. Her short, curly, died black hair frames a face somewhere between fifty and eighty. Deep wrinkles mark her eyes, brow and mouth, and she dresses in simple plain clothes. I would watch as she silently moved her shaky, almost skeletal hands, in a perfect ballet like rhythm to make my day’s lunch. She artfully and gracefully assembled my order as if she had been doing it all her life. The tremors would subside long enough plant the meat, warming in stainless steel trays, on the bun then cover it with my requested fixings. She then deftly places the finished piece in wax paper twisting the ends enough to hold it together, but not overly compress anything. I couldn’t help but think of my own hands. Young, strong, and steady while feeling a twinge of compassion for her.

The mystery of Olga grew as one day I noticed her family was assisting with the day’s activities. Her husband was helping with the customers while her granddaughter was retrieving cans and bottles of soda from ice filled coolers. Was this part of her summer vacation? I remembered spending lazy summer weeks with my grandparents when I was young. Was she doing the same? The suits chattered and talked amongst themselves as the family mulled about fulfilling their requests for sustenance, never flashing expensive teeth in a smile.

I too would silently pass money through her little window, but I always made a point to thank her, and she responded with an almost unperceivable nod in my general direction. The corners of her mouth rose ever so slightly as if a grin was buried deep in the confines of her lips doing its best to escape. The truth is there were questions I was dying to ask. Was it cynicism and a hard life preventing the beaming smile from emerging and illuminating the small hotdog cart? How long had she been doing this? Did her children help her run the stand growing up? Was this her only source of income? What did she do in the winter months? And possibly the most nagging question for me; what was her name?

Olga isn’t her name. I had no idea what her real name was, so I simply picked a name that typified an older Slavic woman in my mind. She became Olga the hotdog lady. I desperately wanted to know her real name though. For some strange reason, I didn’t have the courage to ask the simple question. Why was this so hard for me? Was it her stern demeanor or seemingly apathetic attitude? Was I afraid she would laugh at me, mock me, or just ignore me in awkward silence? Or was it just the natural introvert in me? I felt like I did in school. The socially outcast geek nervously approaching the popular girls, convinced rejection and ridicule would greet my open mouth.

Today I would change that I told myself as the wave of suits caught me and carried me towards the park. I would find out her name. I pushed my way through the perfect haired masses speaking into their small plastic lifelines to importance, and took my place in her small line. I had to wait as a group discussed stocks, options, and the latest corporate takeover with their backs to the silver cart. No family today, just Olga I noticed as the expensive shoe clad financial soldiers parted slowly allowing me access to her window. My stomach was flipping and flopping with nervous anticipation.

I made my order, and she commenced her amazing display of hotdog assembly genius. As she handed them to me I said my usual thank you. I smiled, and then looking oh so casual leaned in and asked her what her name was.

“Tula,” she said through a thick accent, with a slight smile forming, several teeth missing.

“Thank you Tula…you have the best hotdogs in the city.”

I never saw someone smile so widely or surprisingly. Her cart exploded with the light of her crooked smile. I think I may’ve made her day. I know it made mine. I nodded, then took my greasy little bag. Turning from the cart, I rejoined the crushing heard of perfection moving back to our towers.

I had a smile on my face too, though not a bright as Tula’s. Perhaps I’ll share my meal with Frank if he needs it.