BEHIND SIGHT

My appetite was almost ruined. What I came in for was three slices of delicious French toast, almost drowning in Mrs. Butterworth’s syrup, a carafe of steaming hot coffee, and a table big enough for me to eat and write. Most of all I want peace, not particularly quiet but some form of tranquility to sooth my innards. The family café opened at seven. I got here at 7:10 and it looked perfect. No wait line. Two couples and one man already served. A petite waitress in a white ruffled apron seated me where I could get a good look at every customer coming in. She had no idea the notebook I carried was going to be jam packed with descriptions of people, characters I could use in the future.

‘Do you have freshly squeezed orange juice?’ I asked and was disappointed at the quick, ‘sorry, No.’ I ordered a carafe of coffee that would let me linger plus a warm croissant with home-made blueberry preserves.. As she walked away with my order, a customer came in and sat with his back to me. That was when my morning turned to shit. The man was gross from the top of his balding head with snow white fringe still clinging around his ears to his sloppy black flip-flops that he shook off under the next table. If I wanted to, but certainly didn’t, I would have to grow an extra hand just to circle one ankle.

This man had no cane, no seeing eye dog and evidently, no mirror at home or wife to nag him. Instead of a decently ironed shirt, or even a clean white T, he wore a washed out navy blue T shirt banded with turquoise stripes encircling layers and layers of fat bulge. My eyes didn’t want to look lower than his shirt, but the urge was strong and I let them wander. Ah, he was dressed, in his eyes, with a handsome matched outfit. His polyester shorts matched his shirt, the same bright turquoise. Any minute I thought the seams would explode, tossing bits of him and his Crisco all over my croissant.

He dropped his fork and in his effort to reach it, almost tumbled over. Humpty Dumpty is what I saw. The tight short sleeves of his striped shirt held his arm so tightly, with a handy gauge a nurse could have gotten his high blood pressure rate. He steadied himself, stood up straight, burped loudly and sat down slowly.

My croissant was almost gone but I wasn’t ready to leave. The waitress brought me another with a tad more blueberry preserves. I spread it thinly and thought for a moment of my handsome husband and what it must be like to live with Gargantua. I was already letting myself become upset when I got worse. An empty soup sized bowl of cereal, maybe oatmeal or cream of wheat, was being taken away and was replaced with a large plate of scrambled eggs piled high with crisp bacon. I couldn’t help hearing his raspy voice calling for more butter.

My idea to write character studies, just taking short notes for a future story fizzled. The one man engrossed me. Several other customers stopped at his table. They all knew his name, Fival, with a long ‘I’. There was camaraderie, laughter. Fival’s belly shook. One more guffaw and I figured his table would fall over.

My carafe was totally empty, my small appetite fulfilled and my pen almost dry. As the waitress brought my check, I turned to get my purse for my charge card and when I looked up the model of what not to wear was gone. A few feet before the cashier, I saw him again, couldn’t miss him. He was struggling to get his money clip from those handsome shorts that were so tightly enmeshed in his crack that if he hadn’t been circumsized before he had breakfast, he was then. The cashier and he were joking while a few customers impatiently waited to pay their tabs. With a flourish he finished off his breakfast, whistling like a bird as he left, ‘God Bless America.’

As I walked to my car, I realized I didn’t like myself. I spent an hour criticizing, tearing a man apart. He has friends, joie de vivre and has lasted at least 65 years. There must be something good about him.

And what about me? I went there to enjoy myself have fantastic french toast swimming in Mrs. Butterworth syrup, and forgot to order it. Maybe I’ll come back next week and get to meet that fun man who enjoys himself, probably gets more out of life than I do.

And I will remember to get my french toast.