U.S. Patent 3917876
“Process for Production of a Simulated Meat Product.” A method of mixing protein-like substances (according to “specified protein concentrations”) with water (and a “lubricating substance”), boiling said substance in water for a specified time, and releasing the pressure in order to “puff” it into a meat-like shape.
Application: 2007 gun metal gray Chevy Malibu headed eastbound on Hennepin Avenue. Two eighth grade B-squad traveling basketball players and I hitch a ride with my dad. One player is a small forward who still needs to grow into his jacket; the other is a point guard with a really short haircut and acne. The small forward is Hosna. He sits next to me in the back seat. Charlie is the point guard. He sits in the front seat. My father drives.
Transcript:
“Hey coach, I thought you said that all your sons play basketball,” Hosna says.
“They do,” my dad says.
“Don’t look like it,” Charlie says.
“Yeah. This dude’s wearing a pea coat,” Hosna says, pointing at me.
“How do you know about pea coats?” I ask.
“Everybody knows about pea coats,” Charlie spits.
“When was the last time you played basketball, bro?” Hosna asks me. He pushes his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose like someone who hasn’t had glasses for a very long time. He brings his palm to his forehead in a movement akin to the one that accompanies the expression “Oh brother.”
I ask my dad when the last time was that I played with the men’s league at St. Charles Elementary School and Church.
“Just the other day,” my dad says. “He has the best jumper out of all my boys.”
“Bet,” Charlie says.
“Is he the cool one, coach?” Hosna asks, “Are you the cool one?”
“Naw, dude,” Charlie says, “His shit’s weak.” He turns around to look me in the eye. He has one green eye and one hazel eye. He laughs and says that he’s just fucking with me, and that I seem pretty cool but he could take me down.
“Down like how your girl was on my dick last night, coach,” Charlie adds. Hosna and my dad laugh. My dad’s laugh flows seamlessly into a mock-authoritarian “Hey, now.”
“Oh your girl was suckin’ my dick so good,” Hosna says. He has a little bit of snot dried underneath his nose. He breaks it up with his finger and wipes it on my dad’s seat.
We pass by a new bar on Larpenteur.
“Stouts?” I don’t recognize the name on the sign, “What was that place called before?” I ask. In my head I doubt that Stouts serves anything but light beer, but I don’t say anything about this after I consider the age of my audience.
“Chianti Grill,” Hosna says. “My grandma used to take us there after Church for brunch. Now they just got burgers and shit.”
I ask Hosna what his favorite restaurant in this area is, since that place closed.
“Right there,” Hosna says. He points to the Pizza Hut/Wingstreet combination restaurant on the opposite corner. “You can find me there five times a week,” he says with pride.
We swing around the back entrance of the Pizza Hut that, as it turns out, is situated at the bottom of Hosna’s apartment building. My dad stops the car and Hosna gets out. He says, “Hey coach, tell your girlfriend to meet me at the normal place.”
I ask him if that place is the Pizza Hut/Wingstreet, and Hosna says, “Yep,” and he slams the door. My dad waits for him to successfully enter his apartment complex. It gets much darker, and as we’re driving my dad has short, didactic conversations about 2-3 zone defense, breaking a press, and picking away from the ball with Charlie. Charlie mostly listens but he pretends like he’s not. Ten minutes later we pull up to Charlie’s apartment on the backside of the building where the garages and the pool are located.
“You did good today, Charlie,” my dad says as Charlie struggles to dislodge a bag that is nearly as big as he is from under the dashboard.
“See you on Thursday, coach,” Charlie says while his mom waves from behind the glass door to Charlie’s apartment and I switch to the front seat.
“I was pretty rough on that kid today, bud,” my dad says. I nod. I close the door and we drive off.
“Said some stuff that I wish I hadn’t,” he says.