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The Leg and the Goblet
Written By: Donna Rhodes | Issue: 2020/11 - November
This rant comes to you wreathed in the buttery scent of garlic rolls and, somehow, features an abandoned artificial leg – of course, it’s Donna’s Thanksgiving message.
Too tired to cook, my friend and I ordered Italian carry-out. On our way home, buttery garlic-rolls blasted the car’s interior. We had to snap on drool buckets to protect the upholstery. If the essential oil infuser manufacturers could invent a garlic butter essence, they’d be in the dough.
But in spite of the happy smells, my friend started sharing a dark story … as dark as a Goya painting, about lynchings and the Klan. I was trying to be polite and attentive, but I wanted to be home, sinking my teeth into a greasy glob of deliciousness. Let me think about dark things later, much later. I’d had just about as many of 2020’s gut-wrenching stories as I could manage.
In the midst of my euphoric saliva-tsunami and my friend’s super-sad stories, there appeared a gargantuan non-sequitur, this time like something from a Dali canvas . . . it was an empty, artificial leg sitting abandoned on a downtown street corner. No one attached to it. No one hanging near it. Yet there it was, standing at attention. I thought Rocket Raccoon (Guardians of the Galaxy) was playing a prank. “That guy’s gonna wake up and wonder where his leg went! Hahahahaha!”
I pointed at the leg and said, “Would you look at that? An artificial leg just parked there on a street corner. Are we in a Fellini film?”
My friend spotted it and said matter-of-factly, “Oh, no, that’s Arthur’s leg.”
I did a double-take. “Wait! You know whose leg that is?”
She replied, “Sure, it’s Arthur’s. I’ve seen it before.”
“Okay …I’ll bite. How would you know that particular leg belongs to an Arthur? And who the heck is Arthur?”
“Arthur’s a homeless guy and that’s his corner. We help him out from time-to-time.”
I felt like a gum-wad on the bottom of Arthur’s prosthetic shoe. My friend had been attentive to the needs of the homeless downtown. She didn’t just send money to a kitchen. She physically rescued people like Arthur. She knew Arthur so well, she recognized his leg.
I thought about the name, Arthur, as in King Arthur. As I visualized his prosthetic, it transformed into a goblet, a kind of Holy Grail.
This Thanksgiving, I am going to deliver a bushel of garlic rolls to Arthur’s corner, along with something for all the Arthurs. And maybe, if his leg stands guard, a bottle of bubbly might fit nicely inside.
Thanks to my friend for using Arthur’s leg to kick me in my woke.
Long Live the King!
