T-bones for Breakfast

Five bicycles leaned against each other in front of the trail to the bay beach. They formed an arresting foreground to a background of fog, placid gray water, and 50 or more so brown pelicans making one of their beautiful bombing runs.

Elmer and I approached the bicycles at six in the morning. They were obviously transportation for the homeless and their owners' jury rigging greatly impressed me: one bicycle had formerly been parts of two but now ingeniously transformed into a tandem via a hacksaw, nuts, bolts and baling wire. Another had a sawed-off basket from a small grocery cart mounted in back on an improvised square rack.

I heard voices down the embankment. I was about to meet the bicycles' riders and relished the opportunity.

We descended to the beach and beheld two homeless men in their 70s prepping a large stack of driftwood and fresh cedar kindling for a fire. I also saw a fifth of Seagram's 7 whiskey (half full) and an old brown mutt staring at Elmer but neither reacted.

I greeted the men. One of them commented on Elmer's good looks. I asked if they were getting ready to cook something for breakfast.

“Rib eyes!” one of them said.

“Rib eyes for breakfast?” I said.

“Sure, why not?”

Why not indeed.

Elmer and I continued on our way south across the mudflats where we romped for 45 minutes and I readied my mind for the day.

By the time we came upon the men, now three, the new addition significantly younger, the fire was raging but also squared off at the top to accommodate a grill.

And a grill was in use, a grill unlike any one I had ever used, seen or advertised.

The cook had detached the sawed-off basket from the bicycle, loaded it with approximately 20 steaks and placed the “grill” on top of the fire.

I had missed that show, but now observed the cook picking the basket off the fire (no gloves) and placing it on a driftlog. I could smell the steaks and hear them sizzle.

“Where in the world did you get that many steaks?” I said.

“I bought them,” said the cook.

“Rib eyes for breakfast!” I said.

“No, T-bones.”

I did the calculations: six steaks per man and two for the dog. There was no paper plates, cutlery or napkins anywhere. No condiments. They would sit around the fire, eat the steaks with their hands, and wash it down with whiskey next to a rising Coos Bay tide. I almost wished they'd invite me to join them. If they had, I would have eaten my first steak in 35 years.

Why did I surmise they would eat all the steaks for breakfast? Because they had no backpacks or bags around them or their bicycles. They had bicycled here from wherever they were living outdoors with only the steaks and kindling.

Yes, it was conceivable they could transport the leftovers away in seriously unconventional fashion: homeless men riding away on bicycles with steaks stuffed in their pockets.

No, too greasy and cumbersome. They were going to finish all the steaks.