UNFULFILLING: STRONG AS DUST

‘Excuse me, Mister but you are annoying me. Either tell your girlfriend goodbye or take your damned cell phone someplace else where strangers don’t have to listen to your plans for the week-end.’ ‘Go what myself?’ I rise from the bench, let this pain in my rear look me over. I am 6'2", 180 pounds of solid sinew. Squirt is not impressed and continues talking. The choice is mine, knock him unconscious or walk away. Not wanting to go to prison for the rest of my life, I walk.

My wife and I are meeting for lunch at our favorite pancake house. She’s always prompt but I’m prompter. We bump into each other as a third person pushes us aside and goes thru the revolving door before we do. I make a fist that luckily he doesn’t see. Once in, we are again entranced by the smell of the warmed syrup, the batter swirling in the kitchen. Matty, 80 years old and still waiting tables, knows us well. I nod. Beverly nods and she writes my walnut pancake with triple walnuts, lots of melted butter, pitcher of syrup, on her order book, turns it over and adds one German pancake, extra thin, toasty but not burned, powdered sugar and lemon quarters. As that order goes in, our steaming hot, strong coffee comes out. Just as I reach for the cream, a large hairy arm seems to fly from the table behind my back, over my head, grabs my pitcher of cream and empties it into his cup.

‘Jack, sit still. Please, just sit still. Matty will bring another in a minute.’ I know how to close my ears and did so. I stand erect, fold my arms over my broad chest and look coldly at the pipsqueak before me. He is almost bald, wears wire framed glasses, actually wears a polka dot bow tie on a button down white shirt. I have no mercy. ‘Who do you think you are, Bud? Why didn’t you ask the waitress for cream instead of stealing mine.? You almost beaned me. Don’t you have a voice? You could have asked me for the cream. I would have given it to you. I’d like to punch you in the nose–maybe I will.’

Our waitress appears in the nick of time, puts a fresh pitcher of cream in front of Bev and nicely asks me to please sit down and be quiet. I sit but think I should have crowned that fool and let the cream stain his hideous bow tie. Yes, I would have been glad to spend the night in jail if Bev had let me do what I should have done. We devour our pancakes, have two refills of hot coffee, leave Matty a nice tip and head to the door. Bev and I, on the same wave length, notice the Sweet ‘n Lo holder is empty.

We are on the way home driving 48 mph on a four lane road. Traffic is moving smoothly until the car behind us suddenly pulls to the right, speeds up and squeezes in front of me. I slam the brakes hard. Cars screech behind me and to the side. I’m all shook up, hot as hell and laugh when the other car is stuck at the red light and I pull beside him. My finger is ready to stick in his jowly face. I fold the finger back into my fist and hit the horn as hard as I can. I see him jump with fright, open his window and give me the finger. Gunning the car, the Finger Man races past me and is gone.

I look at my suffering wife. Knowing I upset her too often, I apologize, shrug and ask her, ‘What can do I do Bev, turn away, be a constant door mat for the entire world?’

She shrugs, gives me the finger, small and helpless, and a kiss on my lips that still has syrup on it.