Feb 2018
He wanted a couple
of McChicken sandwiches,
so off we went.
He was fidgety and bored
at home;
had already watched a
DVD and...
it was time to
get out, into something
else for awhile.
Having placed our order,
I followed my grown-man
son to a table of his choosing.
We sat and waited for our
lunch to arrive.
The placard at the end
of the table said: #36.
While we ate,
we chatted about whatever
happened to be rattling around
in his head at the moment.
(I was only half-listening.)
Two men, at two different tables
near ours were having virtually
the same conversation into two
different cell phones.
The white man,
with the red beard
said:
"All I need is a few more dollars and I can make it back to Kansas City. I tried yesterday, to catch a Greyhound and they told me that I didn't have enough to make it all the way there, so I'm still here. I've been here about six days. Yesterday was my last day at the shelter. Now, they're giving preference to veterans, so last night I was outside. But, at least the veterans are warm. I'm not a veteran so..."
The black man
in the hooded
sweatshirt said:
"I just got off the phone with my sister. She said that if I could come up with $20 for gas, she would come down from Kansas City and get me; take me back up to her house so I could see Mom. Mom's in the hospital, she ain't doin' so good, man."
My boy went on talking about doodads and thingamajigs;
movies full of mayhem and video games and their magic.
(The artistic, autistic wanderings of his thoughts)
He ate his McChicken sandwiches,
paying no attention to the two men
nearby.
My own mind wanders
to thoughts of an ATM;
two twenty-dollar bills
given away,
wanders still to the last
ten dollars in my wallet.
I know that my son and I
are supposed to go to
the local video store
after lunch.
Which of these three men
should I give my last ten
bucks to?
Should I keep it for myself?
The boy is using the smallest,
crispiest French fries to poke
holes in the wax paper that his
sandwiches had been wrapped in.
I smile at him,
sigh,
and say: “Thanks.”
“For what?” he asks.
“For making that decision for me.”
“It would’ve been a hard one for me to make on my own.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” he says,
looking confused.
“I know. It’s okay.
Finish up and we’ll
go look at some movies,
maybe some comics.”
My son slurps
his soda-pop,
crunches his
final fry.
We make our way
outside into the
bright sunshine of
late afternoon.
*
-JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications
of McChicken sandwiches,
so off we went.
He was fidgety and bored
at home;
had already watched a
DVD and...
it was time to
get out, into something
else for awhile.
Having placed our order,
I followed my grown-man
son to a table of his choosing.
We sat and waited for our
lunch to arrive.
The placard at the end
of the table said: #36.
While we ate,
we chatted about whatever
happened to be rattling around
in his head at the moment.
(I was only half-listening.)
Two men, at two different tables
near ours were having virtually
the same conversation into two
different cell phones.
The white man,
with the red beard
said:
"All I need is a few more dollars and I can make it back to Kansas City. I tried yesterday, to catch a Greyhound and they told me that I didn't have enough to make it all the way there, so I'm still here. I've been here about six days. Yesterday was my last day at the shelter. Now, they're giving preference to veterans, so last night I was outside. But, at least the veterans are warm. I'm not a veteran so..."
The black man
in the hooded
sweatshirt said:
"I just got off the phone with my sister. She said that if I could come up with $20 for gas, she would come down from Kansas City and get me; take me back up to her house so I could see Mom. Mom's in the hospital, she ain't doin' so good, man."
My boy went on talking about doodads and thingamajigs;
movies full of mayhem and video games and their magic.
(The artistic, autistic wanderings of his thoughts)
He ate his McChicken sandwiches,
paying no attention to the two men
nearby.
My own mind wanders
to thoughts of an ATM;
two twenty-dollar bills
given away,
wanders still to the last
ten dollars in my wallet.
I know that my son and I
are supposed to go to
the local video store
after lunch.
Which of these three men
should I give my last ten
bucks to?
Should I keep it for myself?
The boy is using the smallest,
crispiest French fries to poke
holes in the wax paper that his
sandwiches had been wrapped in.
I smile at him,
sigh,
and say: “Thanks.”
“For what?” he asks.
“For making that decision for me.”
“It would’ve been a hard one for me to make on my own.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” he says,
looking confused.
“I know. It’s okay.
Finish up and we’ll
go look at some movies,
maybe some comics.”
My son slurps
his soda-pop,
crunches his
final fry.
We make our way
outside into the
bright sunshine of
late afternoon.
*
-JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications
