I took off from work yesterday, my homage to tomorrow's Black Friday, known as Magenta Wednesday in my car, and started my day, creature of habit that I am, at a fast food joint, having already grabbed the other daily newspaper for the area (we get one home-delivered and the other one I buy out of a box because I'm an old-fashioned guy, or I was until I stopped drinking).
When I'm off during the work week, and have breakfast out, I'm always amazed at the number of people I encounter in these places. Everyone knows everyone else, basically from eating breakfast in the same location. Who knew hash browns and a senior coffee had such a powerful impact on building a community? Maybe we should think about carpet-bombing Kandahar or, closer to home, Bridgeport, and see what happens.
I knew it would be a magic experience when the guy in front of me wearing a vivid (and that word doesn't even come close) golden sweat suit, hood down, ordered 'a medium coffee, black, with eleven sugars' while jogging in place. Yeah, he probably hates the taste of sugar and uses the coffee to cover it. My own breakfast was slightly less turbo-charged and as I sat down, I was within earshot of four elderly men analyzing the newspaper (the one we get delivered to the house) over their growing colder by the moment coffee.
The fellow in the yellow shirt offered his insight into the crisis du jour, Governor M. Jodi Rell's intent to shrink the state of Connecticut's ever-expanding current year operating deficit by reducing aid to the 167 cities and towns across the state, thus putting the deficit monkey on someone else's back. He and his dining companions agreed 'we need to get rid of the lot of them.' There were no suggestions on who would replace 'them' or even much of a discussion on exactly who 'them' is, and I estimate of the four of them, at least three probably voted for the Governor in her election attempt, as did so many of us, but now, M. Jodi, don't call us, we'll call you. You may not like what we call you, lady, but you know the gig was iffy when you signed up.
Sitting across from the yellow shirt was Buzz, for haircut-inspired reasons, warning his repast companions of 'what happens after the government starts running health care' though I couldn't help but wonder, in light of their probable ages, if any of them had Medicare and what they thought that was all about. I decided discretion was the better part of valor and kept silent. Good thing, too, as one of the other two, with high-water pants (cuffs that wave to, but are nowhere near by three or more inches, his shoes), explained that government health care will allow 'the illegal aliens to go to the hospital' adding he knew all about this because he'd 'read it in the paper or heard about it on television'. That threw me for a moment because of the confusion on the source. The only way I can ever hear anything while reading the newspaper is if I'm having Rice Krispies with milk.
Of course, we dissected the sports page-all overpaid babies (they may have been talking about the high school football scores, which means I'm in the presence of hard-core), and wondered as to the whereabouts (and the health) of 'Dave' and 'Bob' (who's going to "New York City tomorrow (Thanksgiving Day)" for the parade") as the four of them set about putting the world in order at least for the day from their table facing the window looking out on to West Towne Street.
I smiled listening, but envied them a bit as well, as when they finished and stood to leave, they shook one another's hands, remembered to say hello to those spouses who were not in attendance and offered each other a breezy 'have a great Thanksgiving' and 'see ya tomorrow' (as they undoubtedly shall) before heading out to inspect how successful their solutions had been implemented. I imagine they'll come rolling back in here this morning between seven thirty and eight, regular as clockwork. Even though it's Thanksgiving. Except maybe for eleven-sugars-guy. I wouldn't be surprised if he were still running it off somewhere.
-bill kenny
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