Here’s a story I’ve been telling for years, because I love it. New York City, maybe seven or eight years ago, a man living with a female roommate on Tompkins Square Park became famous for serving soup to the homeless.
This man made enough soup to feed all the homeless for days on end and news crews came out in force and hailed him a hero. As a result of the intense media glare it became apparent that the hero’s female roommate was missing.
Got it? Roommate Soup. Totally true story.
Today I was regaling my friend Cee, a poet and a traveler. However, just as I said “Tompkins Square Park” Cee raised her blue inked hands with tattoos of dog paw prints and squiggles, and waved them, she was already giggling. I was a little annoyed because this tale is a real favorite and momentum is best not interrupted.
“Let me finish!” I begged, hoping to quieten her.
“No!” Cee was laughing loud. “I was there! I ate the roommate soup!”
I was aghast. This was a fresh twist for me entirely. But this is Cee, my dear friend the occasionally indigent traveler and poet. I was shocked and began to reflect on that era when I too was living in New York City, albeit uptown and in an apartment and buggering the life out of a wholesale wool business, and rather miserable. Amazing to think, at that very same time, Cee was downtown and in the park with her sleeping bag, and sipping soup.”I wish we had known each other then! So how did the soup taste?”
“I remember exactly how it was seasoned,” Cee said. “It was delicious!”