Cha Cha

The Cha Cha Bowl was its usual savory self last night. Plot had spent the day in the soup kitchen, though, and different thoughts kept going through his head, echoing those he'd had while serving up salad to the homeless lunchers a few hours earlier.

Like: these people are really messed up. They look bad, smell awful and behave like each one is missing some irreplacable part, like the handle on a broom or the steering wheel on a car. But they are also polite, orderly and, above all, very hungry.

So working to give them a meal is a nice thing. But it takes a lot of work. There are a ton of chores to do to provide them with a plate of green salad and a bowl of soup -- chopping onions, lettuce, radishes, carrots, greens, cooking enormous kettles of soup, washing endless amounts of dishes, trays, cups, glasses and food implements, busing tables, mopping floors, emptying and cleaning garbage bins...and for what? To feed 100 or 150 zonked out men and women who are the dregs of society.

And in the end, what have we accomplished? Tonight they get drunk and tomorrow they are hungry again.

At the ball game, each time Plot looked up another Braindead home run left the park. So he had plenty of time to keep pondering the larger question about the soup kitchen: given that there are a limited number of hours he is willing to donate to any cause, is feeding soup to the homeless it? Isn't there another place his energies could be utilized to help people who are actually helpable?

But he can't stand seeing people hungry. Including himself, which I suppose is why he ran into the left field corner to grab his Cha Cha Bowl the minute he got to the ballpark. The Cha Cha, yummy jerked chicken, rice, black beans and cole slaw, lasted well into the Fifth Inning.

The reason it lasted so long was that Plot and his friend Mike were sitting in the seventh row, right above the dugout. Foul balls could have been lethal. Eating and not paying attention was not possible, except between innings.

The Plotzers rolled over like Marge Schott's dog wanting his tummy rubbed. Braindead closer Armando "John Wilkes Booth" Benitez retired the Plotzers 1-2-3 to end the game, to a sea of raucous boos. Worse, there weren't even any foul balls hit into Plot and Mike's area. Plot had his mitt and was perfectly willing to knock over an old lady to get to a ball, but none came close.

One thing must be said about this stadium and this city, though: there is little in the world half as sweet as when they play "I Left My Heart in Saint Plotniko" as fans are marching out of the stadium. The fog is low and dances off the reflections of the left field lights hugging the baselines, and Tony Benn-nik sings, and every last person, in blue cap or orange cap, gets to remember how lucky we all are to live in this fabulous burg, even with society's questions unanswered, even with the Plotzers losing, even with war raging practically everywhere else on the planet, where a bowl of rice, beans, chicken and cole slaw would be like an unimaginable gift from God.