I am sustained

March 27, 2020 | United States | 20-29 years

It’s a warm summer evening, and I’m at a packed tapas restaurant in the city. I eat mussels and clams, oysters and scallops, Moroccan chicken liver and fresh flatbread. I’ve been eating for hours, refusing to give my table to someone in the line that now stretches around the block, twice. The waiters pour wine from their cupped hands directly into my mouth until I’m too drunk to speak, then they serve me espresso in cups made of sugar until I’m sober enough to get up and leave.

The entire line of people streams into the restaurant, gets seated, starts eating. I begin to walk away, but realize I’ve left a bag inside. As soon as I enter, the clientele look up from their little plates and start spitting on me. They spit on me as I return to my table, they spit on me as I bend down to grab my bag, they spit on me as I leave.

I walk a half block before I realize I’ve forgot my guitar, as well. The spectacle happens again—I’m drenched in spit for the second time as I return and pick up my instrument.

This continues. Every time I pick up my guitar, I accidentally leave my bag. When I return for the bag, I forget the guitar. Over and over I return and leave, being spat upon by diners whose mouths are full of fish, meat, and wine. I soon can no longer to tell the difference between the spit and the food. I am sustained.