Waiter Rant (original) (raw)

https://www.waiterrant.net/DO YOU WANT POMMES FRITES WITH THAT? Mon, 23 Sep 2024 18:15:09 +0000 en-US hourly 1 https://wordpress.org/?v=5.9.10 https://www.waiterrant.net/wp-content/uploads/2018/07/cropped-Untitled-1-32x32.jpg Waiter Rant https://www.waiterrant.net/32 32 Above This Sceptred Sway https://www.waiterrant.net/2024/09/above-this-sceptred-sway/https://www.waiterrant.net/2024/09/above-this-sceptred-sway/#respond Mon, 23 Sep 2024 18:12:26 +0000 https://www.waiterrant.net/?p=7707 I might write about religious topics from time to time, but please be under no illusions about my level of personal sanctity. I’m very well acquainted with the reptilian part of my brain that seethes with sibilant whispers from the Seven Deadly Sins. Though I’ve never murdered anyone at time of writing, I sometimes spout […]

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]]> I might write about religious topics from time to time, but please be under no illusions about my level of personal sanctity. I’m very well acquainted with the reptilian part of my brain that seethes with sibilant whispers from the Seven Deadly Sins. Though I’ve never murdered anyone at time of writing, I sometimes spout genocidal utterances when behind the wheel of a car and my sense of humor is very dark. I also like to get even.

There’s an intersection near my house where people blow through red lights all the time. Just a couple of days ago, as I was teaching my daughter to navigate this treacherous stretch of road, a white sports car blasted through the red and almost caused an accident. If my little girl had been in the crosswalk, she would have gotten creamed. But, instead of reflecting on my own vehicular stupidity over the years, the incident left me bubbling with rage. So, I decided to do something about it.

Yesterday, as I was cooling down after a run, I walked up to that problematic intersection and decided to watch the cars go by instead of going home. Sure enough, several ran the red as I stood on the corner and watched. Now incandescent with fury, I took out my cell phone and turned on the camera, capturing a company van as it blasted through the red light like it was a mere suggestion. Now with the van’s license plate, company ID and phone number in hand, I called their main office to complain.

“You know seniors and children cross that street every day,” I said politely, knowing I was on a recorded line. “If one of your driver’s hurts or kills someone, your company is going to get sued for millions.”

“I’m so sorry,” the operator, who sounded like she was in a call center a world away. “We take driver safety very seriously.”

“Please patch me through to a supervisor.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. “But before I do, are there any environmental needs we can take care of for you today?”

“Are you kidding?”

“Sorry, sir. Please hold.” After listening to some canned music for a couple of minutes, a supervisor came on the line. “Do you know which van it was?” he asked, sounding bored.

“I can do better than that,” I said. “I have photographic proof that’ll nail your driver dead to rights. Give me an email address.” I swear I head the supervisor catch his breath. Then, after sending the email, I hung up. Of course, the first niggles of guilt began tugging on my soul almost immediately. Would that driver get disciplined? His pay docked or get fired? Did he have a wife and kids who could ill afford to lose the salary his job provided? Part of me knew the company would probably do nothing, dismiss me as a crank, and sweep it under the rug, but what if they really did take it seriously? Oh dear.

“He’s an asshole who deserves what he gets,” the wrathful part of my brain whispered. “He was so hell bent on not getting delayed a minute that he didn’t care what damage he could’ve caused. Fuck him.” Satisfied with my rationalization, I convinced myself I’d done a good deed.

“The police chief told me that state doesn’t allow traffic cameras,” I told my wife later. “But I swear to God, I’m going to camp out on that corner in a lawn chair, take pictures of very shithead who runs the red, shame them on Facebook, and then turn the proof over to the police. How many points do you get on your license for running a red light?”

“I think two,” my wife said.

“Not enough. It should be at least four to make their auto insurance go up. That’s how you stop these people, hit them in the pocketbook.”

“It would make them think twice.”

“And I’ll put up a sign next to the lawn chair that says. ‘Smile! You’re on Candid Camera.’” If my wife had any reservations about me turning into the town weirdo, she didn’t let on.

Of course, I’ve been an asshole driver in the past. When I was twenty-six and late for work, I got pulled over for speeding through a school zone. Just the day before, a child had been struck and killed in that very same spot and, after the cop yelled at me for my reckless stupidity, he gave me a ticket that was so massive that I had to do community service to prevent me from becoming uninsurable. One thing’s for sure, I never did that again – but I still did other stupid shit. It was only when I mellowed with age and had a kid that I started driving like a little old lady.

Looking back on it, that cop not showing me any mercy was a good thing. But then again, it was his job to enforce traffic laws and not mine. Was I right to call that driver’s company? Did I possibly save some unfortunate family from some kind of disaster in the future? One thing’s for sure, however – my daughter probably wouldn’t appreciate me turning into the town nutcase. “Candid Camera?” What was I thinking? But I was still unsettled. “The quality of mercy is not strained,” I thought, recalling the Bard’s words. “It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath. It is twice blest; It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.” But when is mercy counterproductive and puts others at risk? I don’t know.

Later that night, I escorted my wife to her (Number redacted) high school reunion. Held at a mansion and catered by a topflight outfit, I’d gone to an earlier reunion there five years before and was looking forward to some good food and drink. As we sat under the tent for her class year, two female servers came by our table with tasty hors d’oeuvres and, being a male of the species, I noted that they were both particularly lovely. Then, as we chatted with them, we learned they were a mother/daughter team trying to make extra money. “My son is here too,” the mom, said. “It’s family affair.” When the son came by our table, I noted he was a gorgeous specimen too. “Wow,” I said to my wife. “Some really good genes in that family.”

“Yes,” Annie, said, kind of flustered by the young man’s beauty.

Sitting next to Annie, I watched as she interacted with her classmates and reminisced about the old days. Then, during a lull, I asked her if she wanted to go to the main food tent to get an entrée. As luck would have it, we were the chef’s first customers.

“Hey there!” the cook said. “You want some fucking food?”

“What do you have?” I said, slightly taken aback.

“I’ve got fucking lamb, pulled pork, and steak.” It was then I noticed the chef’s eyes were glassy from either drink, drugs, or some combination of the two. The night had just begun and he was in the bag.

“I’ll have some lamb,” my wife said, laughing at the man’s “exuberance.”

“Coming right up,” he said. “Let me get you a new motherfucking pan.”

Now, I’ve been known to emit profanities from time to time – well, a lot actually – but this man made me nervous. Unfiltered despite children being around, he put me on guard. Having worked in a drug and alcohol treatment centers, I knew such people could be unpredictable and explosive. Then cute waitress mom came by to get something.

“Jesus,” the chef said to me, pointing at her. “Can you believe how hot this woman is? She’s even hotter than her daughter, if such a thing were possible.” Then I watched as server mom stiffened, turned on her heel, and walked away. Yep, this man’s lizard brain was on display for all to see. Knowing that this guy was probably a nasty drunk, I kept silent. Like most of the beautiful waitresses I’ve worked with over the years, I was sure server mom was more than capable of handling herself. I might’ve found this woman was alluring too, but this man’s drunken and offensive comments really pissed me off. Then I almost punched him.

“Here you are,” the chef said, handing my wife her plate.

“Thank you,” I said.

“My name’s (Redacted) he said, putting out his hand. I took it but, because I didn’t want him to see the anger in my eyes, I didn’t look at him.

“Look at a man when you shake his motherfucking hand!” the man bellowed, increasing his grip.

My left hand balling into a fist, I thought about delivering a strike just below the man’s right ear where the jawbone meets. Lots of nerves join up there but, in addition to having to get a lawyer, that’d be a good way not to get invited back to the next reunion. But I also knew if this man needed to get that pickled so fast and acted this way in public, then he was in a lot of pain. “Thank you for correcting me,” I said, trying to look meek. “Have a good night.”

A little later, after I discussed my fleeting violent impulse, I told my wife, “That’s not the first time I’ve let myself look weak to avoid a fight.”

“He’s a jerk,” she said.

“That guy’s around my age,” I said. “And still getting blasted like he’s in college?” Then I told him what he said about server mom. “Ew,” Annie said, shivering. “Gross.”

I haven’t hauled off and hit a guy since high school and that’s a record I hope to maintain. Besides, there’s no honor in mixing it up with a drunk guy whose coordination is shot to shit. But if I laid him out flat, would he have learned a lesson? Probably not, but one thing’s for sure, eventually he’ll run into someone far less merciful than me. Shaking the incident off, I went back to enjoying the party. Since I’m hard of hearing, however, that was easier said than done.

Unable to follow conversations in loud places, I found myself feeing very isolated and, as the raucous noise from the live rock band pounded my cranium, I excused myself to find some peace and quiet. Walking into the mansion, I made my way to the front porch on the other side of the house, far from the madding crowd. And there, sitting on the patio, was server mom taking a break. “Mind if I join you?” I said, pointing to any empty chair.

“Please,” she said, smiling. Then we began to talk.

As we chatted, I learned sever mom was a special education teacher with a master’s degree by day and worked for the catering company by night to support herself after an economically disastrous divorce. Because her kids all had day jobs while struggling with insane school loans and housing costs, they worked with her too. “My daughter’s thirty-one and still lives with me,” she said. “Same with one of my sons.”

“Your daughter’s only thirty-one?” I said, astonished. “She looks like she’s twenty.”

“Hard to believe but true,” the mom said. She must’ve had her kids very young.

“My daughter’s almost eleven,” I said. “Way things are going now, she’ll never move out.”

“It’s hard out there.”

“You like working for this caterer?”

“Oh,” Server Mom, said. “Marjorie’s a dream to work for. She’s fair, pays well, and her food’s very good.”

“Good,” I said. “I was in the restaurant business for a while and worked for some jerks.”

“Then,” she said with a sad smile, “You know how hard this job can be.” Was she referring to how that drunk chef treated her and her daughter like a Letter to Penthouse? I decided not to press.

“Indeed, I do.” I said instead.

Chatting under the moonlight, I found myself basking in this woman’s beauty. Don’t get me wrong, I love my wife but, when you are fortunate to encounter such people, it’s a reminder that God created the world for us to be happy. During this brief exchange, this small moment of connection, I also got a glimpse of server mom’s inner beauty as well. Working with emotionally disturbed kids during the day, she was more than just a server with a pretty face,

“I’ve got to get back to my wife,” I said, getting up. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”

‘You too.”

“Where did you go?” my wife said, when I found her.

“Just needed to clear my head.”

“Ready to go home? I’m done with this place.”

“Show the way.”

Between getting cancer and my dad dying, my tolerance level with assholes is at an all-time low. Later, as I brushed my teeth before bed, I thought about how I handled the day’s anger over two different jerks in two different ways. What kept me from slugging that chef was the knowledge he was a tortured soul – but I had no idea what the driver of that van was going through. Perhaps mercy is all about connection, knowing a little bit about people like server mom before putting yourself in a place to pass judgment. Did I get things right today or wrong? I don’t know but, as I looked at myself in the mirror, I remembered I was just a sinner like everyone else.

“But mercy is above this sceptred sway;” I thought to myself. “It is enthronèd in the hearts of kings, It is an attribute to God himself; And earthly power doth then show likest God’s, When mercy seasons justice.”

Putting my scepter away for the night, I went to bed.

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]]> https://www.waiterrant.net/2024/09/above-this-sceptred-sway/feed/ 0 Certainty https://www.waiterrant.net/2024/09/certainty/https://www.waiterrant.net/2024/09/certainty/#comments Sun, 22 Sep 2024 03:35:13 +0000 https://www.waiterrant.net/?p=7696 A couple of days ago while on a trip to Asia, Pope Francis stated that all religions are “…like different languages in order to arrive at God, but God is God for all. And if God is God for all, then we are all sons and daughters of God.” Of course, bell, book, and candle […]

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]]> A couple of days ago while on a trip to Asia, Pope Francis stated that all religions are “…like different languages in order to arrive at God, but God is God for all. And if God is God for all, then we are all sons and daughters of God.”

Of course, bell, book, and candle Traditionalist Catholics immediately pounced and proclaimed this as “heresy;” which is rich because the “Deposit of Faith” they’re so eager to defend proclaims that pontiffs are incapable of such a thing. It also means they never read the Vatican II document Nostra Aetae proclaimed by Saint Paul VI in 1965. “The Catholic Church rejects nothing,” it read_, “That is true and holy in these religions. She regards with sincere reverence those ways of conduct and of life, those precepts and teachings which, though differing in many aspects from the ones she holds and sets forth, nonetheless often reflect a ray of that Truth which enlightens all men_.” If it was up to them, I suspect they’d reverse Paul’s canonization.

Having been once studied to be a priest, however, I wasn’t surprised by the anger Francis’ words engendered. There’s always been those who’ve espoused extra Ecclesiam nulla salus – there is no salvation outside the church. While that was certainly a prevalent sentiment years ago it is now, at least for the spiritually mature, an anachronistic attitude reminiscent of your drunk uncle drunkenly spouting off about politics during Thanksgiving dinner. And, like that uncle, people like this are rather rigid when it comes to the complexities of life and the human condition.

When I sat with my nephew at my dying father’s bedside, I told him not to be afraid of what he was witnessing because, “Life is messy. When you’re born its messy and also when you die.” Life in of itself is also messy; almost never conforming to our needs, wants or desires which means, for many people, life is disappointing. So, when you consider the messy multiplicity of cultures, languages, histories and philosophies of the Earth’s very diverse peoples, it should come as no surprise that religion is messy too. Through my own experience of God and everything I’ve studied over the years; I’ve concluded that no one creed could possibly contain His infinite vastness. Like light refracted through a prism, He manifests himself in countless ways throughout creation and, although it’s possible one religion might contain more fullness of truth than others, to say all the others are bankrupt – or the path to damnation – is pure folly.

Of course, zealots who believe it’s their faith’s way or the highway can be found in every religion. Unbending, dogmatic, joyless and overly intense, they’re so focused on rules, regulations and spouting rote scriptural mantras. that they’re complexly unable to relate to real people living messy real lives which keeps them isolated from society at large and regarded as sort of odd. Since no one likes to feel like they’re on the outside looking in, these people often end up being very angry people who, in an effort to spiritually rationalize their rage, conclude they’re being persecuted. Retreating into like-minded communities, they rail against “secular culture,” blame gays, transgendered persons, and drag queens for all of society’s ills, and yearn for the day God will establish his kingdom on earth with, of course, them ending up in charge. All of this is just a manifestation of what Nietzsche called “the will to power” and a massive ego trip. These people are also dangerous.

Rigid people cling to absolutes. When the Twin Towers were leveled in 2001, a Catholic priest named Lorenzo Albacete said that he knew right away religion was the cause. “I recognized this thirst,” he said. “This demand for the absolute. Because if you don’t hang on to the unchanging, to the absolute, to that which cannot disappear, you might disappear.” Although religious passion has enabled saints to accomplish great things, it has also allowed people to do terrible things “in the name of God.” Of course, not every religious fundamentalist is hell bent on killing people, but the effects of their narrow minded jihadist crusader attitudes can be just as destructive. These are the people who give religion a bad name, causing the faithful to ditch their religion in droves. They steal God from people.

No matter what they say or how they dress it up, these kinds of people are not about God. They’re all about power and their egos, which is contrary to just about what every religion teaches. But what fuels their zealotry is what Father Albacete so piercingly observed. If their absolute disappears then they’re afraid they will disappear – and they will do anything to prevent from happening. This is fear not faith and, like a foundation built on sand, it will collapse when the messiness of life strikes. Make no mistake, life breaks us all and the only way to handle that is to be humble. Knowing you don’t have all the answers keeps you flexible and open to the wisdom you might find in the most unexpected of places – but those who cling to absolutes out of fear will never hear it because, in actuality, they have no faith at all.

A couple of days ago, I was watching a trailer for the upcoming movie Conclave when I heard a line from a cardinal played by Ralph Fiennes that elucidated this issue better than I ever could. “There is one sin which I have come to fear above all others. Certainty. If there was only certainty, and no doubt, there would be no mystery and therefore, no need for faith.”

Amen, brother.

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]]> https://www.waiterrant.net/2024/09/certainty/feed/ 3 Miles to Go https://www.waiterrant.net/2024/09/miles-to-go/https://www.waiterrant.net/2024/09/miles-to-go/#respond Mon, 16 Sep 2024 02:59:48 +0000 https://www.waiterrant.net/?p=7569 Late on a beautiful Sunday morning, I found my daughter vegging out in front of the television and decided to at least act like a good father. “C’mon, I said. “Let’s go for a walk.” “How long of a walk?” Natalie asked with a trace of suspicion. “Two miles.” “Two miles?” “That’s nothing. Get your sneakers on.” […]

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]]> Late on a beautiful Sunday morning, I found my daughter vegging out in front of the television and decided to at least act like a good father. “C’mon, I said. “Let’s go for a walk.”

“How long of a walk?” Natalie asked with a trace of suspicion.

“Two miles.”

“Two miles?”

“That’s nothing. Get your sneakers on.” As I expected, Natalie dragged her ass but, after lacing up and applying a thick layer of sunscreen, we finally set out on our constitutional. Of course, the whining started almost immediately.

“It’s too hot,” Natalie said, a mere four hundred yards in.

“It’s only seventy degrees,” I said.

“Ugh. The sun is so bright.”

“Stop your whinging, You need to work on your stamina.”

“What’s that?’

“Being able to push yourself.”

I’d wanted to go running that morning but had twisted my ankle jogging a few days before. Since there was no pain, I continued with my five miler but awoke the next morning with a bruised and swollen ankle. As luck would have it, my annual physical was later that afternoon and my doctor told me I’d probably busted a little blood vessel and to take it easy for a while. So, a nice recovery walk seemed in order and why not drag my kid along for the ride? Then I remembered why.

After the first hilly mile, Natalie was ready to throw in the towel, so I employed the go to move in every parent’s arsenal – bribery. “When we get into town,” I said, “I’ll buy you a treat.” Worked like a charm, but I also decided to turn the walk into a test of not only stamina, but skill.

“Natalie,” I said. “Next year you’ll be in middle school and have to walk home.”

“Yeah, then I can go to Playa Bowl with all the other kids,”

“But first, you have to learn to how to cross the highway of death.’

I didn’t really call it that but, in order to walk downtown, you have to navigate a treacherous intersection near my house that features a busy street with an on ramp for the Interstate. Even though it’s properly laid out with traffic signals, people always run the red light to get on the highway. Car collisions are common, and I know of at least two pedestrians who got run over. Scary as shit, but it was a hazard Natalie would eventually have to face.

“Okay,” I said, when we arrived at the location. “Hit the walk button.”

Now wait for the light to turn red and the walk signal to turn green.

Wait for all the cars to stop. Then look both ways but focus on the left. That’s where the danger will come from.

Okay, you can go.

Then, just as my daughter stepped into the road, a white sports car driven by a woman come tearing down the street. Pulling my daughter back, I watched open mouthed as she blew through the red and almost lose control after missing a car crossing the intersection by a whisker. For a moment, I thought about throwing my water bottle at her rear window. Crazy bitch.

“You see,” Natalie?” I said, overheating with rage. “People don’t care. They will run you over because they can’t stand being delayed a minute.”

“Can we go home now?” Natalie said, quite frightened.

“No. You have to learn how to do this. One day you’ll have to cross this street without me.”

It took some doing, but I finally got Natalie to cross the street by herself and then we walked to a coffee shop in town. Then, after I had iced coffee and my daughter ate a pastry, we repeated the whole confidence building exercise again.

“We’ll have to do this several more times before you can walk around town by yourself,” I said, as walked into our house.

“Can’t you just pick me up from middle school?”

I felt like telling Natalie when I was her age I regularly walked by my lonesome to my hometown’s movie theater, but realized she’d just roll her eyes if started any “back in my day” shit. “Then how will you go to Playa Bowl with your friends after school?” I said, instead.

“I’m so tired,” Natalie said, flopping on the couch with an exaggerated sigh. “I just want to watch TV now.”

‘Congratulations,” I said, after looking at the fitness gizmo on my wrist. “You walked two and a half miles.” Then, after firing off an email to the police chief complaining about the aforementioned intersection and offering ideas regarding enforcement (Wisely removing my suggestions to mete out extrajudicial killings), I took a shower, shaved and got dressed. We were going out to lunch with an old friend.

“That was good,” my friend said, pushing his plate away a few hours later. “Want dessert?”

“Yeah!” Natalie said. “Dessert!”

“I bought you ice cream the other day,” I said.

“But….”

“We’ll see. Let’s digest lunch first.”

Since it was still such a nice day, we drove into the historic district of a nearby town and took a self-guided tour through an arboretum on the grounds of a colonial mansion. My friend is a bit of a horticulturist and, as we walked amidst the flora and fauna, he described every plant we saw. Chagrined that I couldn’t tell one piece of greenery from the other, I decided to fact check him with Google Lens, but my friend was on the money every time. Showoff.

“What about dessert?” Natalie asked as we walked back to the car.

“There’s a nice crêperie by our house,” my wife suggested. Ah, not my thing.

“I was up here a few days ago,” I said. “There’s a jogging path nearby. Want to see it? More flowers for you guys to look at.”

“Not more walking!” Natalie cried.

“Sure,” my friend said. “Burn off some calories.”

The path was the same memory laden route I’d run down while trying to exorcise an ill mood three before. A paved county trail ribboning alongside some train tracks, it runs a mostly flat two and a half miles and ends near a house George Washington slept in during the Revolution. History and peristalsis. My history teacher dad would’ve been proud, but I also had an ulterior motive.

“Stop.” Natalie said over a mile in. “I can’t walk anymore.”

“Toughen up little camper,” I said, ignoring her discomfort.

“Where are we going?” my wife asked. “Wait,” I said.

Suppressing a chill as I walked past my old flame’s window, we eventually found ourselves under a train trestle with a set of stairs to the street above. After ascending the steps, my ulterior motive was revealed. “A Friendly’s!” my daughter yelped.

Smiling, I said to my wife, “I found this jogging here Thursday. After the old duffers are done walking along this path, they meet up here for coffee.”

“But you said Natalie had ice cream yesterday.”

“What can I say?” I said, shrugging. “I’m a horrible father.”

Although I’d just found out my cholesterol numbers were excellent, I limited myself to a small dish of butter crunch while everyone else had calorically disastrous sundaes. Watching my daughter as she chased her sugar dragon with untrammeled glee, I knew I was being overindulgent, but I also knew I was expiating the guilt I felt for running Natalie through that nerve wracking vehicular gauntlet. Maybe I’d pushed her too hard to fast. Then, when we were done, we walked all the way back to our car.

“My feet hurt,” Natalie said from the backseat.

“You had a lot of glucose to burn off,” I said. “And by the way, you walked six miles today.”

“Six miles?”

“Way to go kid.”

Afternoon gave way to evening and, by the time we got home, it was time for Natalie to get ready for bed. “No arguments. Hit the shower,” I said.

“But I took a bath this morning!”

“You walked six miles,” I said. “And you’re at the age where you start to stink.”

Worn out, Natalie crashed into bed. Then, a few hours later, as I was performing my own nightly ablutions, I heard the ear splitting screech of a speeding car slamming on its brakes. Expecting to hear the impact of metal on metal, I tensed up, but there was no bang, just another idiot joyriding on the highway of death. Shaken, I put my toothbrush back in its holder and walked into Natalie’s room where, watching another moonlit girl sleep, I found myself fighting a burgeoning sense of dread. Too many hazards. Too much heartache and danger. Too many damaged people. How will my little girl manage them all? I can only teach her so much.

Realizing my father probably thought the same things watching a younger me dream, I went to bed, knowing Natalie had miles to go and I had promises to keep.

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]]> https://www.waiterrant.net/2024/09/miles-to-go/feed/ 0 Back Out Now https://www.waiterrant.net/2024/09/back-out-now/https://www.waiterrant.net/2024/09/back-out-now/#comments Thu, 12 Sep 2024 18:31:00 +0000 https://www.waiterrant.net/?p=7548 “Are you going to work today?” my wife asked. Groaning, I opened my eyes. “What time is it?” “Eight o’clock.” I was due in the office in half an hour. “Fuck it,” I said. “I can’t face the office today.” “You all right?” “No,” I said, pulling the covers back over my head. I’d gone […]

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]]> “Are you going to work today?” my wife asked.

Groaning, I opened my eyes. “What time is it?”

“Eight o’clock.” I was due in the office in half an hour.

“Fuck it,” I said. “I can’t face the office today.”

“You all right?”

“No,” I said, pulling the covers back over my head.

I’d gone to bed at eleven and slept nine hours but felt like sleeping even more. Realizing I couldn’t just not show up for to work, however, I got up, went downstairs for some coffee, and then called my job to tell then I was taking a personal day and text my volunteers to cover the pantry. Responsible adult duties finished, I plopped down on the couch and just stared at the four walls. As I sipped java in my bathrobe, I remembered how my father would sit on his couch at home and stare at the four walls too, immobilized by Parkinson’s and dementia. Shaking the sad memory away, I realized it’s also been taking me more time to start my day.

“You okay, honey?” my wife said as she opened the door to leave for work.

“Hanging in there,” I replied.

After I heard her car pull away, I sat the couch in the privacy of my quiet home and let my feelings wash over me. I had a very discouraging day at work a few days ago, frustrated by the bullshit coming in from some of the very people I was trying to help. Normally I can overcome that kind of stuff, but today, I just couldn’t deal with it. But I also knew I was more irritable than usual, angry, and very sad. On Tuesday, after losing my temper over something very minor, I just broke down and cried, which is unusual for me. Was it grief over my father’s passing? Or had the events of the past three years finally caught up with me – my illness, surgery, recovery, dealing with my parents, putting them in a nursing home, my dog dying, watching my dad die, his funeral, and the myriad of tasks that followed?

“When I turned fifty,” I told a friend just yesterday, “I was very optimistic, but boy, have the fifties sucked.” Being the same age as me she replied, “Tough being in that sandwich generation.”

“I wished I’d enjoyed my forties more.”

Grunting my friend said, “If I knew then what I know now, I’d’ve divorced my husband ten years before I did.” Then we talked about her concerns with her energy levels. After rounds of medical tests, her doctors couldn’t seem to find anything wrong with her.

“Could be depression,” I said. “That could explain all your symptoms.”

“I know. My next visit is with a psychiatrist.”

Back home sipping my coffee, I realized the advice I gave my friend was probably me diagnosing myself. Small wonder I didn’t want to deal with other people’s problems, putting up a sign that said closed to all but me. “Back out of this now too much for us.” I said aloud. Deciding to kick myself out of my funk, I changed into my workout clothes and, not wanting to be seen jogging around my town, drove to a running path in a park I’d never been to ten miles away. Running alongside some train tracks, it was advertised as a flat two and a half miles each way. Wincing as my gimpy knee sparked in protest, I let myself warm up for an easy mile before picking up the pace. Then, as I was running behind some apartment buildings, I realized I’d been here before.

I’d dated a girl who lived in one of those apartments back in ’95 and late one evening, after a round of festivities, we were in her kitchen drinking wine when a train rolled past the window, it’s horn wailing in the cool night air. I still remember watching the faces of the scattered passengers as they rattled by, wondering if they were only then getting back from a long day in the city. I also still remembered the moonlight playing on the girl’s naked skin, the taste of the wine, how the tip of her cigarette glowed in the darkness, and the delicious feeling of being young and desirable. Pausing my run, I looked up at that window and shook my head. That girl died five years ago – but I was still here.

“Almost thirty years,” I said to myself. If we’d conceived a child that night, he or she would now be a full grown adult, possibly with kids of their own. Would we have gotten married if that happened? Maybe, but I’d have ended up a widower. Then again, the girl drank too much and, when I awkwardly ran into her four years later, she looked like she’d aged immensely. I probably dodged a bullet, but in my mind’s eye, she will forever remain that vision in moonlight. Jesus, I hope my wife doesn’t read this.

Resuming my run, I thought about all the bullets I’ve dodged – that I made it out of the womb alive, getting caught in quicksand as a boy, almost drowning, a very bad car accident, relationships gone wrong, pneumonia, an emergency appendectomy, cancer, and a host of other misfortunes. I survived them all and, as I paced along the asphalt, I found myself journeying down that great chain of causality that took me from the cradle to where I was now. Life hasn’t always gone my way, but it had indeed gone on. That moonlit girl wasn’t so lucky.

After five miles, I took a cool down walk back to my car and noted with satisfaction that, although my pace didn’t break any records, my heart rate dropped back to normal very quickly. “You’re in the best shape of your life,” my cardiologist told me a few months ago. “Keep it up.” Despite his reassuring words, however, I still felt fragile and vulnerable sitting on that wax papered table. What did that comedian say? “If you die in your forties, everyone goes. ‘That’s too soon!’ but, if you die in your fifties they say, “Yeah, I can see how that could happen.” The older you get, the more your illusions fall.

Now feeling famished, I stopped at a little restaurant to eat breakfast. Since it was such a nice morning, I took a table outside and polished off a plate of huevos rancheros with some coffee, lots of water and some fresh fruit. The late summer and early fall are my favorite time of year and, as the cool morning wind caressed my salty skin and rustled the still green leaves in the trees, I closed my eyes and let the temperate rays of our local star caress my face. It was a beautiful day, and I was alive to see it. During my father’s eulogy, I said, “Of course, beauty is just another word for love and, if in your pain, you’ve missed lovely moments in life, you needn’t worry, because there will always be more to come.” Was I preaching to myself? Probably.

Paying the bill, I went home and noticed I was feeling lighter and beyond confusion. Perhaps backing out and hanging up that closed sign was a good idea – or it was the endorphins talking. No matter.

Whatever works.

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]]> https://www.waiterrant.net/2024/09/back-out-now/feed/ 1 Scrapbook https://www.waiterrant.net/2024/09/scrapbook/https://www.waiterrant.net/2024/09/scrapbook/#comments Thu, 05 Sep 2024 01:58:36 +0000 https://www.waiterrant.net/?p=7503 I knew my father was dying but, since the hospice people said he’d probably last until the end of the week, I decided to go to the gym. Besides, I had a funny feeling I wouldn’t be able to get much exercise in soon. But as soon as I got on the treadmill, my cell phone […]

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]]> I knew my father was dying but, since the hospice people said he’d probably last until the end of the week, I decided to go to the gym. Besides, I had a funny feeling I wouldn’t be able to get much exercise in soon. But as soon as I got on the treadmill, my cell phone rang. It was the hospice nurse.

“Mr. Dublanica?” she said. “You’d better come here right now. He hasn’t got much longer.”

Leaping of the treadmill before I’d even worked up a light sweat, I ran to my car and made the thirty minute drive to the nursing home in twenty. Treading across the long linoleum hallway as I made my way to my father’s room, my mind felt like a piece of film on long exposure, recording everything the struck my eyes – the flickering of a faulty florescent light, an old woman in a wheelchair plaintively calling for a help, a nurse smiling as she texted someone, and the late morning light as it streamed through the windows. Then I entered my father’s room and saw my mother lying with her head on his chest crying. The hospice nurse greeted me.

“His oxygen levels are undetectable,” she said. “It’ll be soon.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Did someone call your brother?”

“No one called Mark?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Jesus.”

Pulling out my phone, I called my brother and told him the end was near. It was a brief conversation. “Drive carefully,” I said. “I don’t want you to get into an accident.” Then I went over to my father’s bedside and placed my hand on his head. He didn’t seem to be in distress but more like a watch slowly winding down as his breathing grew shallower and shallower. Looking at my own watch, I sighed.

“I don’t think your brother’s going to make it,” the hospice nurse whispered.

“Probably not.”

Moving next to my mother, I put my hand on her shoulder. “I’m so very sorry,” I said. They’d been married fifty-seven years and, as memories flipped through my mind like the pages of a scrapbook, I affixed on an image of my parents taken during their honeymoon in Montreal – looking impossibly young and beaming with optimism. Then, of all things, I remembered a can of ginger beer they’d brought back from that trip and left in our refrigerator like a piece of wedding cake for years. When I was small, it was an object of curiosity and I always wondered why they never drank it but, by the time I was in my late teens, the can had become an ugly thing – rust having torn it open and the liquid inside long since evaporated. Then one day the can gone. I guess my dad finally threw it out.

Resuming my place at the head of the bed, I rested my hand on my father’s forehead and looked at his face. His chest has stopped moving and now the only sign of life was the tremulous quiver of the skin between his nose and upper lip. I thought about praying but, for some reason, it seemed futile and, as the weight of what was happening bore down on me, I knew the only thing I could do was watch. “This is going to leave a mark.” I thought to myself.

You never know when an image is going to be frozen into your mind forever but, when it happens, deep down inside, you know it. I remember with absolute clarity realizing I’d never forget how the moonlight played over the naked skin of a long ago lover as she walked towards me with abandon. Same with green stereopticon brightness of the outfield at that last ballgame with my dad, my wife in her wedding dress, Natalie popping out of her mother with a splash, taking her first steps, and watching the life go out of my dogs’ eyes The moment they happened, I knew I’d remember them to my dying day. Many of those and other eradicable images my mind snapped over the years are a joy, but quite a few of them are burdens and, the funny thing is, you have no way to know which image will become which. Very often. as life layers itself upon you, the happy ones sometimes become sicklied over with sorrow while the sad ones reveal a wisdom you never knew was there. There’s no telling – but I knew what I was seeing now would hurt for a long, long time.

A few minutes later, I heard a commotion and, when I turned my head, I saw my brother rushing down the hall. When his stricken face came into focus, I felt that shutter click in my head. Another picture taken. Another image posted in that scrapbook forever. Then, as my brother knelt by my dad’s bedside, I stood with my hand on his shoulder and, within a minute, our father breathed his last breath Feeling faintly ridiculous in my gym clothes during such a solemn moment, I looked at my watch and noted the time.

The hospice nurse had left to give us privacy, so I went in the nurse’s station to get her. “I’m pretty sure he’s passed,” I said. Looking at my father from her seat she said, “Oh yeah. He’s gone.” I guess after seeing so many people die, she knew death when she saw it. But she went through the motions, anyway, listening to my father’s chest before she called it. Then she told me, “He waited for your brother.” That’s when a part of my brain shut off. Suddenly eerily calm, a to do list began scrolling through my head and I excused myself from the room. There were details to attend to, people to call, texts to be sent, and a body to be picked up.

When I returned to the room my brother, now joined by his wife, were comforting my mother. A trolley with coffee and cookies meant to soothe us had been wheeled into the room and, shrugging, I helped myself. Standing over my father’s dead body sipping coffee while incoming texts of condolence busily pinged my phone, my mind took another picture of the inanity of it all. Then, after about a hour, I got into my car and drove to the funeral home to sign paperwork – but decided to make a pitstop at my go to restaurant first. No sense passing put from low blood sugar.

“How are you today?” my favorite waitress chirped as she set a glass of water in front of me.

“My dad died two hours ago,” I said. The look on her face was yet another image I’ll never forget.

Now that six months have gone by, I replay that morning in my head over and over again. If you asked me what I had for breakfast this morning, I might not be able to tell you but, if you asked me anything about that fateful day, I could describe it in granular detail. I remember the eye shadow a pretty blonde nurse wore, the sound of my mother crying, the antiseptic smells, the taste of those cookies, the dull sheen of that linoleum floor, and the feeling of the patty melt I ordered from that waitress sitting in my stomach like a greasy hockey puck. Someone told me that my photographic recall was guilt and perhaps they’re right. I’ve often wondered if it would’ve been easier to get the news via a phone call at 3:00 AM instead of watching my father die. But I was there with him as he waited for my brother, which tells me some small part of my father was still hanging on. I think Dad wanted me there too.

Perhaps, in a few months, years, or decades, those images I unwillingly scrapbooked that day will patina with age and take on meanings I cannot fathom now. Maybe I’ll look upon them wistfully, realizing I was actually in the right place at the right time. But one thing is for certain, like all those other moments captured in mental celluloid, what I saw that day left a mark.

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]]> https://www.waiterrant.net/2024/09/scrapbook/feed/ 2 Every Tear Wiped Away https://www.waiterrant.net/2024/08/every-tear-wiped-away/https://www.waiterrant.net/2024/08/every-tear-wiped-away/#comments Fri, 30 Aug 2024 20:26:01 +0000 https://www.waiterrant.net/?p=7459 “C’mon Dad!” Natalie cried, dragging me by the hand. “C’mon!” “Lead the way,” I said As the attendant lowered the safety bar on the roller coaster ride, I wasn’t overly concerned. When I was a younger man, I went on just about every kind of amusement park ride there is and came out unscathed and vomit […]

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]]> “C’mon Dad!” Natalie cried, dragging me by the hand. “C’mon!”

“Lead the way,” I said

As the attendant lowered the safety bar on the roller coaster ride, I wasn’t overly concerned. When I was a younger man, I went on just about every kind of amusement park ride there is and came out unscathed and vomit free. Since I have a small child, however, it had been years since I’d been on a “big boy” ride, but I figured it would be like riding a bike again. I was wrong.

When the old coaster hit the bottom of the big drop with a crash, a jolting pain lanced my neck and shot through my shoulder blade. Alarmed, I closed my eyes and tried to stabilize my head, which was next to impossible considering the G-forces involved. Feeling my skin break into a sickly sweat, I gritted my teeth and hung on to the bar for dear life as the world tossed and turned in the darkness. After what seemed like an eternity, the ride finally ended.

“Ow!” I said, rubbing my neck and feeling woozy.

“Are you alright?” my wife asked from behind me.

“I think I got whiplash.”

Stumbling off the ride, I twisted my neck around and was rewarded with an arthritic pop. I hadn’t really gotten hurt but was rattled. Now I knew why old duffers don’t go on these rides, content to watch their kids have fun. Was I becoming one of those people? Then again, I’ve been occasionally mistaken for Natalie’s grandfather.

“Let’s skip roller coasters for the rest of the night,” I said to Annie.

Despite being taken to Europe for her summer vacation, my daughter is still little and had been begging us to take her to an amusement park complete with water slides since the day school let out. As the pages fell from the calendar, Natalie asked us when we were going every day. “We have to take her somewhere,” I told my wife. “She’s been a good kid and deserves this.”

“We’ll go to Hershey Park just before school starts,” Annie said. “If we go during the middle of the week, it won’t be crowded.” So, I took two days off from work this week, threw my family in the car, and drove to the “Sweetest Place on Earth.” Amazing that the Disney people haven’t sued them over that line yet.

Our tickets let us enter the park at five o’clock until closing and then reenter the next day. The park was mercifully uncrowded with no lines and we crammed in just about every non-coaster ride we could until the security people ushered us out. Then we walked over to Chocolate World which features an animatronic ride showing how chocolate is made.

“Didn’t you come here when you were small?” my wife asked as we walked inside.

“1978,” I said. I was the same age as Natalie then – and the place looked like it hasn’t changed a bit.

“That’s right. I have that picture of you and your brother from that trip. You’re all wearing funny hats.”

“I remember,” I said. “We had it on the picture board at my father’s wake.” Then, with a start, I remembered it was exactly six months to the day since my father died. Talk about timing. As we walked onto the continuously moving floor to board the ride, I was hit with an overwhelming feeling of sadness. I’d been here forty-six years ago, when my parents were decades younger than I am now. How old was my dad back then? Thirty-five? Now he was in an urn we’d finally placed into a mausoleum last week.

Rubbing my eyes, I realized I’d had a hell of a time of it lately. I’d spent the previous weekend sweating the results of my bi-annual cancer screening and, though I got the all clear, I was too busy dealing with my food pantry’s school supply giveaway and dad’s internment ceremony to relax. It didn’t help matters that I got talked into giving a double blood donation to boot, which left me literally drained. So, when it came time to go to Hershey, I was looking forward to some much needed leisure time but, instead of delighting in my daughter’s wide eyed joy as we watched cocoa beans being turned into sweet treats, I was slumped in my seat, feeling defeated and old. Towards the end of the ride, a sign told us we were about to have our picture taken so, remembering that old picture of my brother and I with our parents, I pasted on a smile and said, “Say cheese everybody.” SNAP. Then, when the ride was over, I ponied up twenty-five bucks for a printout and a JPEG sent to my email account.

“That’s nice picture,” my wife said.

“Uh huh,” I said. Then we went to our hotel where, of course, our daughter wanted to swim in the pool. What is it with kids and hotel pools? Shaking my head at Natalie’s limitless energy, I just sat in a lounge chair and watched her frolic in the water until closing. Then, after some snacks, we watched the movie Groundhog Day on television and went to bed. Unfortunately, I tossed and turned in and bed and, when sleep finally did come, I dreamt I was Bill Murray – trapped in an endless temporal loop but with nothing to show for it. Unlike Bill, I didn’t learn how to speak French, play the piano, or achieve saintliness. Feeling like my life had been wasted, I awoke in a foul mood but, since I didn’t want to ruin my wife and daughter’s day, I kept my feelings to myself. But, as I watched parents chasing their kids around the amusement park, I could feel my soul coldly compacting in on itself, resentful that everyone around me was so fucking happy.

My fuse got lit when came when my wife asked me to trek back to the car to fetch our swim clothes for the water park. Being absent minded, I forgot where I parked and ended up roaming the lot for half an hour in the afternoon heat. “I’m turning into my dad,” I said, remembering his long slide into Parkinsonian dementia. “I’m gonna end up just like him.” Luckily my wife told me to ask Siri where we’d parked, and I finally found my car. Now stewing, I met my family by the main entrance and dumped the bag with our towels and swim trunks onto a park bench.

“I’m going to get a cup of coffee,” I said, icily. “Wait here.”

“But we’ve got to get to the water park,” Natalie said.

“WAIT.”

The line at Starbucks was long and the baristas slow, but I eventually walked out with an iced coffee and, as an apology for my brusqueness, a cake pop for Natalie. Sitting on the park bench, I savored the caffeinated coldness of my expensive cup of java and sighed. How many more hours until this day was over? Then, as we were fiddling with our things, my coffee cup fell off the bench and onto the ground. Three, two, one, ignition. “Goddamn it,” I yelped. “**Goddammit!**” Then I picked the empty cup off the ground and angrily whipped it into a trash can.

“It’s okay, Daddy,” my daughter said. That’s when tears filled my eyes.

“You’re right,” I said, patting her head. “Now go on ahead.”

Upset I lost it in front of my kid, my wife asked me what was going on. “I think I’m losing my fucking mind,” I swore. “My fucking mind.” Then I stormed off, furious, sad, and unmoored in a sea of children’s joy. What my wife didn’t know, because I didn’t tell her, was what that stupid cup of coffee meant to me. My father loved coffee and, as he lay dying, he asked me for some but, because the nurses wouldn’t let him have it, I had to tell him no. For him coffee had always been soothing but, as dad struggled during those last days, even that small comfort had been denied him. Remembering the disappointment in my father’s eyes, I will regret that moment for the rest of my life. So, it doesn’t take Sigmund Freud to figure out why I freaked when my iced coffee hit the ground.

I was ready to yank us all out of the park and drive home when my own words came back to haunt me. “She’s been a good kid and deserves this.” Stuffing my feelings down deep, I got my shit together and we went to the water rides. This was neither the time of the place. Then, as I waited on a long line with my excited little girl for a ride called The Whirlpool – and feeling self-conscious about being mostly unclothed – a wave of cold water crashed over me. But, instead of getting angry, the shock knocked me out of my selfish rage liked a clenched fist. When I opened my eyes, everything seemed clean and new and, in an instant, I knew that I was going through those fluid stages of grief – denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Holding my daughter’s tiny hand, I realized I really missed my dad but, luckily, the water cascading around us washed away my tears. Then, when I had a private moment, I pulled my wife aside and apologized for my behavior – but was still unable to articulate why. I guess I’m much better writing about my feelings than talking about them. Now, honey, you know why. Sorry.

The rest of the trip was a delight and, after a long ride home, I shined my shoes, hung a suit, tie, and starched shirt on my valet, and then went to bed. A seminary friend of mine’s brother died and I had to go to a funeral. So, the next morning, I spent time with another family dealing with grief and, as I sat in the back pew of a beautiful church, I hung my head and got in touch with my own, praying for that day when every tear would be wiped away.

I miss you, Dad.

GS-tr2024082820607

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]]> https://www.waiterrant.net/2024/08/every-tear-wiped-away/feed/ 3 Liam Neeson I Ain’t https://www.waiterrant.net/2024/08/liam-neeson-i-aint/https://www.waiterrant.net/2024/08/liam-neeson-i-aint/#respond Fri, 09 Aug 2024 18:23:20 +0000 https://www.waiterrant.net/?p=7431 As we journeyed on the Metro to The Louvre, I wondered if the subway car was overly crowded because of the security cordon for the approaching Olympics or if it was always this fucked up. “The station at Place de la Concorde is closed,” my wife said. “We have to get off at the stop […]

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]]> As we journeyed on the Metro to The Louvre, I wondered if the subway car was overly crowded because of the security cordon for the approaching Olympics or if it was always this fucked up.

“The station at Place de la Concorde is closed,” my wife said. “We have to get off at the stop afterwards and walk over.”

“Just great,” I said. During our two week vacation we’d already walked one hundred miles, and my gimpy knee was suffering as a result. Maybe I shouldn’t have gone running that morning. Pulling into a station, I watched as a large multi-generational family surged into the subway car, jockeying for position in the crowd. Like two pieces of matter trying to occupy the same place at the same time, it could not be done. But it was fun to watch.

Then a man, desperate to catch the train, pushed his way in just as the doors were closing, almost knocking a young woman from the family trying to board the car off her feet. Luckily, she didn’t fall but, as I watched her right herself, I saw a look of panic spread across her face. “My baby!” she cried in English. Sure enough, as the train began to move out of the station, I saw a baby stroller all alone on the platform. Oh shit.

“MY BABY! MY BABY!” the woman yelled.

Closing my eyes, I knew every on the subway car was about to get a dose of PTSD after this mother and her extended family went supernova. Talk about every parent’s worst nightmare. I also feared for the man who almost knocked the mother down and caused this mess. The beatdown he was almost sure to receive was going to be epic. Then, as the train started to pick up speed, the baby’s father pounded on the window shouting, “Stop the train! Stop the train!” Then the screams began.

If there’s anything that sends my daughter into a meltdown its children being separated from their parents. When Elsa and Anna’s parents died in a shipwreck in Frozen, she burst into panicked tears – and don’t even get me started about Bambi. Feeling powerless, I put my hand on Natalie’s shoulder and noticed her muscles were tauter than steel cables. This was going to be bad.

Luckily, an on the ball conductor noticed the developing drama and stopped the train just as the baby disappeared from view. Then, after the train backed up, the doors flew open and the entire family poured out of the car and surrounded the baby, crying tears of relief and launching prayers of thanksgiving heavenwards. Looking at the pushy guy who’d probably escaped being guillotined by an outraged parent, I noticed he was doing his best to alter his molecular structure and become invisible.

“Crisis averted,” I said, patting Natalie’s shoulder. “All is well.”

“What would’ve happened if they couldn’t stop the train?” she said. “What would’ve happened to the baby?”

“People are very nice,” I said. “They would have made sure the baby was safe until the police arrived and the cops would’ve found the parents.” That seemed to mollify my daughter but, as any parent knows, when confronted the enormity of losing your child, your mind goes to a very dark place. If it had been my baby in that stroller, I’d already be imagining infant organ traders scooping her up and flying her to some lawless shithole on the other side of the world. I have a relative who lost his two year old daughter at the Jersey Shore for half an hour back in the Seventies and, as he frantically searched for his child, he told God if she was found, he’d go back to church for the rest of his life. That man is now eighty and still goes to Mass almost every day. Talk about keeping your side of the bargain.

A short while later, when Natalie was out of earshot as we walked through the courtyard of The Louvre, I said to my wife, “What if Natalie got separated from us? How would we find her? We’re in France, not Jersey.”

“Good question.”

“We should give her a piece of paper with our names, numbers, and what hotel we’re staying at. In French.”

“By the time we noticed she was gone,” my wife deadpanned. “She’d be on a plane to Saudi Arabia.” When you’re married, your spouse knows just what buttons to push.

“I’m not Liam Neeson in _Taken_” I almost shouted. “I can’t be electrocuting every guy in Paris trying to find her!”

“She’s fine. You’re fine. Relax.”

If, God forbid, my daughter disappeared in my town, I could get our entire police force out looking for her. But I wasn’t home. I was a stranger in strange land unable to speak the language. I had no old buddies working in the Sûreté, nor was I an ex-CIA agent trained in hand to hand combat, evasive driving, subterfuge, and enhanced interrogation. Quite simply, I had no particular set of skills. Then again, if Taken had been a realistic movie, old Liam would’ve been a blubbering mess.

Aggravated and baking in the summer sun, I dragged Natalie towards a bench in the shade, sat down, and pulled her close. “I’m okay, dad,” she said.

“What would you have done if that happened to you?” I said.

“I would’ve stayed there and waited for you to come and get me.”

“Good girl.”

But next chance I got, I was going to sew my phone number into her underwear.

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]]> https://www.waiterrant.net/2024/08/liam-neeson-i-aint/feed/ 0 Anchors Away https://www.waiterrant.net/2024/08/dropping-anchor/https://www.waiterrant.net/2024/08/dropping-anchor/#comments Fri, 09 Aug 2024 03:58:33 +0000 https://www.waiterrant.net/?p=7410 Yesterday morning I was sitting on the couch, sipping coffee to rouse myself into consciousness, when my wife said, “This is Natalie’s last week of summer camp.” “Already?” I said, “Fifth grade is right around the corner.” Closing my eyes, I tightly gripped my coffee mug. But I wasn’t aggravated we’d lost our seasonal day […]

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]]> Yesterday morning I was sitting on the couch, sipping coffee to rouse myself into consciousness, when my wife said, “This is Natalie’s last week of summer camp.”

“Already?” I said,

“Fifth grade is right around the corner.”

Closing my eyes, I tightly gripped my coffee mug. But I wasn’t aggravated we’d lost our seasonal day care; I was upset because Natalie was aging out of the summer recreation program she’d attended since before kindergarten. When I dropped her off with the counselors in 2019, she was a mere Guppy. Now, about to enter fifth grade, she’d graduated to Shark. Next year she’ll go to teen camp. Lord knows what words she’s going to learn there.

“That was too fast,” I muttered “Much to fast.”

I have thoroughly enjoyed being a doting father to a wonderful little girl but now, with middle school fast approaching, I know Natalie’s “little kiddom” is coming to an end. It also doesn’t help that she’s starting to smell and losing the baby fat on her cheeks

“Have you noticed her face looks different?”

“She’s growing up,” Annie said.

“I can’t figure out who she’d going to look more like. Me or you? I hope you.” Then I went to work where the phone rang and rang, all with variations of the same problem.

My mom needs a nursing home.

My dad can’t live alone anymore.

My mom’s starting to get dementia. What do I do?”

As tough as dealing with my parents has been at times, the experience also had a silver lining. Now, when I get calls like these, I’m much more well informed, patient and, most of all empathetic. And, because I shared my experiences with these callers, albeit curated, they were more comfortable talking with me than someone who’d never been through it.

“Everyone’s parents seem to be going off the rails today,” I said to my volunteer after I finished with my last caller.

“It’s hard,” she said. “I remember when I went through it.”

One of the blessings of my job is that most of my volunteers are my age or older. Since they all had or were currently dealing with aging parents, they provided an excellent shoulder to lean on when I went through the worst of my trials. Slumping in my chair, I turned my head and looked at the picture of Natalie on my desk, taken when she was only four. Having a kid was the best thing that ever happened to me, but I came to fatherhood late. So, the odds are good that when Natalie has to stick me in a nursing home, most of her contemporary’s parents will still be hale and hearty. Unlike me, will she feel alone when that difficult time comes? I hope not. Then again, I could spare her the trouble by just dropping dead.

Shaking the morose thoughts from my head, I got on with my job, but couldn’t shake the sense I was being carried away by the fast flowing currents of time. This month I’ll have worked at the food pantry nine years – the longest tenure at a job I’ve ever had – but it seems like I got hired only yesterday. And now, when I look at myself in the mirror, I’m surprised by the grey haired guy staring back at me. Tempus fugit, I guess. Oddly enough, seminary and my dad’s death both seem like they happened ages ago despite the decades in between. Time sometimes plays tricks on the mind, but Natalie’s growing up is no illusion, just a constant reminder that change is inevitable.

Well aware it was fleeting, I’ve always been careful to enjoy Natalie’s childhood, but now I find myself focusing on those little things that still make her a kid; the stuffed animals on her bed, wanting someone to go with her into the basement, watching cartoons, being tucked in at night, and excitedly talking about going to an amusement park. It’s almost like I’m using her as an anchor to keep from being swept away, to stay put and savor this time which will never come again. Of course, if I do that, I’ll screw Natalie up. She’s going to become her own person whether I like it or not and I can’t hold her back just to make myself feel better.

When evening came, my wife called to say she had to work late, and Natalie and I were on our own for dinner. “You want to go to McDonald’s?” I asked Natalie.

“Really?” she said. She asks to go to McDonald’s all the time, but I always say no.

“Why not? We haven’t been there in ages. Get your shoes on.”

After driving through a wicked thunderstorm, we arrived at The Golden Arches and Natalie’s eyes went wide. “They have a new play place!” she squealed. The restaurant had a play area which Natalie loved when she was small, but it was shuttered after COVID hit. “Good” my wife said. “That place always smells like dirty feet.” I guess they’d remodeled it since our last visit.

“Can I go play?” Natalie said. “Can I?”

“After you eat.” So, after dining on a meal that would’ve sent my cardiologist into a tizzy, I let Natalie into the playroom. “I’m going to get a cup of coffee,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

“But it says children have to be supervised by their parents,” she said, pointing to a sign. Maybe she’ll be a lawyer when she grows up.

“I’ll only be a minute.”

Large decaf in hand, I found a perch in the playroom and read a book on my phone while Natalie played with a bunch of little tykes. Sniffing the air, I realized the offending odors my wife bitched about weren’t present. But then again, the equipment was new and had not yet had time to absorb the effluence of greasy fingered fragrant children.

“Hey Dad,” I heard Natalie shout, “Look at me!” Lifting my head from my phone, I saw my daughter waving at me from high on the play apparatus. “Way to go, kid,” I said, surprised she was still gung-ho about the play place. Last time I took Natalie to the playground at the park, she said, “That’s for little kids,” but there she was, romping with chicken nugget fueled toddlers with unalloyed joy.

As lightening flashed outside the rain sheeted windows, I suddenly got the sense time was standing still, and McDonald’s had become the center of all reality. My little girl was happy and that was all that mattered. Then I realized that I’d been going about things all wrong. I didn’t need to drop anchor to stop the inexorable flow of time because there would always be moments like this to come. They’ll be different than when Natalie was a kid, but just as sweet. Then again, past, present and future are probably all an illusion because, when you think about it, all we truly have is now and what is there is all we’ll ever need. Snapping a picture of Natalie having fun, I texted it to my wife. Still a kid a little longer.

Driving home as rain lashed the windows, I looked in my rear view mirror and saw Natalie had dozed off. Remembering doing the same thing in the back seat of my dad’s car as he drove me home from some far off place, I knew things had somehow come full circle. Now in the driver’s seat. I remembered what a sage said long ago, “Time is the moving image of eternity.”

“Carry me inside,” my daughter groggily said, when we pulled into the driveway.

“No way,” I said. “You weigh sixty pounds.”

Time may be an illusion – but my aching back is very, very real.

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]]> https://www.waiterrant.net/2024/08/dropping-anchor/feed/ 3 Dropping Le Deuce https://www.waiterrant.net/2024/07/dropping-le-deuce/https://www.waiterrant.net/2024/07/dropping-le-deuce/#comments Wed, 31 Jul 2024 01:56:57 +0000 https://www.waiterrant.net/?p=7388 Upon arriving at our accommodations in Berlin, like most kids walking into a hotel room for the first time, my daughter checked out the bathroom. When Natalie emerged, she said, “Daddy, come here.” “What’s up?” I said, following her into the bathroom. Pointing to a porcelain fixture next to the toilet which I knew her […]

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]]> Upon arriving at our accommodations in Berlin, like most kids walking into a hotel room for the first time, my daughter checked out the bathroom. When Natalie emerged, she said, “Daddy, come here.”

“What’s up?” I said, following her into the bathroom. Pointing to a porcelain fixture next to the toilet which I knew her ten year old American eyes had never seen, she said, “What’s that?

“That’s a bidet.”

“What’s it for?”

“It’s to wash your butt after you poop.”

“But there’s toilet paper right over there.”

“That’s for the in deep stuff,” I said. “You use the bidet afterwards. Then maybe pat yourself dry.”

“Weird.”

“Just don’t mix them up.”

Bidets are very civilized. After encountering them in Italy years ago, my wife and I idly thought about installing one in our house. The only trouble was our one bathroom is very small and we didn’t have room. We looked into getting one of those electric all in one Japanese jobs, but that would’ve necessitated hiring a guy to install a plug next to the toilet. Dreams of irrigated anuses fading, we resigned ourselves to living like barbarians.

Since we’re on the subject of bathrooms, let’s talk about a common traveler’s complaint. When you factor in the stress of running to the airport, a transatlantic flight on a pressurized bus with their telephone booth sized commodes, jet lag, and richer food than you’re used to, that can do a number on your G.I. tract. That’s right folks, I’m talking about constipation. Luckily, I purged myself my second day in Berlin. Running does wonders for peristalsis. The others in my family, however, were not as lucky. I’ll spare you the details, but hotels really should offer free canisters of air-freshener along with those tiny soaps, shampoos, and shower caps. I mean, really.

I also make it a point to do my business at home before I fly anywhere. This discipline developed later in my life as a result of my wife’s air travel OCD. A seasoned airline warrior, Annie becomes a different person the moment she steps into an airport. Unable to countenance anyone delaying her progress in any way, she also harbors a deep antipathy towards passengers who refuse to check their oversized carry ons and insist on hogging all the overhead bins. Sometimes she stews so hotly, I think she’s imagining those luggage fetishists getting sucked out of a port hole like Goldfinger at 30,000 feet. Messy. Early in our relationship, we were in an airport waiting to board our flight when I felt nature’s siren call. Seeing we had plenty of time, I excused myself and said, “I’ll be right back.” The bathroom was right by the gate and, as I sat down to get accomplish my mission, my phone announced an incoming text. Good. Something to read. That helps sometimes you know.

We’re boarding! Where are you?”

I just sat down

Get out here now!

But I’m not finished.

NOW!

Had I misjudged the time? Was there some unspoken nuance of airline-fu that’d I’d failed to notice? One things for sure, Annie’s desperate digital entreaties put the kibosh on my toilet time. The turtle had indeed gone back into its shell.

“What was the rush?” I said, uncomfortably buckling into my seat. “There was time.”

“I wanted the overhead bin,” Annie said, triumphantly. By the time breakfast breached my defenses somewhere over Ohio, I made the Boeing’s tiny restroom olfactorily out of order for those seeking to join the Mile High Club. Talk about Snakes On a Plane.

Diet also plays a big part in a traveler’s digestive life. I’m sure they have vegetables in Germany but, other that sauerkraut, I despaired of seeing any. Then, when we were at a swanky buffet near the Black Forest, I finally found some, almost knocking the servers over to get to the tureen. Honestly, I thought about taking the whole thing to my table and sticking my head in it. The body knows what it needs. But what really irked my ersatz brother-in-law about Germany was needing to pay money to use a public restroom. (They do take credit cards.) “How uncivilized,” he raged, but I shrugged it off since I’d seen that in Italy. I’ll never forget standing outside the Venice rail station restroom while waiting for my five month pregnant wife to complete her ablutions. Already October, but still very hot, I watched as an undeniably pregnant woman cried while begging people to give her a Euro. My interest piqued; I walked over to her.

“I need money to go to use the toilet,” she said in English before I opened my mouth. I guess I really do look like an American.

The poor woman was sweating like a pig and, having listened to my wife moan and groan about the how our incoming child was squashing her insides, helping this lady was a no brainer. “Here you go,” I said, fishing a Euro coin out of my pocket. Back then that was a buck thirty-three. Another positive entry in St. Pete’s ledger.

“Thank you!” the soon to be Madonna cried, “Thank you.” Despite being laden with child, she ran to that toilet faster than Usain Bolt.

“Did you give that beggar money?” my wife asked, having seen the transaction and already weary from being accosted by gangs of youthful mendicants on the train ride over.

“That was no beggar,” I said. Did I mention the woman was also ravishingly beautiful? My bad.

Public toilets are a big deal – especially in Manhattan. In addition to their scarcity, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve pounded on a Starbucks’ restroom door because a junkie’s nodded off inside. When you gotta go you gotta go. Having practically lived in NYC for a time, however, I had assembled a list of free and very nice commodes for use by the general public – to the point of thinking about publishing a Michelin Guide for incontinent. tourists. The restrooms in the Time Warner Center get four stars.

Paris, France, however, does shitting in public right. There’s almost never a fee and they even have automatic bathrooms in plain sight on the streets. You just wave your hand in front of the sensor; a door slides open and in you go. Then, when you’re done, the door closes and locks, the toilet retracts into its cubbyhole to be cleaned, and then it’s open again for business. The sign on the door tells patrons they have fifteen minutes to get their affairs in order before it opens and kicks you out. Enough time to drop a deuce or shoot up, but not enough time to take a three hour nap. Plus, if you’re a guy just looking to take a leak, you can use the attached urinoir to drain your main vein at no cost. Very civilized. The only problem was, when my wife needed to use one of these contraptions the door wouldn’t close – plus they freaked my daughter out.

“It’s like R2-2 but a toilet,” I told her. Considering what they’re doing to the Star Wars franchise, I’m sure Disney will in installing something like that in all their parks.

My daughter eventually used our bidet in Berlin and, as I heard her giggling inside the bathroom, I smiled. Travel does indeed broaden your horizons. Then, just before retiring for the night, my wife emerged from the bathroom screeching, “What is that in the bidet?” Getting up to investigate, I looked into the bowl and found an errant piece of Herr Hanky.

“Not mine,” I lied. “Must have been Natalie.” I know, how horrible am I? But I’m not above throwing my child under der Bus.

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]]> https://www.waiterrant.net/2024/07/dropping-le-deuce/feed/ 2 Ja und Nein https://www.waiterrant.net/2024/07/ja-versus-nein/https://www.waiterrant.net/2024/07/ja-versus-nein/#comments Tue, 30 Jul 2024 04:06:27 +0000 https://www.waiterrant.net/?p=7353 The Hauptbahnhof is a sleek, modern railway station in the Mitte section of Berlin where it costs €2 to take a leak and €4 for a bottle of water you could get from a machine at Costco for a quarter and even cheaper if you bought it by the case. Standing on the platform, I […]

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]]> The Hauptbahnhof is a sleek, modern railway station in the Mitte section of Berlin where it costs €2 to take a leak and €4 for a bottle of water you could get from a machine at Costco for a quarter and even cheaper if you bought it by the case. Standing on the platform, I watched as legions of field tripping schoolchildren raucously descended the escalator to join the crowd already congealing around me. I don’t know how the school year works in Germany, but summertime seems to be when Deutsche Kinder all visit their nation’s capital. Turning down the gain on my hearing aids, I silently prayed they wouldn’t be in my car.

“Don’t worry,” my ersatz brother-in-law, said, as if reading my mind. “I booked us first class tickets.”

“You did?”

“Those kids will be in second class.”

“How much did that cost?”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s on me.”

I felt a bit discomfited. Rene had covered the cost of an indulgent evening at the Ritz-Carlton’s cigar bar the night before and I didn’t want to feel like a leech. Then again, he makes a lot more money than me.

“Well,” I said. “Then I’m picking up the beers on the train.”

An old man came and tried to sell us a newspaper. Since I don’t speak German, I shook my head but, instead of walking away, he stuck his hand out. “Please?” Then I realized he was a beggar. You see the same kind of thing on the New York subway. “Sorry,” I said, and he walked away. Glancing at his watch, Rene said. “So much for German trains being on time.”

“I think the Euro Cup thing fucked it up.”

“Wait here, I’ll check the board.”

Germans don’t seem to be enamored with air-conditioning like we Americans are and the station was hot. Something to do with the cost of electricity I read somewhere. Now, with Putin chocking off their once cheap natural gas supplies, I doubted things would change anytime soon. Feeling parched and slightly woozy, I wondered if I shouldn’t have stood on principle and bought that usuriously priced bottle of H20. Then someone tapped my shoulder.

“Paper, sir?” a young woman asked. I was mildly piqued she addressed me in my language. Did I look that American? Must’ve been my Hawaiian shirt.

“No thank you, miss,” I said, shaking my head.

“PLEASE, SIR!” she almost shouted. “My baby is hungry.” Then, thrusting out her abdomen, she rubbed her swollen belly.

Well aware St. Peter was keeping a record of my good deeds or lack thereof, my hand started going into my pocket, but then stopped. Having experienced the joys of my wife’s pregnancy by proxy, I knew something wasn’t right. Looking at the woman’s belly, I got the impression that it was too perfectly shaped, as if she was wearing one of those prosthetics high-school kids wear to know what they’re in for if they’re not careful. That, and the exaggerated thrust of her hips, made the sixth sense I’d developed during a long career dealing with people smell a Ratte. Probably a gypsy. I’d run into many of them in Italy.

“Sorry, miss,” I lied. “I don’t have any money.”

“You’re travelling by nice train. You have money.”

I always keep loose change in my pocket when I go to Manhattan and make it a point to drop something in a beggar’s cup at least once during the trip – but I hate aggressive panhandlers. Deciding to means test this lady’s level of desperation, I said, “I’ll buy you something to eat right now.”

“No,” she said. “Money,” and then began started tugging on my shirtsleeve. Aggravated, I channeled the spirit of every oberführer I’d seen in World War II movies and snapped out a curt “NEIN!” Sputtering something in a language I didn’t understand, the woman spun on her heel and left. If only St. Peter could see me now.

“Everything okay?” Rene said, sidling up to me.

“Just a gypsy.”

Half an hour later, ensconced in our first class seats to Stuttgart, I ordered two large beers from the steward and grinned when they arrived. This was the life. “I’m so glad those kid are not with us,” I said.

“Can you imagine?” Rene replied.

A couple of liters later and feeling no pain, our train zipped by the town of Fulda and, as I looked at the flat plains rolling past, I could almost see Soviet tanks blasting their way through columns of Bundeswehr troops. “See that?” I said to Rene, pointing out the window. “That’s the Fulda Gap.”

“The what?”

“If World War III started in the Eighties, the Warsaw pact would have invaded here, and this would be the last place on earth you’d want to be.”

“How do you know this stuff?”

I shrugged. “History teacher for a father I guess.”

Feeling slightly tipsy, I closed my eyes and thought about my high school fears of the Cold War going hot. If the Russians got the upper hand punching into West Germany, NATO doctrine was to nuke the shit out of them. Probably with neutron bombs. One thing’s for sure, if things went sideways back then, the countryside I was chugging through would’ve become hell incarnate.

“My baby’s hungry!”

With a start, I opened my eyes, looking for the faux-pregnant lady from the train station, but all I could see was Rene gazing out the window as the train’s horn wailed. Maybe that’s what I heard and my unconsciously guilty mind turned it into a lamentation. I’d been living it up lately – fancy bars, good food, first class travel, and probably too many beers – and I now felt like I’d missed paying a toll. I was hungry and you gave me food. I was thirsty and you gave me drink. After spending so much on myself, a charitable Euro would’ve been a drop in the bucket. Had I turned into those restaurant customers I once despised? Living in a bubble while thinking life should be an uninterrupted journey from one purchased pleasure to the next?

Then again, I say nein all the time. When your job is sorting out legitimate appeals for help from the bogus like mine, you develop a sense of who should get what or not. Do you hand over funds to a guy who’ll just drink or gamble it away or to the mom with three kids and no place to live? Do you help that lady whose story is full of holes or the young man who came in with documentation attesting to his troubles? Sometimes I’ve got nothing to go on but my gut and, while I know I’m right more often than I’m wrong, I remember every single time I screwed up like it happened yesterday. “Always err on the side of generosity,” I told my volunteers before I went on vacation, but did I really live up to that credo myself? Sitting in my quiet train car, I felt my own words getting thrown back in my face. “_Deserves got nothing to do with it_.” Maybe I should quit the food pantry and sell cars. Of course, that beggar was probably full of scheisse but so what? Sighing, I remembered the words of Somerset Maugham, “The road to salvation is narrow and as difficult to walk as the razor’s edge.”

Staring at the German countryside, I realized I’d cut myself.

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