Catch-22

           I was stuck.

            If ever there was room between a rock and a hard place that was where I was. If a catch-22 existed, I embodied the concept. If but one man had experienced a no-win situation, I was that man. How could a win-win so quickly become a lose-lose? Allow me to recount the tale and perhaps you can answer for me.

            I got on and she began speaking to me immediately.

            “Is this your seat?” she asked, bright blue-green eyes sparkling in the dimly lit airplane cabin.

            She was obviously talking to me. There were 3 people in between us, she in her seat and I in the aisle, but she was obviously talking to me. Her eyes were locked into mine and her tone was pointed at my soul.

            I froze. I was a nervous high school nerd who had just been approached by the Homecoming Queen. My honest nature took over and I checked my ticket stub before responding. If I were cooler I would have just sat down. But I was a dork, so I checked my ticket.

            “6B” I said aloud.

            “That’s right here!” she celebrated, indicating the seat next to her. “Here, let me help.”

            She unbuckled her seatbelt and helped the little girl in the aisle to put her small carry-on bag under the seat in front of her, clearing the way for me to take my place. I stuffed my black duffel bag in the overhead compartment and squeezed into the seat that had been too small for me since the year after I finished my first graduate degree and began to make a respectable salary.

            She seemed to enjoy my extra pounds, though, and she settled in comfortably next to me. She was not shy about infringing upon the personal space to which each airplane passenger feels entitled. I had nearly grown accustomed to my hopes being dashed upon realizing that I would not be alone in my row on the plane, and that the bubble establishing my personal comfort zone was in fact mythical. She was just the opposite, though. She entered my bubble willingly, purposely, purposefully. She wanted to be in my space, and that set me at unease.

            I was not lacking in self-confidence, but that moment made me wonder what was wrong with her. Why was she all up on me like that? Didn’t she have a sense of personal pride? It made me want to scream!

            Move over, woman!

            But I held my cool.

            “Is Atlanta your final destination?” she asked, perfect white teeth matching her perfect white skin and perfectly bright eyes.

            “No, I’m headed to LA,” I said, squelching my discomfort and allowing only pleasant tones to enter my vocal response. “Where are you headed?”

            “Minneapolis,” she said, still smiling. I had to look away because she would not break her gaze.

            “Oh, is that where you’re from?” I asked, pretending to need something from my laptop bag.

            “Yup. What’s taking you to LA?”

            “Television,” I said, a little less reluctant than I should have been, considering the crazy broad I was sitting next to.

            To be honest, I was excited about my trip to Los Angeles. I had an important meeting to look forward to. I could feel myself drawing closer to accomplishing my lifelong dream of becoming a reputable writer for television and the big screen. I couldn’t help it if my excitement spilled over and erupted from my mouth like so many active volcanoes.

            “Oh, that’s awesome!” she said. Her enthusiasm sounded genuine. I found this even more off-putting. What did she care? I raised my guard a level higher.

            She waited. I figured it was my turn to feign interest as to the reason for her trip.

            “Why are you headed to Minneapolis?” I asked after a long pause.

            “One of my closest friends is getting married,” she said. “That’s where I’m from. So excited! So much fun!”

            “Yeah, that sounds great,” I said, again choosing to prevent my true feelings from creeping into my voice. She had no idea how little I cared about her friend’s wedding.

            “So television, huh? What do you do?”

            “I write and I produce,” I said.

            “Good afternoon, passengers, welcome to Delta flight 1784 to Atlanta, Georgia.” the flight attendant broke into our conversation.

            “Oh wow, that sounds like a lot of fun!” she continued. One would think she would have been deterred by the fact that the flight attendant was going through her safety standards speech, but this girl was undaunted by such a minor detail.

            “Yeah, it’s pretty cool. Got a big meeting with some producers tomorrow,” I said, still talking over the flight attendant.

            “So what’s the show?” She leaned into me intently, pressing her ample breasts even further into my right forearm.

            She needs a mint, I thought.

            “I can’t tell you,” I said. “I don’t have a non-disclosure agreement to give you.”

            “Oh I see,” she said, laughing. “If you tell me you have to kill me?”

            “Haha, not exactly. But if I see my idea on TV made by someone else then maybe I will come and kill you.”

            Her eyes twinkled again when I said that.

            I reached into my pocket and produced the small container of mints I almost always carried with me. I popped one into my mouth and pretended to begin putting the container back into my pocket. I pretended to realize something before my hand made it all the way to my pocket, and then I proffered the case.

            “Mint?” I asked.

            “Oh God, yes, I really need one. I don’t have any gum or anything.” She cheerfully took a mint and I exhaled for the first time in at least 40 seconds.

            “Our flight time from takeoff to touchdown will be 26 minutes,” the flight attendant continued.

            “Wow, I don’t remember this flight being that short,” I ejaculated.

            “Yeah, me neither. I take this flight all the time. I thought it was an hour.”

            In retrospect, I’m glad the flight was that short. She talked for the entire 26 minute flight, and I’m certain that if there flight were an hour and 26 minutes she would have had no problem finding material for that entire flight either.

            She was quite lovely to behold, though. Once her breath was no longer distracting me, I could focus on her features. She had silky brown hair and small hands. Her short jean skirt revealed legs that were shapely and tanned. She did not have the face of a supermodel, but she did this cute thing with her mouth when she talked, almost like she wanted to talk out of the side of her face. Her smile was enchanting, a fact more than slightly aided by her clear, beautiful eyes. She was also quite friendly and not as stupid as I assumed she would have to be when she started talking to me from across the plane. I couldn’t get serious about a White girl, but that wasn’t what she was after anyway.

            As we descended into Atlanta, the subject of our conversation changed from my television exploits and her new job in the Internet Marketing department of some company or other to her plans for her layover.

            “I get stuck in Atlanta a lot,” she began, playfully brushing her hair out of her eyes and looking away sheepishly.

            “Oh yeah?”

            “Yeah. I let them bump me from flights if the flight is overbooked. They usually give me a pretty nice hotel room, too. Food vouchers and everything.”

            “Oh yeah?”

            Hey eyes found mine again.

            “I think my flight is overbooked today. What is it, Friday?”

            “Yup.”

            “Yeah, it’s probably overbooked. I think I’ll let them bump me. I could stay in Atlanta overnight in a nice hotel room. It would be good to relax.”

            “Yeah, I can imagine,” I said, committing to nothing.

            “Do you like sushi?” she asked, trying a different path to what would undoubtedly lead to the same destination.

            “Yeah, I love sushi!” I said, too excited again.

            “Cause there was this great place I went to last time I was here. I can’t remember the name of it, though. Do you come through Atlanta a lot?”

            “Yeah, I do. I don’t eat airport sushi, though. I don’t trust it.”

            “Oh trust me, this place is really good.”

            The flight attendant interrupted us again.

            “Ladies and gentlemen, at this time could you please turn off all electronic devices as we descend into Atlanta? Please return all seat backs and tray tables to their proper upright and locked positions… blah blah blah…”

            Neither the newly employed recently graduated suburban White girl from the right side of the tracks next to me nor the perpetually single nerdy Black prospective television producer next to her had produced any electronic devices during the entire 26 minute flight. She was too busy staring into my eyes and trying to bewitch me, and I was too busy trying to be polite and trying to avoid her bewitching. I could feel my resolve weakening, though, as we descended into Atlanta.

            “Oh my God, they have this Philadelphia roll there…”

            “I love the Philly roll!” I exclaimed.

            “Right? With the cream cheese and the salmon?”

            “Yeah, it’s my favorite.”

            “Ok, now you have to let me take you there.”

            “Yeah? Have to, huh?”

            “Absolutely. Come on, break your airport sushi cherry,” she said.

            “But my connection…”

            “You said you have a 2-hour layover,” she said.

            “Right, but yours is only…”

            “I’m not taking that flight, remember? I’m gonna let them bump me. Free night in a hotel!”

            “Right, the hotel,” I said.

            So we got sushi. It wasn’t the best sushi I’d ever had, but it was pretty good. My stomach didn’t start hurting immediately, so that’s always a good sign. The check came, she insisted on paying, and I excused myself to the restroom. I didn’t have to go, but I wanted to give her an opportunity to retreat into the night if all she wanted was some company while she ate.

            When I came out of the bathroom, though, she was standing right there.

            “Ready?” she asked.

            “Yeah, I gotta catch this flight.”

            “No, silly. Are you ready for what’s next?” she leaned further into me than she had at any point previous during the evening.

            She needs another mint, I thought, catching a hint of the raw salmon she had just eaten.

            “What is next?” I asked.

            “You know. Free hotel. Come on.” She started walking toward the tram that connects the various airport concourses while holding her hand out behind her.

            I didn’t know what to feel. I didn’t know what to do. She turned again when I didn’t move.

            “Ya comin’?” she asked, light from her bright white teeth reflecting off her bright white skin.

            What would you do?

Co-Pretenders

I stood in line patiently at the Italian deli near my place of employment/living quarters in Pennsylvania.  I’d been driving around all day running errands trying to decide what I wanted to eat.  When I passed the deli the second time, on the way back to my temporary home on campus, I realized I felt like a New York-deli-style sandwich.

            I reviewed the offerings presented by the menu.  There was a ‘hot sandwiches’ category, a ‘special sandwiches’ category, a ‘grilled panini’ category, and a ‘salads’ category, all posted on the wall.  As I stood behind the two gentlemen in front of me, both of whom were being helped, I noticed that both of the deli workers sported New York Yankees baseball caps.  I wore a similar blue and white cap demonstrating support of my lifelong favorite baseball team.  I’d been to the deli once before and knew that it was owned by transplanted New Yorkers; however my previous visit did not reveal their allegiance to the Bronx Bombers.

I looked at the menu again with renewed interest and noticed that some of the items were named for famous Italians and others for famous New Yorkers.  They had ‘The Godfather’, ‘The Raging Bull’, ‘Soprano’s Special’, and ‘Rocky Marciano’s Knockout’, all special sandwiches; there was ‘Mike Piazza’s “Catch a Local Favorite,”’ and ‘Joe Torre’s Roast Beef Italiano,’ both hot sandwiches; there were even dishes bearing only a first name, no doubt the inventions of deli employees or regulars: ‘Michelle’s Delight’, ‘Doreen’s Delight’, and ‘Nancy’s Salad Sampler’, all salads.

A name that was noticeably absent from the list was that of the captain of the Yankees, my favorite sports figure, Derek Jeter.  Of course, Jeter isn’t Italian, a trait all the other namees shared, but to a Yankees fan that shouldn’t matter.  It was my turn to order.

“Half pound of pastrami,” I said, partially to kill time while I thought about my sandwich choice, partially to cross off the last item on my mental list of groceries.

“Anything else?” the lone remaining deli worker asked.  Sometime during my musing the other employee had retreated, perhaps in favor of more pressing duties.

“I notice you don’t have a sandwich named after Derek Jeter,” I said with a sly smile on my face.

“Alright, you got me,” the worker said with a chuckle and a glance at my sideways-turned baseball cap.  “You from New York originally?”

“Yeah,” I said proudly.

“Yeah, me too,” he said.  “Not too many of us around.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“What made you come down here?”  He made the words “down here” sound particularly distasteful as though the area in which we stood was a major step down for a New Yorker.

In many ways the deli man’s implication was accurate.  The deli was located in a very rural section of Pennsylvania, a little less than an hour’s drive from Philadelphia.  The town did not have a stadium or a theater, a major highway or a major taxi cab company.  It was an area where vehicle ownership was a necessity.  In these ways one might say that The City That Never Sleeps was vastly superior.  In this town, however, drivers did not honk their horns unnecessarily, the roads were well-paved and without potholes, and people were generally courteous to each other.  New York wasn’t superior in all areas.

“I’m stupid,” I said still smiling.  “I do want a sandwich,” I said, regaining my focus, “but I’m not sure…”

“You don’t have to get something from the menu,” Deli Man said.  “You can have anything you want.”

“If I make up a sandwich will you call it the Derek Jeter?” I asked, only half joking.

“Sure,” he said.

It was then that I realized Deli Man wasn’t really a Yankee fan.  He wore the hat, he had the manager’s name on his menu, and he came from the city, but he didn’t love the team.  He may have watched some games or even followed the team’s success (or lack thereof), but he wasn’t a fan.  A Yankee fan would have had some memorabilia in the store; a Yankee fan would have been excited about the proposition of adding another Yankee’s name to the menu; a Yankee fan would have had a current Yankee player up there already, instead of merely a ‘Steak Bambino’ hot sandwich in honor of Babe Ruth; a Yankee fan would have been excited about my being a Yankee fan – this guy only cared that I was a New Yorker!

“Let’s see,” I said, this time looking at the menu of available meats and cheeses which sat atop the large refrigerated glass case Deli Man stood beside.

“Let’s have… corned beef, peppercorn turkey, muenster cheese… lettuce, tomato, onions, mayonnaise, salt, pepper, and oregano.”

“That sounds good,” Deli Man said as he opened the case.

He filled my pastrami order first, carefully laying each slice of the salted cured meat on the parchment paper itself, not stacking the meat carelessly like they do in most grocery stores.  The care with which he handled my order reminded me why I preferred to get my lunch meats and cheese from delis rather than supermarkets.  He cut a predetermined number of slices and weighed them on the deli scale.  It was a little over half a pound, but I didn’t care.  The meat would not go to waste.

“What part of New York are you from?” Deli Man asked me while he wrapped my pastrami.

“Brooklyn,” I said a little too proudly.  I chided myself for forgetting what I called my “New York demeanor” – sounding a little annoyed every time you spoke.  The pride in my voice made my being from Brooklyn seem like a ring rather than a watch: an adornment rather than a necessity or a reality.  It was the moment I gave away the fact that, although I had been born in Brooklyn, I was not really a New Yorker.

“I’m from Staten Island,” Deli Man said, un-phased by my slip.  It was only after revealing my own semi-New Yorker-status that I considered the possibility that he was like me: born in the city to a New York family, but not raised there.  He had neither the accent nor the demeanor.

“My uncle used to own a pizza place on 46^th and...” he stopped making my sandwich for a moment to think, “… 122^nd?”  He could have been making the blocks up, I had no idea.

“Oh yeah?” I said, trying my best to limit my speech to avoid further non-New York revelations.

“Yeah,” he continued making the sandwich.  “My dad got transferred out here for his job a while back and I opened up one of these in Montgomery County.  A few months later I opened up this one.”

“Ah, so you have an excuse,” I said.  It was a lame reference to the question he had asked me earlier as to why I was in this Podunk town.

The joke was lost on him.  He was concentrating on making my Jeter sandwich.  He was doing a fantastic job.  For the second time since I had entered the deli I reprimanded myself silently, this time for considering Subway before pulling into the deli.  Subway advertises sandwich artists, but too often the “artist” in question is a pimple-faced high school kid making minimum wage who has no real concern for the quality of my sandwich.  This guy, however, this man, this Deli Man, cared about his work.  This was clearly his shop; it was his business, his livelihood.  Since I had been standing there a woman had walked by two or three times, walking to the cash register in the front of the deli, then to the back room, and back again.  She had emerged from the back with a baby in her arms.  At one point she stopped and said “say hi to daddy” to the child, who gurgled his excitement.  Deli Man was a father who fed his son based on the satisfaction of his customers.  Deli Man wanted me to be happy with my sandwich, and he took the time necessary to make sure that would happen.  Deli Man was a sandwich artist.

“Yeah, not many of us around,” Deli Man said again as he was wrapping up my sandwich.

I picked up my package of pastrami from off the counter where Deli Man had placed it.  He handed me my sandwich with a sincere look in his eye.

“Let me know how it is.  Then when you come in and order a Jeter I’ll know what you want.”

“Sounds good,” I said, returning his earnest gaze.

“Nice to meet you,” he said, placing the hoagie in my hand.

I lingered for just a moment, trying to think of the appropriate thing to say.  We were both liars.  He was not a Yankee fan; I was not a New Yorker.  But in that moment, I did not hold his abstracted disinterest in the only baseball team that ever mattered to me against him because he was a New Yorker.  In that moment, he did not hold the fact that I obviously hadn’t been reared in New York against me because I reminded him of home.  In that moment it didn’t matter that neither of us was exactly what the other wanted.  By being a New Yorker, he was a co-Yankee fan; by being a Yankee fan, I was a co-New Yorker.  We were co-pretenders.

Lex Talionis: An Eye For An Eye

            I had him right where I wanted him. I was looking for the chance to get him back, and there it was, right in front of me. I was going to pay him back and it was going to be sweet.

            A few weeks prior, the late 50s White man sat in my section at the restaurant. He was accompanied by 3 of his late 50s White friends. Judging by their attire, their day was built around golf: either they had just played or they were planning to play later. Perhaps even both. I saw the hostess seat me and I put on my best table-greeting smile.

            “How y’all this afternoon?” I asked in my high tenor voice, placing a menu in front of each of them.

“It’s still morning,” he quipped with a sidelong look at his lunch companions.

“You’re so right,” I conceded without looking at my watch. I didn’t care if he was right or not and it was too stupid an issue to argue over. “Well then, good morning to y’all. My name’s BillyJoe and I’ll be taking care of y’all this afternoon. Would you like to hear our specials today?”

            “No specials,” he barked.

I turned a little more toward him in deference to his leadership of the table.

“Alright, well that’s alright. Were y’all wantin’ to start off with some drinks?”

“Water,” the leader said while holding up four fingers and without looking up from his menu.

“Alright. I’ll be right back with that for y’all.”

I went to the back of the restaurant to retrieve their drinks. It was a slow lunch shift and I only had the one table. Mandy didn’t have any tables at all, so she felt no need to move from her position leaning against the wall when I saw her.

“Mandy,” I said in greeting.

“BillyJoe,” she returned.

“I don’t know about this table,” I said. “I think they’re in a bad mood.”

“Least you have a table,” she retorted.

I shut up and left with my drinks. I wasn’t trying to rub it in; I was just making conversation.

“Here are y’alls waters,” I said, placing the 4 glasses on the table. I gingerly laid a straw next to each glass, purposely taking my time so the guys wouldn’t feel rushed to order. “Do y’all need a couplea more minutes or do y’all already know what you’re wantin’ to get today?”

“We’ll let you know,” the table leader said with a wave of his hand. He still refused to look up from his menu.

“What’dya think, boys?” I heard the leader say as I turned and walked away. “A little sugar in the tank there?”

The man’s 3 lunch companions tried to suppress their laughter, but they did not try very hard. For my part, I kept walking to the back where I could pretend that didn’t happen and I could keep an eye on them so I’d be ready when they were ready to order.

After a few minutes, the table leader raised his left hand in the air. I took it as a signal of his readiness and returned to the table. He looked up and saw me approach. He looked at his friends, perhaps to make sure they were watching him, then snapped his finger twice and put his hand down.

What am I, a dog!? I wanted to shout. But I maintained my composure and brushed it off.

“You gentlemen ready?”

“Gentlemen?” the table leader asked. “You think we’re gentle?” He looked up at me from his menu. “Well! Do you?” It was all his friends could do to keep from keeling over with laughter.

“Are you ready to order?” I asked, mostly because I wasn’t sure how to respond to his question.

He stared at me for a few more seconds, perhaps to see if I’d crack under the pressure, but he looked at his menu again after realizing that I wasn’t going to budge.

“Yeah, we’re ready. You seen my hand in the air, didn’t ya?” he said. His friends chuckled again but said nothing. “These three will have the country-fried steak with gravy,” he paused. Through my peripheral vision I could see him looking at me as I wrote the order down. “And I’ll have the ribeye, medium rare. You get all that, PeggySue?”

Another pregnant pause.

“What was your name again?” His friends could barely contain their glee as they laughed at his attempts to embarrass me.

“BillyJoe, sir. My name’s BillyJoe. And yes, I have your order. Three orders of country fried steak and one ribeye steak cooked medium rare. Is that correct, sir?”

“No, Billy Clinton it’s not correct. I said country-fried steak with gravy. I didn’t hear you say nothing ‘bout no gravy when you read that back to me now did I?”

He seemed genuinely angry with me, although I was relatively certain that he was still showing off for his friends. I chose to maintain my composure in the face of his antics and I responded calmly instead of trying in turn to embarrass him.

“Well, sir, the country-fried steak automatically comes with gravy. All I have to do is say to the kitchen ‘make me a country-fried steak’ and they’re sure ‘nough gonna put gravy on her.” I nodded to verify my point. “Yes they are. So you see, I don’t have to write that one down ‘cause they already know it.”

I shut up quickly before I gained some momentum and stopped fighting my resolve to engage the man in a battle of the wits, a battle for which he seemed poorly equipped.

I paused long enough to let him respond. When I saw that he was not going to I made sure to speak before the silence became awkward.

“Alright, I’ll get those orders right in for y’all then. You see we’re none too busy, so it shouldn’t be but just a few minutes before y’all are eatin’ those steaks.”

I took the menus that the table leader had stacked near him and walked to the back of the restaurant again to punch in their orders. While at the computer, my mind drifted to all the different ways I could make them pay for what they were doing to me.

I can spit in their food, I thought. Or even better, I can have Julio spit in their food, then tell them our Mexican busboy spit in your food just after they pay. I stuck my hand in my pocket to verify the presence of the tiny bottle of eye drops I usually carried with me. I can sprinkle a few drops of this in their food, I thought, a pleasant daydream beginning to form in my imagination. They’ll have the runs for the rest of the day! That’ll destroy the wonderful day of golf they have planned for themselves.

“Haha!” I laughed out loud at my musings. Of course, I didn’t do any of those things. I had never been the vindictive type, and I didn’t want the reputation spreading around our small town that BillyJoe over at The Grillery was poisoning his guests. My career as a server would be over in no time at all if that were to happen.

I was in the habit of looking around the restaurant to see if any of my co-workers could use any help when things were slow and my tables were taken care of. I emerged from the back of the restaurant with exactly that in mind when –

“Hey PeggySue!” the leader of the demon table shouted. “Where’s my salad?”

I quickly debated whether or not I’d respond to him. I knew he was talking to me, but I considered the value of refusing to respond to a name that was not my own. However, judging by how loudly he yelled, I thought it better to shut him up as quickly as possible. I walked briskly over to the table.

“May I help you, sir?” I asked, the sincerity of my smile having faded long ago.

“Where’s my salad, boy?”

His tablemates were not fighting laughter, which told me that he wasn’t joking. He was genuinely angry because I hadn’t yet brought him the salad that he never ordered. The other fact that was lost on him was that he’d barely given me time to ring the orders in. Even if he had ordered the salad it would have taken longer for it to be ready than the amount of time he’d given me.

“Sir, you ain’t never ordered no salad,” I said calmly.

“Well ain’t it included? Like the gravy on these boys’ country-fried steaks?” he indicated his nodding tablemates with a wave of his hand as he spoke.

“No, sir, it ain’t included. I’d be happy to add a salad to your order if you’d like one.” I felt my patience dissipating and I knew I had to walk away from their table soon, before my anger boiled over and I did something irrational.

“No I don’t want no salad if I gotta pay for it.”

Cheap bastard, I thought as I walked away.

I retreated again to the back of the restaurant, having lost all will to help any of my shiftmates who might have needed assistance. I looked for Mandy briefly, but she wasn’t in the back of the restaurant. I the back door of the restaurant, but she wasn’t taking a smoke break either. I broke one of my own rules and sat down, waiting for my food to come up. I thought regaining the composure I needed to refrain from choking one of my customers was worth whatever consequences would befall me for sitting down.

I sat for a few minutes, intentionally thinking of nothing. I didn’t pay attention to the warmth of my face because I knew that if I did I would have no choice but to think of the reason I was angry in the first place. I didn’t think it would be beneficial in my attempt to calm down, so I just sat on a stool, stared at the wall and waited.

“Order up!” Reggie shouted, sliding 3 orders of country-fried steak into the window.

“Order up!” Lindsey shouted almost immediately after, producing a ribeye steak.

Is Lindsey on grill now? I asked myself.

“Since when are you on grill?” I asked her as I loaded my four plates onto a serving tray. I tried not to think about the fact that I was merely delaying the inevitable by speaking to her brifly.

“Today’s my first day!” she beamed. She had an infectious smile that helped immeasurably. I felt my heart warm a little as I turned toward the door to the front of The Grillery.

“Steak looks great!” I said. Honestly, I’d seen better but I felt as though I owed her one for helping me out with that smile.

I held the tray high in the air, over my left shoulder, as I walked back toward my table.

My table.

My table in my restaurant.

Who do these guys think they’re fooling with? I thought. You can’t come in my house and kick my dog and expect no retribution. I’m a man! They will pay for this!

Despite the inner turmoil, I kept my visage pleasant. I smiled as I sat a plate in front of each of the country-fried steak recipients. I served the ribeye last out of habit. He was sitting in the seat that was closer to me on my right side of the booth. It was position 4 at a 4-top table.

“Of course you serve me last,” he grumbled. He didn’t direct the comment at me, but he obviously wanted me to hear the complaint.

“Will there be anything else for y’all right now?” I asked, praying that he’d say no.

“No, that’ll be all, PeggieSue.”

I walked away quickly as the whole table exploded in boisterous laughter. I resumed my previous position, sitting on a stool in the back of the restaurant. I waited a decent interval, 8 minutes or so, before checking on my table again. I didn’t want to go back out there until they were finished. I didn’t think it would take them very long to finish because the other 3 men at the table had yet to utter a word. It didn’t seem to me that it was a table that would waste time conversing while they ate. Before I went back out there I printed their check, put it in a book, and stuck it in my apron. I also picked up a pitcher of ice water, in case someone needed a refill.

“How are we all doin’?” I asked, pouring water for two of the silent guys.

“We’ll take a check from ya,” the leader said.

I placed it on the table right in front of him, avoiding his eyes as he peered at me.

“How was everything?” I asked, intentionally looking only at the three men from whom I’d heard nothing. Still, they refused my silent invitation to speak.

“Everything’s fine,” he looked at the check and reached into his pocket. I watched as he pulled out two 20-dollar bills and a five. “You have a good day, PeggieSue.” The group got up and walked out of the restaurant.

I looked at their total again before cleaning the table.

$43.12, I said in my head. They tipped me less than 2 dollars.

Since bad guests came with the territory of being a restaurant server, I put the experience in the back of my mind, but not out of my head completely. A few weeks later I was sitting in one of the night classes I attended at the local community college when who else walked in but the very gentleman who had been my terribly rude guest that day. I remembered him instantly and watched him as he sat in the very center of the front row.

Oh, you will pay, I thought. I don’t know how yet, but you will pay.

As a rule, I took very good notes in class. I always brought my laptop to class, and each day I opened a new document for that day’s notes. My notes were spectacularly organized, by both date and subject matter, and since I typed them all I was able to catch nearly everything the professor said. I was a great typist, perhaps because my handwriting was so bad and I almost had to type things to know what I had written.

I made it a point to tell the members of every class that I attended that I had no problem emailing them the notes from a given day if they were absent or if they misplaced their own notes. I told them that I didn’t want to print the notes because of the cost factors involved, but I’d email as many sets of notes as they wanted. The professors of our community college always passed out a roster sheet to every person registered for class that included their first and last name as well as their email address. Thus, everyone had my email address and could simply write me if they wanted my notes.

I had to know his name, the man who deserved my retribution, so I paid close attention when the role was called for a few days to make sure I knew who he was.

Edward Potts. I took out a highlighter and marked his name on my roster sheet so there would be no confusing it. I was ready. All he had to do was put himself in a position where he needed my help and I would get him back.

Everyday I watched closely to see where he might need me. His attendance was good and he seemed to follow the lectures pretty well. I began to grow a little dismayed, thinking that perhaps the golden opportunity to execute payback would pass me by.

Then one day, to my sheer delight, Edward Potts was absent from class. I made sure to take extra careful notes that day, not missing a single point of importance from the lips of our able-minded professor. I created graphics and charts to coincide with the information being conveyed. I laid the notes out in the most vibrant, colorful way I knew how, making it not only extraordinarily informative, but also quite pleasing to read. It was the best set of notes I’d ever taken.

Later that night, after class, I checked my email. Sure enough, there was a message from Edward Potts. It read:

To BillyJoe:

I’m Edward. I sit in the front row of your class. I didn’t come to class today, so I wanted to get your notes from you. Could you please email them to this address? Thank you for your help.

Edward Potts.

My response was direct, right to the point:

No.

BillyJoe.

I slept like a baby that night.

The next evening after class, Edward Potts approached me.

“Hi, BillyJoe? I’m Edward Potts. I sent an email to you last night…”

“Yes?” I said, not looking up from my computer.

“Maybe you didn’t understand. I didn’t want you to print the notes, just to email them.”

“Oh, no, I understood,” I said, intentionally talking too loud so the other students in class could hear me. “I know what you want and I’m not helping you.” I look up on the last word and spat it at him, as though the very concept of him was detestable to me.

“I don’t understand…” he said, genuinely bewildered.

“Oh, do you not remember me?” I asked, any ounce of sophistication I may have had completely lost in the sweetness of the victory I was experiencing. I stood and extended the drawl on nearly all of my words as I jeered him. “You came to my restaurant, The Grillery, a few weeks ago with your 3 little old man friends, and you sat in my section, and you were just so rude to me that I didn’t know what to do with myself, and you treated me like a piece of crap, and you tipped me a dollar 88 on a 40 dollar ticket, and you called me PeggySue the whole time, and now you want my help? I’M NOT HELPING YOU!!”

I paused to revel in the moment, relishing the anguished realization on his embarrassed face.

“Maybe next time you’ll be nice to the little people because a little person in one situation can be pretty big in another.”

I was breathing hard after my rant and I stood there, defying him to speak, while I caught my breath.

He looked at me for a few seconds before a light went off behind his eyes. He recognized me. Realizing that his case was hopeless, he turned on his heel and walked out of the classroom.

The next night the teacher asked the class to draw a line through his name on our rosters. He was so embarrassed that he had dropped the class the week before the final exam.

It was a victory for mistreated servers everywhere.

Bizarro

            Honey is making a huge mistake.

Her parents have discussed and they have drawn this conclusion.  Their daughter is making the biggest mistake of her life.  She has so much talent, so much to offer the world.  So many different directions she can go with her life, and this is what she chooses?  This is definitely the wrong thing for her to do.  Sure she is good at her chosen field, but in their eyes it just isn’t a reputable profession.  It just isn’t something a woman should do for the rest of her life.  How can a person be an asset to society when she’s a singer?  They see at it as a cop-out profession.  Singing is something people do when they are too lazy to apply themselves to something worthwhile.

            Of course there are the obvious advantages to the field: exposure to different places through touring; the chance to work with some very talented and famous people; the money she could earn.  But it isn’t as if what they want her to do won’t earn a decent wage.  Besides, money should not be everything, or even the most important thing.  Traveling is an option for anyone in any field if he or she has some money set aside and some time off; and there are talented people in their chosen fields as well.  Why can’t she just do like some of her friends and follow in her parents’ footsteps?

            Maybe we should let her go her own way, Dad suggests.  Not if that way is wrong, Mom says.  Mom has always been the strong one in the family.  Look at what has happened with Junior, Mom reminds her husband.  He was planning to be a doctor until we talked him out of it.  Look at how successful he is now that he changed his mind.  His name is known all along the eastern seaboard.  As always, Mom reminds Dad that they are right.

            Well, should we wait for Junior to come home again? Dad wonders.  If we do it that way we would have the advice of Honey’s big brother to bolster our argument, as well as the viewpoint of a person in her age group who has recently gone through the same decision making process.  Mom agrees that it would be a good thing to have Junior there and on their side, but she doesn’t think they have the luxury of that much time.  Junior is so busy now with all of his successes, so there is no telling when he’ll be home again.  No, Mom and Dad will have to handle this one on their own.

            So they sit in the living room waiting for Honey to come home from school.  As soon as she walks through the door Dad begins with the same line of questioning he has confronted her with just about every day.

            “Finally home from that God-forsaken place, huh, Honey?” Dad says.

            “You mean school?  Jeez, Dad, just because you and Mom dropped out doesn’t mean I should too,” Honey retorts.

            “Not just your Mother and me; your uncles and aunts, your grandparents.  You come from a long line of people who realized long before they finished high school that it was a waste of time.  They’re just filling your mind with foolishness.  What’s that new math you’re studying?”

            “You mean pre-calculus?”

            “Yeah, that’s the one.  What’s the point of all of that?  In my opinion, anything past basic arithmetic is a waste of time.  What are you going to do with all of that extra stuff in real life?  No, you learn the basics in elementary school, then you hit the streets as quickly as possible, that’s what I say.”

            “Amen to that, brother,” Mom chimes in.

            “And speaking of getting out there in the world, have you decided what you’re going to do about this singing thing?” Dad askes.

            “What do you mean ‘singing thing’?  Yes, I’ve decided.  I’ve decided to pursue it.  I told you guys that weeks ago, but you won’t get it through your heads.  I don’t want to be like you!  I’ve got my own path to follow!”

            Honey’s biting words are too much for Mom, and she leaves the room sobbing quietly.  Shortly thereafter she can be heard in the other room, quietly talking to herself about her daughter’s stubbornness.

            “See what you’ve done now,” Dad says.  “You know your Mother hates it when you talk like that.”

            “I know.  I’m sorry.  I never wanted to hurt you guys, but I have to do what’s right for me.  The things that worked for the two of you in your lives aren’t necessarily the things for me.”

            “Look at your brother,” Dad tries.  “We talked him out of the whole medicine thing he had going on and look how happy he is.  Look at your aunts and uncles.  Look at your grandparents.  Look at your friends’ parents.  Who out of them is not happy with their life choices?”

            Honey sits there for a minute contemplating her father’s words.  She racks her brain trying to think of someone she is close to who isn’t happy with his or her job.  She must admit that she cannot think of anyone.  Just as she is about to speak, she remembers someone.

            “Lacy’s Mom!” she says triumphantly. “Lacy’s Mom hates her job!”

            Dad is taken aback.  This is the first he’s heard of anyone who doesn’t love her job.  He is almost afraid to ask, but he has to know.

            “What does she do for a living?” he asks reluctantly.

            “I don’t remember… oh wait.  She’s a teacher,” Honey says, her voice falling with the realization.

            “Well, there you go,” Dad intones, pounding the arm of the couch as he speaks.  “Just another example of someone who did the wrong thing with her life and she’s paying the price for it to this day.”

            Honey sits and thinks for another few minutes.  Dad gets up and goes to the kitchen for a drink.  He knows that when he returns she will have changed her mind.  The conversation went the same way with Junior 4 years earlier.

Honey knows she is expected to have her mind made up by the time he returns.  She is torn because her parents taught her to follow her heart, but they also taught her to make informed and intelligent decisions.  Her heart is with music, but her mind suggests she should listen to the sound advice of her parents.  When she hears the refrigerator close in the kitchen she knows she only has a few seconds to make up her mind.  She comes to a decision just before Dad comes around the corner with the glass held to his mouth.

            “So what do you think, Honey?  Have you come to a decision?” Dad asks with a knowing grin.

            “What decision?  I am a singer and there is nothing I can do about it,” Honey replies.

            Abruptly Dad hurls the half-empty glass across the room, shattering it into a thousand pieces and staining the once white wall with a deep red wine.

            Honey is frozen with fear at her normally reserved father’s sudden emotional outburst. It is a side of him she had rarely unless he intends to become violent.

            “I just don’t see why you can’t take a respectable profession!” Dad ejaculates.  “There have been so many advances in our field! It’s nothing like it was even 10 years ago.  It’s the wave of the future and we just want you to get on board while there are still a few good corners to stand on.  Look at your Mother.  She started off just a regular prostitute, but now she has responsibilities.  She looks after a lot of the other hookers, she collects money for her pimp, and she even gets a new pair of shoes every 6 weeks.  Look at your brother and me.  We have made a lot of money being good pimps.  I know you can’t be a pimp, what with your being a woman and all, but you can still be a good ho.”

            Honey can’t help thinking about the decision she has to make a little more.  Dad’s speech touches her in a place she has always known, but always resented.

            “Yeah, I guess,” Honey mumbles.

            “I just want you to promise me one thing,” Dad says, suddenly calm once again.

            “Yeah, what’s that?”

            “Promise me you’ll think about it some more.  I just want you to make an informed decision about your career.  Sex is the wave of the future.  Even if you decide you don’t want to stand on the corner like your Mother and aunts, there are many other sexually related fields to go into.  There’s pornography, there’s stripping, there’s phone sex… there are even several excellent call girl services in the area.  Just promise me you’ll think about it.  Won’t you think about it, Honey?”

            “Ok, Dad.  I’ll think about it.  Well, I’m going to go to my room and do my homework now, ok?”

            With that, Honey gets up from the couch and goes into her bedroom.

            Dad waits for her to close the door before he goes back into his bedroom where Mom is already loading the shotgun.

            “She wouldn’t change her mind, huh?” Mom asks already knowing the answer to the question.

            “Nope.  Looks like we’re going to lose another one,” Dad says regretfully.

            “I thought we could convince her.”

By this time Mom is finished loading the shotgun.  She cocks it and begins to walk toward Honey’s room.  She pauses and looks at the pictures that line the opposing walls in the master bedroom.  She glances quickly at the pictures on the right: the family members who made the right decision.  She lingers, however, with the pictures on the left: the children they had to force (with the same shotgun) out of the stubbornness that had plagued them.

“She’s going to have to learn the hard way that there are consequences for not listening to Mommy.”

The Lottery

            Dwayne was one of five contestants.

They sat, waiting for what was inevitable.

            They were finalists; one of them would win.

            “Where are you going to go if you win?” the old woman asked.

            “Atlanta,” Dwayne said.  “What about you?”

            “Boston,” she said.

            “I’m heading to Toronto,” the young woman said.  She was confident at first, then became reserved when she saw the collective reaction of her competitors.

            “Hopefully…”
            Dwayne looked at the book the middle-aged man next to him was reading.  It was not familiar.  The man looked up and saw the question on Dwayne’s face.

            “It’s about a man who burns books.  It’s set in the future.  The man is a fireman – he starts fires instead of putting them out.”

            Dwayne smiled and nodded.  He’d lost interest after the man said it was set in the future – the present was all that mattered to Dwayne.  He was focused on his chances of winning.

            “Where you hoping to go?” Dwayne asked, mostly in an effort to cover the fact that he hadn’t been listening.

“Seattle,” the man mumbled.  He must have known that he had the least chance of winning this lottery.  Seattle was the destination that was furthest from where they sat.

“Oh,” Dwayne said to him sympathetically.  “That’s rough.”

He turned away and watched the young woman wipe her daughter’s mouth.

“You have to use your napkin, Sweetie,” she said.

He looked down at the little girl’s half-eaten slice of pepperoni pizza and recalled his own pseudo-Italian treat with a shudder.  The airport parlor professed to serve it New York style, but it was more like freezer-burned then re-heated grocery store brand pizza.

As they sat there, in silence, waiting for the announcement, a bond seemed to form.  Suddenly, Dwayne cared about the middle-aged man getting to Seattle.  The young woman wanted the old woman’s trip to Boston to take place.  And the little girl – the little girl offered him a bite of her cold pepperoni pizza.

(He took it.)

It was then, after the forming of the bond, that Dwayne began to calculate.  The eyes of his friends/opponents told him they were doing the same.

The old woman could not win.  Society did not care enough about her.  She would wait all night and no one would offer her as much as a stale donut or even a cup of bad coffee.

The young woman would have been a shoo-in if she were prettier.  She had intelligence in her eyes, no streaks in her natural blond hair, breasts large enough to be noticeable, but not so big as to seem augmented.  But the child and the conspicuously absent wedding ring destroyed the image of perfection she may have had and cast a disparaging shadow upon her.  If she were prettier, the kid wouldn’t matter.

So, as he saw it, it was between himself the other man.  These things are supposed to be random, but Dwayne knew better.

Once he had dismissed the ladies, Dwayne turned his attention to his remaining competition.  The man was already looking at him.  Apparently he and Dwayne had drawn the same conclusion about the rest of their competition.  The man gave Dwayne a passive once-over and turned away grinning: he thought he’d won

Dwayne, for his part, was more meticulous.  He studied his competitor thoroughly:

The man’s clothes were immaculate.  The contestants had been waiting (im)patiently for several hours already, yet somehow the man’s tan slacks maintained their crease.  The man had downed three cups of coffee (that Dwayne had seen), yet his jacket remained spotless.  The man’s briefcase was real leather; his watch was a real Rolex; his ring had a real diamond in it.

Dwayne was not dressed so impressively.  He had come to the event presumptuously expecting to travel, so he’s dressed for travel: loose-fitting sweat pants, a long sleeve t-shirt and a sideways turned baseball cap.  His authentic Movado watch was hidden by his sleeves because he hadn’t purchased the watch for them – he’d bought it for himself.

The man was an obviously successful late middle-aged White man.  The man proudly wore his fraternity ring in lieu of a wedding band.  The man’s wing tip shoes reflected a glare into Dwayne’s retina that made Dwayne want to shade his eyes.

But he didn’t.

He didn’t because Dwayne didn’t want to deceive the man into thinking he was intimidated by the man’s dapper appearance.  He wasn’t intimidated because he’d spotted the chink in the man’s armor.

The white man’s hair piece was slightly, but noticeably, off-center.  Though it may be considered a minor oversight by some, it represented dual shortcomings.

First, it represented the man’s need to fit in with what was expected of him.  The hair piece represented a fear of not fitting in.  It was not a fear that Dwayne shared.

The second shortcoming represented was the ability to make a major oversight.  With a hairpiece, a few inches to the left can be so noticeable as to become excruciating to witness.

Besides – a real Rolex, a real diamond, real leather… fake hair?  Authenticity cannot be purchased.

By Dwayne’s calculations, he’d won.

And the best part was, the man didn’t know.  (How quickly presumed friendship becomes even the slightest modicum of animosity when the opportunity presents itself to prove someone wrong.)

A voice came over the loudspeaker.

“Attention passengers.”

They held their collective breath.

“Now boarding flight 1265, service to Atlanta.”

“Yes!” Dwayne celebrated.

Forgetting himself for a moment, Dwayne began to dance MC Hammer-style directly in front of his defeated competition.  After a few moments he remembered the silent pact they’d made a few minutes earlier to support whoever won and to hope for the best for everyone else.

Discontinuing his happy-go-lucky jig, Dwayne picked up his carry-on bag and walked to the terminal.

He cast one last look at his single-serving friends as he reached the door.

“Adios, compadres.  Chalk one up for the Black race.”

“We won, Mama?” the little girl asked her mother a little too soon.

Dwayne was still in earshot, but because he was consumed with thoughts of his apparent victory he heard nothing.

When she was sure the Black man was too far to hear, the young mother answered her daughter.

“Yes, Baby, we won.  We always win.”