Easter, Chaos and Sausages

Joe was cooking link sausages on a propane camp stove when he looked up and said the media had gone too far this time and ought to be reined in.

It was said absently. His attention was on the sausages he was turning slowly to brown on the underside. Their aroma lingered in the warm morning air.

“The media puts bad ideas into everyone’s head,” Fred agreed, sipping champagne from a plastic cup. “That’s why we have riots.”

“It sure has this time,” Dave said. He was watching Harold turn diced potatoes on a second camp stove.

“The media’s doing more harm than good,” Joe said. “It ought to be banned from everything.”

Fred complained that all you see, hear and read about these days is the trial and the riots, the trial and the riots, the trial and the riots. . . .

The conversation was muted. The subject had an unsettling effect.

“How’re you guys doing?” Penny called suddenly from the doorway of the house. Inside, eggs were being cooked and blueberry muffins warmed.

“Almost ready,” Joe said. He turned to Harold. “Put a little more grease on those spuds. They’ll cook faster.”

“That videotape never should have been made public,” Fred said. “It’s causing everyone to lose respect for the police.”

“The beating never should have happened in the first place,” Joe said. “It was wrong.”

“It was a modern-day lynching,” Robert said.

Easter.

Life bloomed in a sun-drenched corner of the San Fernando Valley. Scotch broom glowed in tones of amber and gold along a back fence. Lavender trumpet flowers reflected back the morning light.

It was a glorious day for a family gathering.

Children danced like sun sprites on the lawn, clinging to baskets filled with the blessings of a bunny that had hopped from the pages of a fairy tale.

Mothers and grandmothers gathered in small clusters to renew acquaintances and help with the preparation of a breakfast about to be served on tables set across an emerald lawn.

And the men clustered around the camp stoves in a corner of the yard to cook the meat and potatoes, and to talk about Rodney King, an impending verdict and what’s-going-to-happen-next.

I brought it up. I do this every Easter. Last year it was the execution of Robert Alton Harris. This year, calamity in our own neighborhoods.

Jesus taught us. You’ve got to know pain if you’re going to rise above it. Isn’t that what Easter’s all about?

I knew the men would stick it to the media this time, but that’s OK. You get used to it. Even the media blames the media.

But I still wanted to hear what a bunch of working guys thought about a case that has kept L.A. as jumpy as a whore in church for more than a year.

This was blue-collar talk. Harold’s a factory worker. Robert drives a truck. Joe works at an aircraft supply plant. Fred has a company of window washers. Russ is a millwright. Dave’s a shipping clerk.

Joe called the Rodney King beating a police riot. “The jury doesn’t dare let them go,” Fred said.

Harold moved the potatoes around on a skillet. If it frees ‘em, he said in a monotone, the suburbs might get it this time.

Penny was in the doorway again. “The eggs are ready!”

Joe began loading the sausages on to a platter. The trouble is, he was saying, the blacks want justice overnight. “You can’t correct 200 years of abuse just like that. It’ll take time. Burning down the city won’t do it.”

Harold asked for a second platter and began heaping on the potatoes. Penny and Virginia brought out the eggs. Jan and Jerry had the muffins. Peggy offered champagne and orange juice. Food was in abundance.

“I read that there’s more white poverty in the country than black or Latino,” Russ said.

“If I take a test for a job, I’m automatically 10 points behind any black or Hispanic,” Joe said. “They get the first shot at it. Is that fair?”

The children lined their baskets up along a porch. Each had a name on it. Travis, Shana, Nicole, Jeffrey, Justin, Chad, D.J. Linda and her mom saw that they had plates. Lisa nursed the baby.

Joe had a final comment. “It’s sad to think a videotape had to show us what was going on in the Police Department,” he said.

“If it hadn’t been shown,” Harold said, “they’d be doing it again.”

Fred shrugged. “Cops are only human.”

“But they’re supposed to be professionals,” Robert said.

It was quiet for a moment. Far off, a dog barked. Downtown, a jury was about to resume deliberation. We felt the pressure.

Joe shook off the uneasy silence. “Grab a plate,” he said. “Let’s eat.”