“Clowns to the left of me, Jokers to the right. Here I am, stuck in the middle with you.”
Surrounded on both sides by borderline weird.
On my right, is old, plain and simple.
This couple is so old, you cannot figure out how old they are.
Old enough that I didn’t realize there were people that old out there. (Contemplated several “Farts dust” comments and decided against.)
They did not use the seats that came with the table.
They roll with their own seats. (Literally. Their walkers have built in seats.)
And the weird thing was, they didn’t have to move the chairs that were in the way, they just kind of disappeared.
They rolled up to the table and people just kind of grabbed the chairs and moved them.
No words were exchanged.
And the old folks said nothing.
They just sat and sipped tea.
Starbucks just became the afterlife’s waiting room.
I am waiting for the Grim Reaper to walk in and ask if the chair across from me is open.
And on the other side…
“What is so important, Chuckie?” The voice is tired, and the conversation just started. You have to wonder why.
“Charles, please.” Being corrected by a decidedly effeminate voice holds it own special brand of annoying.
“Fine, Charles.” The sigh is a gimme. “What is so important?” (I present the rest of the conversation without my comments, to preserve the integrity of the art.)
“The power is out at my apartment.”
“When did this happen?”
“2 days ago.”
“2 days?!?! Dude! What did you do about it?”
“I have sent the management company several texts.”
“Texts? So you have been living in the dark for 48 hours? Did you check the breakers?”
“I don’t know what those are.”
“Chuckie, you are fucking useless.”
“It’s Charles. Stop being crude and help me.”
“Why are we meeting here? Why not have me meet you at your place?”
“I just couldn’t even today.”
“What the hell does that mean anyway?”
“I would call you a menace, but you lack the ambition.”
“Are you going to help me or not?”
“Yeah, I will help you. Fuck you are useless.”
“Belittling me is not helping.”
“I’m just amazed. Fucking amazed. Fine, lets go.”
“We can’t yet.”
“I’m waiting for a caramel macchiato.”
“Oh my God!”
Now, for a little scenery.
“Chuckie” Has the little brother feel to him. His hands are soft and you can tell that whatever he does for a living, its not strenuous and he rarely breaks a sweat.
“Older Brother” is dressed in a vintage AC/DC t-shirt and shorts with work boots. His hands have the look of a construction worker.
The two look enough alike that they have to be brothers.
Except for one thing.
Older brother is thin and maybe 5’3.
Chucker appears to be 6 foot plus.
The genetic keno game odds on this one boggles the mind.
It was at this point that one of the old folks on the other side of me, remember them? Anyway, one of them, no clue who, farted pretty loudly.
The wife looked across at the husband.
I sipped my coffee and looked straight ahead.
“Clowns to the left me…”