Missed It

He should have been a librarian. The glasses and dull combination of the almost lifeless colors of his clothes fit well with the prudish face that would have stilled the crying lips of any child that dared to make such a horrific sound in his library. He walked like a librarian--shoulders back from hours of reaching up to the high shelves to push would-be topplers back to their positions between the "Illustrated Ecyclopedia of Canines" and the "Complete Idiot's Guide To Clogging"; head held high from reading reference numbers beyond his level of eyesight; eyes squinting through his spectacles from hours of reading contraband advance copies of Stephen King's newest book in the early hours of morning. He did not look uncomfortable carrying the tray of half-eaten food and ketchup-stained paper, but it looked out of place in the hands that should have supported a stack of books to his chin. His eyes swept the little dining room of the airport restaurant, perhaps searching for more trays, perhaps taking in the dirty, crowded tables that littered his overpriced prison. He turned and slipped silently past cooks and waiters to disappear into a smoky kitchen after which I never saw him again.





She looked...well, at the risk of sounding cruel.....ugly. At first glance she struck me as the epitome of white trash. Her burnt orange shirt hung low, exposing skin tanned over endless hours of hanging up wet wash on the line in the back yard. Her faded jeans looked uncomfortably tight on her thirty-odd-year-old backside and I wasn't sure at first how she was even going to manage to throw the ball. The guys she was with, however, didn't seem too worried about her bowling abilities. They looked at her with a mixture of affection and appreciation that only comes from a lot of time spent with good friends. As always, my pride, ego, and arrogance rose and I wondered what on earth they saw in this lady who was not quite slutty, but who carried herself with the air of one who thought she was beautiful enough for anyone she wanted.

And then she smiled. That smile that held hands with the careless, confident laugh that powered it cut through my stereotypes, arrogance, and pride like a hot blade through tissue paper. In that moment she became beautiful to me and I couldn't help but watch her. She threw the ball down the lane and buried her face in her hands as they all laughed at the gutter ball making its way to the automatic return at the end of the lane. She turned and grinned at the man who had first come with her. She tried to act as if she didn't care what he thought about her bowling skills, but the grin and the shy way her eyes met his showed him that she cared all too much.

I looked at the woman I had originally thought ugly, at the men with her, and at the easy, familiar smile that they all wore, and I suddenly felt a strange sense of glad jealousy. I was glad that the woman she was had turned out to be worlds better than the woman my careless and unjustly critical eye took her for. I was jealous because I did not share that quality.



He did not look like a gunslinger, or the hero of the classic black and white western, but he looked as if he would not be out of place standing behind such men. His dark, curly brown hair lifted from his head in an almost angry protest of the dry desert wind. His jaunty goatee (don't ask me how a goatee can be jaunty, because I don't know; but that's what it was) reminded me almost comically of actors who had portrayed the legendary Doc Holiday in some of my favorite western movies. If he did not come into the restaurant every day, then it was certainly at least every other day. His order became very familiar and the cooks were able to whip out his favorite sandwich before he ordered it.

I have a hard time imagining him working in the store just behind ours. To me he should be sitting in the back of a saloon with at least one barroom hooker on each arm and a hand full of aces hidden beneath his glass of beer. Maybe I'll put him there on paper.



He looked like a fry cook. That was what struck me as so sad about him. His long face, dirty glasses, and ceaseless eyes fit far too well with the filthy apron tied in front (so as to discourage any would-be pranksters from untying it and saying that they had undressed the "Good Little Christian Boy Ben Bees") and the allegedly anti-slip shoes that were caked with every sauce the store used. Looking at him one wouldn't believe that he aspired to be a great storyteller, but it sort of made sense to think of him that way once he'd told you. Unless he was having a really bad day he almost never stopped talking or singing to himself softly enough to not attract too much attention to his lack of tone. He would be unbelievably angry one moment and laughing at a ridiculous joke he had just told the next. Certainly such drastic mood swings would better equip him to portray similar emotions in the stories he told. Or maybe it just made him crazy.

He sat in the back with his Stephen King book for two hours before clocking on. King is his favorite author and he prays daily that some day he will have skills to rival King's. But he knows that whatever voice he finds, it will have to be his own. Right now, it's time to make some burgers.

The people that come in barely look at him. Why should they? There is nothing interesting about him. They don't know that he spends hours daydreaming of his characters coming to life. They have no idea that he wishes more than anything that he could climb in between the pages of his favorite book and go through the story that he loves so much. He's just the man making their food. He's nothing more than a greasy minimum wage college student working for some worthless dream like they once were.
He sees them all. Sometimes he puts them in his stories. Sometimes he feels sorry for them; living their nine-to-fives, heedless of all the stories around them. They don't know this. Why would they want to know of the pity of the man behind the grill.

After all, he's only a fry cook.

My Summer Vacation

It's the smell of the dust--grains of sand so small, so inconspicuously colored that only the uprising of allergies and the almost immediate clogging of the nose tell of its presence. It's the smell of the trees and their staunch resistance to the dry air. It's the smell of the heat pulsing from the ground in waves that blend with the warm wind that no more cools the sweat on the face than does the shade that retains a temperature of 105. It's the sky at dusk--the orange sherbet rays of sunset draped over the shoulders of the mountains that surround the old town in the most glorious of natural cages that they call a valley. It's the hurried scuttle of wildlife into the nearest bush as you make your way to the top of the hill. It's the tears that threaten the corners of your eyes with the realization that none of your friends can see what you see. It's the slow walk back down while watching the lights of civilization that are almost too far away. It's knowing that you've seen it all before,and each time is the first.

NOTE: Subject to editing.