I ran into the gatekeeper this weekend. This is no where near as dramatic as that might sound. First, in my neighborhood is remains freezing cold and sometimes it snows. That said, Saturday was the first real taste of Spring we have had and my incredible partner decided that instead of spending the day watching basketball and kissing our dog on the forehead, we decided to break ground.
Around here the frozen tundra looks more like dead grass and frozen dog poop, but organic gardeners are serious people and we are nothing if not dedicated city plant growers. At some point I decided I would need a couple more bricks to finish off a tiny retaining wall I had been working on and I walked down to the community garden. As far as I can tell, whatever is there is for the taking, that is, if you can make it past the gatekeeper.
I had no clue who the gatekeeper was until last summer. It was sometime in July and again I found myself in need of something, maybe a red tomato or some garlic, but as far as I knew, the community garden was an open paradise to find fresh vegetables for free. So I walked down. There was a newly installed wooden gate, made out of obviously salvaged and decrepit wood and in front of it sat an elderly Jewish man who stopped me as I opened it and said, “where you going?”
I met the gatekeeper and learned some valuable lessons that day. First, other people growing vegetables in a community garden are not doing so for my personal nutrition. I also learned that a gatekeeper is a serious job for silly old men. That first time, as he allowed me entry, he quietly put his wrinkled old hand out in search of a tip, or a poll. I only had a ten dollar bill on me and when I told him that, he replied, “that will be sufficient.”
The rest of the summer, when I did venture down to the community garden, I made sure never to have anything larger than a quarter in my pocket. The gatekeeper did not seem to notice or care. He was always there, always opened the gate and every single time he held up his hand in search of a tip, or payoff or something. I would hand over the change in my pocket and enter.
It was getting to be bitterly cold this past saturday afternoon when I went to the community garden in search of some bricks and I was shocked to see the elderly Jewish gatekeeper sitting on an old aluminum fold out chair. He was wearing a nice vintage suit and a battered overcoat and as I approached he asked if I had any business in the community garden and I told him I needed a few bricks to finish a retaining wall. He opened the gate and ever so peacefully his right hand came out of his pocket and he held it flat, awaiting payment.
Now, it had been months since I had ventured to the community garden and I had only a 20 dollar bill in my picket, which I realized when I dug my hand into my pocket and retrieved it. I looked at it, as did the gatekeeper, and he snatched it before I could clasp my hand shut. We made stern eye contact and he said, “that should make up for last summer.” Then he sat back down on his old chair, pulled his wool beamy down over his ears, thrust his hands back into his pockets and closed his eyes, like an elderly Jewish Buddha.
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