We all met at this old Mediterranean restaurant about as intact as the Acropolis and twice as crowded.  I’d never been there before, but apparently it was Ben’s favorite, and he was the reason we had rallied together since his apartment building had burned down that afternoon.

Ben was the last to arrive.  We all hugged him, then sat back down.

“Well,” I said, “No visible charring!”

“Hey,” Kacey said, glaring at me, “Easy.”

“Ha, it’s fine,” Ben said.  “You should’ve seen it.  Orange, like fake orange, and the flames made this whooshing noise like a wind turbine.  I’m on the fourth floor, you know?  And it started on the first, so it got hot really fast.”

“Well what did you take with you?”  Kacey asked.  “Where’s all your stuff?”

Ben said, “You know, it was pretty cool, like that career thing they make you do in highschool, only real.  There I am, about to say goodbye to everything I own, and I had this moment of intense clarity.  It was easy.”

“So did you take anything?” I asked.

“Yeah.  One thing,” he said, and fished it from his pocket.

“That’s my harmonica!” Nick said.

“What about your stuff?” asked Kacey.

“Photos?  Art?” asked Alison.

“Your computer?” I asked.

“No, like I said, it was easy.  I don’t need that stuff.  The harmonica though, it’s not mine.  You can burn it, Nick, if you want, but I can’t do it for you.  Everything else?  It’s underbrush.  Clear it out!”

Nick examined the harmonica.  Then he held it to his lips.  I’d never heard him play, and I was surprised when he laid out a mean blues riff.  He kept playing, gaining confidence, building intensity, and then Alison started stomping her feet and pounding the table in time, making the salt and pepper shakers rattle and the silverware jump, and then we all joined in, until pretty soon the whole crowded restaurant was staring at us.  Then a guy at another table started clapping the rhythm as well, and then everyone was doing it, even the waitress and the cooks.

When Nick stopped playing, the whole restaurant cheered.  I looked at Ben.  He had his eyes closed, and I’d never seen real serenity until that moment, after everything he owned had burned down and he’d managed to save the one thing that really mattered to him, which wasn’t even his to begin with.

Old Jerusalem Restaurant

2976 Mission Street (b/t 25th & 26th)

San Francisco

(415) 642-5958

www.oldjerusalemsf.com