The second installment in the story of America’s silliest criminal mastermind
If you haven't read part one of this story none of this will make since so
click
this link and catch up, or
be royally confused.
I returned my focus to my
notepad, a little perturbed by the display, but determined to break my writers
block once and for all.
I sat with my pen
poised above the yellow page, eager to share with the world the wonderment I
knew hid somewhere in my soul, but within seconds my eyes glazed and my
thoughts drifted aimlessly.
After a good
long bit of staring into space I was jarred from my useless reverie by a string
of obscene, yet elegant, profanities far too graphic to repeat.
I jerked my head toward the X-Rated tirade to see the beslippered ragamuffin on his feet, his finger in the face of poor Tim who looked close to tears.
I jerked my head toward the X-Rated tirade to see the beslippered ragamuffin on his feet, his finger in the face of poor Tim who looked close to tears.
“Those
sunglasses are my daughters, you Bastard!” he shouted in an accusatory tone.
“Why the hell would you want to steal little girls glasses Tim, I thought we
were closer then that!”
“Sir, I brought
your orange juice,” the waiter said; glass in hand, eyes on his shoes, obviously
wishing he were anywhere else. “I didn’t try to take your sunglasses, sir.”
Hearing this
the drunk immediately turned from outraged fiend on the edge of violence into a
docile fawning child eager to repair his new friendship.
“I’m sorry,
Tim,” he said, patronizingly patting the young man on the shoulder, gently
prying the juice out of his hand. “I didn’t mean to yell, its just they’re my
little girl’s, y’know.”
Glancing over
Tim’s shoulder, the pajama-wearing patron noticed his outburst had drawn attention
from the rest of the dinner’s clientele.
“The hell are y’all looking at?” he demanded.
Orange juice
held aloft in one hand, Hello Kitty frames in the other, the scraggly stranger
stepped around Tim the waiter, to be better viewed by his audience.
“I’ll bet none
of you heathens would shell out the cash to get your kid shades this nice,” he
slurred flamboyantly. “Limited edition, collectable they said… but she wanted them…
so I got them… So don’t look at me like I’m
a bad father, you pricks…”
From there his
speech degenerated into a list of all of our supposed personal flaws to
including some bizarre sexual proclivities I didn’t understand until I looked
them up online later.
As the wild
eyed young man spoke, Tim scurried back to the kitchen and the AA members began
to trade worried glances and grip their coffee mugs with white knuckles, as if
they feared proximity to this addict mid-binge might push them over the edge
and off the wagon.
A trucker
sitting clear on the other end of the dinning room had enough and stormed out
dropping a 10 next to the cash register, no even waiting for the recipe needed
to collect his per diem.
Eventually the
Elmo Slippered buffoon tired of his rant and returned to his booth, where he
gulped down half of his juice in one go before reaching into the pocket of his
sponge bob pajama pants to retrieve a flask, the contents of which he dumped
over his remaining juice without even a glance toward the wait staff, who
unfortunately pointedly ignoring him.
He took a sip
of the cocktail and smacked his lips in alcoholic ecstasy. Losing interest in
his fellow patrons (much to their relief) he began to grin at his reflection in
the window adjacent to his booth.
While other diners, grateful for a reprieve from the freak
show that played out before them over the past 10 minutes or so, returned to
their meals and conversations, I continued to study the young man, fascinated
and appalled by his behavior in equal measures.
For the first
time in weeks I felt the squeaky grind and clack of my creative wheels slowly
begin to turn somewhere in the back of my head.
With my eyes
glued to the young man, who now seemed to be holding a hushed conversation with
his reflection, my hand began to idly search for my pen.
“Sir, can I get
you a refill?”
With a start I tore my eyes
away from what I hoped was a one sided conversation, to see Tim standing next
to my right shoulder, coffee pot in hand. So intent was I on the young ne’er-do-well’s
antics that I didn’t notice the waiter’s approach.
“Sure,
buddy” I said holding up my mug.
“Are you doing ok over
there,” I asked nodding toward the Elmo slippered fiend, who had finished his
conversation, and was now looking around the room for some other amusement.
“Can’t you just throw him out?”
Tim managed to shrug his
shoulders dejectedly, while pouring, without spilling a drop of scalding hot
Columbian roast on my hand. I’d have to tip him well.
“The cops would have to
shut the place down and get statements from everybody in here,” he said. “The
manager thinks its better to serve him and get him out of here as quickly as
possible.”
“Maybe it won’t
be an issue,” I said once again nodding toward the stranger who was making a
beeline for the door.
“Oh thank God,”
Tim’s words came out like a sigh of relief.
Unfortunately
for the waiter, Elmo, as I decided to call him, simply stuck his head out the
doorway for a few seconds before ducking back into the restaurant.
“Needed to make
sure my truck was still out there,” he said loudly and to no one in particular.
The Hello Kitty shades once
again covered his Johnny Rotten eyes and, from my seat 20 feet away I could
detect the pungent scent of OJ and tequila from where it had dribbled on his
Cowboys T-shirt.
For some reason Elmo took
notice of me sitting unobtrusively in my booth and I made the mistake of
meeting his eyes.
The drunk took my gaze as
an invitation and sauntered over, sliding smoothly into the booth, leaning his
back against the wall, and swinging his red-furred feet to rest on the
cushioned bench.
Resting his chin in the
palm of his right hand, he looked at me over the lenses of his pink sunglasses
and asked, “What kind of car do you have, friend.”
The smell of the guy was
overpowering, but for better or worse this disgusting excuse for a dinner companion
was my muse, so I breathed through my mouth and engaged him politely.
“I just have a bike,” I
said trying to sound easygoing, but coming off just north of a nervous wreck.
“You know, good for the body, good for the environment and whatnot.”
I could almost see Elmo roll his eyes behind
his dark glasses. He looked about ready to give me hell for being a granola-chewing
hippy freak, when he noticed Tim who still stood slightly to my right, coffee
pot still in clasped tightly in his hand like a tiny glass shield.
“Tim, where the fuck are
those pancakes?”
“Um, I’ll go check with the
cook,” the kid said fleeing toward the kitchen.
Elmo turned his attention
back to me and made a sour face.
“A bike, huh,” he said
dismissively. “I’ve got an F150. Now there’s a man’s truck right there,
brother!”
“Yeah, I hear their grea…”
I said, again trying to be friendly, but getting cut off.
“Of course it’s great! A
solid American truck that I paid good money for!”
“Sure, sure buddy, I’m with
you all the way,” I said, but he wasn’t paying attention anymore, because Tim
had emerged from the kitchen plate in hand.
Without another word or
even another glance in my direction my fragrant new friend practically leapt
from my booth and pounced on the plate of pancakes, ripping it from Tim’s hand
without a word of gratitude. I believe he had a slice of bacon in his mouth
before he even made it to his seat.
After about 30 seconds of
shoveling food into his mouth in a manner usually reserved for cartoon
characters, he reached for his cocktail only to find the glass empty.
“Tim!” he shouted
boisterously to the waiter, who had already retreated back into the kitchen.
“Be a doll and get daddy another juice.”
By the time the waiter
returned with the OJ, Elmo was almost finished with his meal.
I glanced down at my pie,
now cold, with the whipped cream melted off into a puddle. Despite his obvious
disregard for anything resembling human decency, I found myself envying the
gusto with which Elmo attacked his food. Hell, attacked life. I hadn’t felt as
passionate about anything as that crazy young man felt about his pancakes in a
very long time.
With these thoughts pinging
around my brain like a pinball, my fingers found my pen and began to write,
even as I watched the man-child devour the last of his flapjacks.
In my periphery I could see the AA members
preparing to leave, standing up, stretching, and pulling out their wallets.
I didn’t really pay them
any mind as they left, my attention absorbed with the glorious mess before me,
collecting left over syrup on his fingers and plunging them into his mouth, but
I did notice they made a special effort to ignore his antics.
Soon after they left, Elmo lept toward the
door, and I thought he’d pull a dine-and-dash, but he once again stuck his head
out for a couple seconds before heading back to his table.
“Gotta look out for those
alkies, man,” he said to no one in particular. “Thought they were going to jack
my truck.”
He’d no sooner sat down
than he stood back up and headed toward the lavatories.
I took this brief reprieve
to look down at my yellow note pad. I’d scrawled such gems as Johnny Rotten
Eyes, stinking of booze and bong water, and the confidence of 12 tequila shots.
My lips parted in a little
smile and picking up my fork I shoveled a mouthful of cold blueberry filling
into my mouth.
I had a character. Now all
I needed was a story.
There was a crash from the
bathroom, and a moment later Elmo came out, giggling and bouncing with glee.
He didn’t say anything, and
instead of returning to his booth, he casually sauntered by the AA table, where
he collected the bills piled in aprecation of Tim’s long suffering service.
Ok, I thought. This guy is
interesting, but I can’t let him steal poor Tim’s tip.
I searched the room with my
eyes looking for any of the restaurant’s staff but seeing none in the dining
room I got up and positioned myself between the drunk and the door.
I was nervous, my last
fight having been in middle school almost 20 years ago I really wasn’t sure
what to do in this situation.
When Elmo took a step
toward me I put a hand up and said.
“Buddy, I can’t let you
lev…”
Elmo swiped my hand aside
and for a moment his greasy forehead filled my vision… then I blacked out.
I awoke to searing pain in
my nose and the sight of Tim’s pasty face hovering inches above from mine.
“I think he’s waking up!”
he shouted, drawing my attention away from the pain in my ears, but really
driving home the ache setting in behind my temples.
I groaned and began to sit
up, feeling dizzy, but determined.
“Easy there son,” said a
voice from my left. “Looks like he broke your nose, and you’ve probably got a
concussion.
Turning my head was
probably a bad idea but it gave me a view of the man addressing me, a
heavy-set, middle-aged man in police blues.
Despite the throbbing in my
nose and cranium I grinned.
“That’s alright, officer.
It makes for a hell of a story.”
