Lawrence the Russian

“Why forr you not eat my food?”, he asked, squeezing my shoulder for emphasis. His voice was firm but gentle, and I wasn’t afraid sitting there in the big, black leather chair. I hesitated though, searching his face, wondering how I should answer. His wrinkled brow hinted of his distress, and his soft blue eyes, focusing on mine, questioned me more than his words did. I broke the visual tug-of-war for a minute to glance at the two gray drumsticks sitting on the kitchen table, indifferent to the small drama taking place, and looking little like the brown, crispy chicken that my mother prepared. My eyes returned to Lawrence’s stare that showed more hurt than anger.

Maybe ten or fifteen seconds passed with our eyes locked in suspense. He spoke again. This time his heavy Russian accent, slowed to a monotone with a slight emphasis on each word, staccato like, half coaxed, half begged, for a response. “Why forr you not eat my food?” I wet my lips, stalling for time, but before I blurted out an answer, he bent over, still peering into my eyes and giving my shoulder another little squeeze with his thick fingers, said:
“I tell you why. Forr somebody say I trry to poison you.”
Poison! My God, I thought, whatever gave him that idea? “No. No. I’m just not hungry, Lawrence. I’m just not hungry,” I lied. I really was hungry. If my mother, my aunt, or the lady next door offered me chicken, I’d have wolfed it down in a minute. But this was very different. This chicken was cleaned, cooked, carved and served by Lawrence the Russian, an old man who lived in a shack by the railroad tracks. And he was a bachelor. A wild thought entered my head. Would I eat if he got married? Would the vows of Holy Matrimony restore my appetite? Would conjugal bonding negate my nyet? Would I run down the aisle waving two drumsticks screaming, “Soup’s on. Soup’s on”?
Sanity returned and so did the heat of the moment. Once more I lied, “Lawrence, I’m not hungry.” His fingers relaxed their grip. He backed up, shuffled over to the table and dropped his pudgy frame into the straightback chair. After an awkward pause, he said: “Alrright, I eat them myself.”
Usually when Lawrence offered me food, no tension occurred. Usually I ate. I had no problem with the oranges that were the most common treat. I had to peel them according to his instructions, though. After making the initial penetration, I held the orange firmly in my hand, rotating it slowly in one direction. Thrusting the thumb nail of my free hand under the skin and sliding it with a continuous motion in the opposite direction, I separated the peeling from the pulp. Voila! One long, twisted curl fell to the floor. Sometimes I ‘ci dangle the springlike coil in the air and with a flick of the wrist setting it in motion, I’d watch it bounce and spin, a miniature mobile.
And tins of crushed pineapple were no problem, either. After all, the pineapple was packed away in a tight container secure from the dangers of any Bolshevik sabotage. Quietly slipping a spoon into my pants pocket and quickly sterilizing the utensil on the lining, satisfied my fear from any kitchen subterfuge. The tin can, an amateur iron curtain, did its sob. Bring on the sardines, bring on the Spam, I rationalized. I was Lawrence’s errand boy. I delivered his mail, bought his groceries, and picked dandelions for his dandelion wine. No minimum wage guaranteed my salary, but a day or two after his pension check arrived, he dropped a handful of Coins into my hands; no quarters, only pennies, nickels, and dimes. This magic moment made me feel like a big shot, proud to be gainfully employed. The fringe benefits were impressive as well. I realize now that he was a lonely man, plying me with food that had to be consumed on the spot. He was buying companionship. Many times I was a somewhat reluctant guest, preferring to fool around at Thompson’s Creek with my friends. The bait worked, though, because Lawrence knew how much I liked oranges, pineapple and watermelon.
Watermelon. I think we had two a year at home, one on the Fourth and one on Labor Day. Each time I’d share one with my three brothers and my parents while my mother issued orders on the proper disposal of the seeds and rinds.
Lawrence wouldn’t know Emily Post if he slept with her; he didn’t worry about formality. We not destrroy the joy of the moment,” he said when he hauled out the watermelon. I was surprised at this rather sophisticated philosophy coming from a Russian peasant, but I jumped up and moved to the chair facing Lawrence. He chopped slice after slice. Juice dripped, seeds flew, and rinds fell into a small pyramid in the center of the floor. For a half hour or so, there were two kids, one with a moustache, quietly contented with their simple joy. When the last piece disappeared, out came the mop and broom and a mild cleaning frenzy took place. The melon melee ended, but I could never understand that the man who objected to small bits of orange litter was the same man who invited a watermelon free-for-all.
Summer faded into autumn. Winter arrived. With the passing of time, my minute man mentality faded. The watermelon Maginot Rinds marched off to the rubbish with the empty pineapple cans and dozens of orange spirals. My guard was down when Lawrence launched a new attack. The chicken had flown the coop. Who would think that raspberry jello would roost in its place? Lawrence retreated to the rear of the
room, reached up and retrieved a small bowl from the cold cubbyhole in the attic area he used as a makeshift refrigerator. A satisfied smile stretched across his face as he approached me, and he proudly placed the bowl in my lap. He thrust a spoon from the cluttered table into my hand. “Now you eat,” he ordered, “it’s good for you.”
I scanned the contents of the bowl, again stalling for time. I hesitated. Lawrence waited. Suddenly I remembered watching my mother make jello. I heard her say that firm jello required very hot water. This jello was firm. The water had been hot. The bowl was sterilized I surmised, and the hot water would have prevented Lawrence from contaminating the preparation process. I scanned the contents once more,
marveling at the intricate scalloping design that encircled the edge of the jello. I again thought of my mother, selecting molds with a grape or fish pattern to add a festive touch to her dessert.
“Why, Lawrence”, I thought, “Who’d ever think you’d bother to decorate a bowl of jello?”
Once more I slid the spoon into my pocket, the denim autoclave. With precautions completed, I stabbed the center of the jello mold. Lawrence’s eyes widened in dismay. He leaned over, his face inches from mine, and yelled: “No! Not No! You must eat arround the edges wherre l”ve been eating!”
I stopped, frozen in silence, then slowly dropped my hand to my side. The spoon stood straight in the firm jello, rigidly pointing upward ,an exclamation point to my misdeed. A deep gash destroyed the elegance of Lawrence’s oral artistry. I pushed the bowl aside, watching the jello quiver. “Gosh, Lawrence, I’m full. I’m not hungry. I’m just not Hungry. Honest.” I lied.