made a quixotic act of nobility out of it. To have and surrender, to find something real, to sacrifice meaningfully—all this raced around inside her tinged with romantic dreams, novels she had read, discussions with her friends at college, and piled childishly into a confusion and despair at odds with her basically cheerful nature.
And then one day she stood outside the soup kitchen on Bryant Street, just stood there and watched as the striking longshoremen lined up to be fed. She had a vivid imagination, and her romantic notion of the working class had been shaped mainly by the novels of Jack London and Upton Sinclair. All of which led to her meeting Domi-nick Salone.
He had paused next to her and said, "Lady, is something wrong?"
He was her own height, skinny, the dark flesh of his face drawn tightly over the bones, deepset, dark intense eyes, a small nose, a head of black, unruly hair, and, curiously in one so young, a nest of wrinkles at either end of his wide mouth. He couldn't have been more than twenty-three or twenty-four. He wore blue jeans and a stained green woolen windbreaker over a T-shirt.
She just stared at him.
"Because you're crying, lady."
"I am not."
"Sure as hell you are. We got sympathizers, lady, but mostly they don't cry."
"I'm not crying."
"O.K., O.K." He shrugged and turned away.
Barbara touched her cheeks. They were wet. Then she called after him. "Mister!"
When he turned around, she was wiping her face with a handkerchief. He stood there, staring at her, and then she walked over to him.
"Could I ask you a question, mister?" she asked uneasily.
"My name's Nick. Nick Salone. Don't call me mister."
She was taken totally aback by his reply. She stood silent for a moment or two, and he said, "Well?"
"My name's Bobby,"
"All right, Bobby, ask."
"What?"
"You said you wanted to ask me a question."
She nodded at the kitchen. "How do you run it? I mean, where does the food come from?"
"What's with you, sister? You work for a newspaper or something?"
"You're suspicious of me."
"You're damn right. I'm suspicious of anyone who looks like you."
"What do you mean? How do I look?"
"Oh, Christ," he said. "Let it go. You want to know where the food comes from? It used to come from the union funds, but that's gone. Washed out, used up. So it comes from wherever we can beg, borrow, or steal it."
"Oh." She said, almost primly, "Would it be all right if I brought you some food—as a contribution? I wouldn't be hurting anyone's feelings?"
"Hurting our feelings?"
"I don't know about these things," she said lamely.
"No, you wouldn't be hurting nobody's feelings."
"Where would I bring it?"
He pointed to an alley alongside the storefront. "That leads back to the kitchen. Just bring it to the kitchen."
That was how it began. Walking the few blocks to a grocery store, it occurred to Barbara that here she was, in the twenty-first year of her life, yet never before had she entered a food store to buy anything more than a bag of pretzels, or cookies, or sausage for one of their late-night feasts in the dormitory back at school. She had never gone out to buy food as food, food to feed people who were hungry. Now she had about twelve dollars in her purse, and she had not the faintest notion of how much food one could buy for twelve dollars.
The man behind the counter in the small grocery store had a walrus mustache and wet blue eyes. It was half an hour past noon, and there were no other customers in the store. The proprietor watched her, appraising her dubiously. Finally, when she continued to stand there without speaking, he said, "We don't sell no cigarettes, miss."
"I don't want cigarettes." She had read somewhere that beans possess a fine balance of nourishment, and in any case, beans and working people made some connection in her mind. "How much are beans?" she asked.
"Beans?"
"Yes, beans."
"What kind of beans? I got lima beans, navy beans, pea beans, kidney beans, Mexican beans—what kind?"
"I don't know," she said
And then one day she stood outside the soup kitchen on Bryant Street, just stood there and watched as the striking longshoremen lined up to be fed. She had a vivid imagination, and her romantic notion of the working class had been shaped mainly by the novels of Jack London and Upton Sinclair. All of which led to her meeting Domi-nick Salone.
He had paused next to her and said, "Lady, is something wrong?"
He was her own height, skinny, the dark flesh of his face drawn tightly over the bones, deepset, dark intense eyes, a small nose, a head of black, unruly hair, and, curiously in one so young, a nest of wrinkles at either end of his wide mouth. He couldn't have been more than twenty-three or twenty-four. He wore blue jeans and a stained green woolen windbreaker over a T-shirt.
She just stared at him.
"Because you're crying, lady."
"I am not."
"Sure as hell you are. We got sympathizers, lady, but mostly they don't cry."
"I'm not crying."
"O.K., O.K." He shrugged and turned away.
Barbara touched her cheeks. They were wet. Then she called after him. "Mister!"
When he turned around, she was wiping her face with a handkerchief. He stood there, staring at her, and then she walked over to him.
"Could I ask you a question, mister?" she asked uneasily.
"My name's Nick. Nick Salone. Don't call me mister."
She was taken totally aback by his reply. She stood silent for a moment or two, and he said, "Well?"
"My name's Bobby,"
"All right, Bobby, ask."
"What?"
"You said you wanted to ask me a question."
She nodded at the kitchen. "How do you run it? I mean, where does the food come from?"
"What's with you, sister? You work for a newspaper or something?"
"You're suspicious of me."
"You're damn right. I'm suspicious of anyone who looks like you."
"What do you mean? How do I look?"
"Oh, Christ," he said. "Let it go. You want to know where the food comes from? It used to come from the union funds, but that's gone. Washed out, used up. So it comes from wherever we can beg, borrow, or steal it."
"Oh." She said, almost primly, "Would it be all right if I brought you some food—as a contribution? I wouldn't be hurting anyone's feelings?"
"Hurting our feelings?"
"I don't know about these things," she said lamely.
"No, you wouldn't be hurting nobody's feelings."
"Where would I bring it?"
He pointed to an alley alongside the storefront. "That leads back to the kitchen. Just bring it to the kitchen."
That was how it began. Walking the few blocks to a grocery store, it occurred to Barbara that here she was, in the twenty-first year of her life, yet never before had she entered a food store to buy anything more than a bag of pretzels, or cookies, or sausage for one of their late-night feasts in the dormitory back at school. She had never gone out to buy food as food, food to feed people who were hungry. Now she had about twelve dollars in her purse, and she had not the faintest notion of how much food one could buy for twelve dollars.
The man behind the counter in the small grocery store had a walrus mustache and wet blue eyes. It was half an hour past noon, and there were no other customers in the store. The proprietor watched her, appraising her dubiously. Finally, when she continued to stand there without speaking, he said, "We don't sell no cigarettes, miss."
"I don't want cigarettes." She had read somewhere that beans possess a fine balance of nourishment, and in any case, beans and working people made some connection in her mind. "How much are beans?" she asked.
"Beans?"
"Yes, beans."
"What kind of beans? I got lima beans, navy beans, pea beans, kidney beans, Mexican beans—what kind?"
"I don't know," she said
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