Memory
After a brief stop at home, my father drove me to interview a candidate for my college. It was also brief as I was afraid to leave him outside long. He was, needless to say, in the middle of a surreptitious and suspicious telephone conversation when I surprised him. We proceeded to a restaurant nearby which we had last visited two years ago.
A waitress took our orders. Our food arrived. After about 45 minutes, she attempted to remove Peabo's salad.
"Can I take this?" she said.
Faster than lightning, his hand grabbed the plate.
"No," he hissed. "I'm not done."
"Mmm. Yes," she said.
"I remember you. You did this last time. I've been waiting for you."
Not unfoundedly, Peabo looked aghast. His eyes actually popped out of his head.
"Yes, you almost bit my arm off then," she said evenly. Peabo looked terrified. I started to laugh. It was in fact the same woman and he had done the very same thing. Over the course of the next hour and 15 minutes, Peabo worked himself into a frenzy of paranoia, regret, and indignance, convinced alternately that she was poisoning us, etc. He became so anxiety ridden that his throat closed and he had to vomit twice. Meanwhile, my younger brother (who has just quit smoking) was sending me regular updates. This had begun at the tooth engineer's "office" (crematorium). He was at a Chinese New Year's Party but had "forgotten how to mingle" and so was seated on a chair in the middle of the room. Alone. And he had "checked his lozenges at the door."
I continued to apprise him of the Peabo situation. Half of me desperately wanted to leave, half of me was more and more delighted with each table pass "Amy" made.
Eventually Peabo agreed to end things. He carefully left her a large tip and drew a smiley face on the receipt. This took at least five minutes. He then duplicated them on his copy. I went to the front, panting for the door. No. He laboriously went OVER TO the waitress and told her (apparently) that he had left her a smiley face. More than two hours after entering, he finally made it out of the restaurant.
"Man," Peabo said. "I just did not know what to do. I wanted to leave but I didn't want to have to be seen leaving. I wanted one of those f&^king whaddya call thems, teleporters. I wanted my atoms to disintegrate and reform outside the restaurant in my preferred appearance."
A waitress took our orders. Our food arrived. After about 45 minutes, she attempted to remove Peabo's salad.
"Can I take this?" she said.
Faster than lightning, his hand grabbed the plate.
"No," he hissed. "I'm not done."
"Mmm. Yes," she said.
"I remember you. You did this last time. I've been waiting for you."
Not unfoundedly, Peabo looked aghast. His eyes actually popped out of his head.
"Yes, you almost bit my arm off then," she said evenly. Peabo looked terrified. I started to laugh. It was in fact the same woman and he had done the very same thing. Over the course of the next hour and 15 minutes, Peabo worked himself into a frenzy of paranoia, regret, and indignance, convinced alternately that she was poisoning us, etc. He became so anxiety ridden that his throat closed and he had to vomit twice. Meanwhile, my younger brother (who has just quit smoking) was sending me regular updates. This had begun at the tooth engineer's "office" (crematorium). He was at a Chinese New Year's Party but had "forgotten how to mingle" and so was seated on a chair in the middle of the room. Alone. And he had "checked his lozenges at the door."
I continued to apprise him of the Peabo situation. Half of me desperately wanted to leave, half of me was more and more delighted with each table pass "Amy" made.
Eventually Peabo agreed to end things. He carefully left her a large tip and drew a smiley face on the receipt. This took at least five minutes. He then duplicated them on his copy. I went to the front, panting for the door. No. He laboriously went OVER TO the waitress and told her (apparently) that he had left her a smiley face. More than two hours after entering, he finally made it out of the restaurant.
"Man," Peabo said. "I just did not know what to do. I wanted to leave but I didn't want to have to be seen leaving. I wanted one of those f&^king whaddya call thems, teleporters. I wanted my atoms to disintegrate and reform outside the restaurant in my preferred appearance."
posted by Salt and Vodka at 9:44 PM
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