IMAGINE THE UNIMAGINABLE

 

Reese was at peace with himself. Life hadn’t been that good to Reese, but he’d had it better than most. Could not complain, and if he did, no one was there to hear, so hardly worth the effort. He finally grew lonely after so many years of being alone. Just a ‘twinge’, he’d say, yet a lifetime of loneliness becomes unbearable in the end…. whenever that comes. So best the end not come just yet, there’s time to be made up, as best one can.

Yes, he was at peace, as he lay out his Sunday suit, starched shirt, spit-polished shoes, and new sundries.

Nothing to be nervous about…nothing at all.

Now for the ‘getting ready’ but already he started feelin’ unsteady. He unfolded his shirt, slid the suit from it’s bag…and then it struck. There was no way he was going through with this…this craziness…madness…for what? Entertainment? Company? Companionship?

Ol’ Charley was good enough at that, and comes a lot cheaper…a walk, a scratch and pat, and maybe a soup bone on Sunday.

( If ever there was a hint of any relations of a more carnal nature, it would scare the bejesus out of Reese. Please don’t go proposing he start something “sordid”. He’d fail miserably and with no purpose. Best keep him calm and un-intimidated.)

So after showering, and shaving, and while climbing into his underwear, he hop-ops…slips, trips…and crashes.

While realizing nothing was broken, and no blood was flowing, he got such a laugh out of it, he thought, what the hell, and despite a battle with some buttons, an over-starched shirt that audibly crinkled when he moved, a stiff zipper upper, he managed, and finally he was ready.

And, much to his surprise, the gentleman reflected in the mirror was someone else, someone of substance, but he knew that was only the illusion. Tonight he would attempt it. He was ready, finally, to be the illusion, to someone lonely too. If only for the evening…if not a lifetime…You never know. Imagine the unimaginable…

Tina had trepidation. It was not every night, in fact it was damn few nights, that she would muster the courage to step out of her comfort zone and go to dinner with friends. On this occasion she’d been invited by Amanda and Grace, and even though they were happily gay, and Tina was not, they decided she needed a change and invited her along. It wouldn’t be romantic, so don’t panic, they said they would rather be romantic at home, so come on along.

It’s a night out with the girls, what the hell?

Won’t have the pressure of a fellow hitting on you…as if that’s a problem. At her age, at her weight, she’d rather have the company of women and feel comfort in her own skin. Getting out meant a lot. So the trepidation eased as the ladies assured her it would be casual, discrete and cozy.

The best laid plans went to waste, however, as the club had to shut down due to “plumbing”. So, the girls had to rethink, and in doing so, made some calls…chat chat…until one, overheard, chilled Tina to the quick, and she realized she was the outsider. So she opted out, and felt better for it in the end. No one needs a third wheel. Nothing negative about the hosts, quite the contrary, it’s the load that Tina brought that caused the meltdown, and she wandered aimlessly, finally aiming for the bar and grill just down the street. It was a bit of a slum but it fit…it was fine.

A booth for one hardly seemed necessary, but that’s all that was available at this hour.

– no counter service –

(…had to keep the waitress busy)

So there she sat in a booth for eight, and suddenly her weight wasn’t a problem. She was a butterfly, bejeweled and belittled, by the booth, while in full bloom.  Embraced by tufted red leatherette, with faux-gold button accents, she was a princess in a spotlight.

 (…due primarily to electrical cutbacks)

And, he, found himself a failure floundering on the streets and stumbling into this joint and for no reason at all, except he was suddenly, “really hungry…”

“Would you mind sharing a booth…?” the waitress asked.

“Why?” he wondered aloud.

“They’re very roomy, make my job easier, and cuts cleanup in half. Com’on give me a break, it’s late…it’s past two…”

He agreed to it, but ‘under protest’, and a lot of good that did at this hour. But, he came to be seated at the table with A Princess, and he was Struck. 
Struck for the night…struck for his life.
Sometimes you just never know. 

V

BOASTFUL ROASTFUL

 

A loud, boisterous man had entered the building. Most patrons found him rude. Many found him repugnant. Yet, once he penetrated the premises, he persisted like the pest he was. 
His entrance was loud and flamboyant.

He didn’t care what kind of attention he drew, as long it was he who drew it. He appeared with friends but soon separated himself, arms raised, as if to say 
"… look at me, not them. They are my supporting cast. They’re extras in my life, just here, from out of town. Pay no attention. Look at me.”

And we stare...agape at the willful, self-serving...
shit.The mockery of all that’s considered ‘Polite’, just flew out the (f’n) window!
Everyone sat…perched on the edge of their seats.

The Maitre-de tried to place the party as efficiently as he could. He was well aware of the moment and tried to ply the bastard from playing to the crowd. It was difficult, but they were finally seated, to everyone's relief.

He took his place as head-of-the-table, and commanded immediate attention from the wait staff.

Not this glass, it’s smudged…change the napkin…switch out this silverware…I don’t care if it’s not on the menu…talk to your chef, and get to it, chop-chop!

Chaos hit the kitchen. 

What fool has arrived? Of course we cannot prepare it, we do not possess the ingredients, and even if we did, I am not of the mindset to fix it. Bastardo…

Not taking ‘no’ for a response, the ‘bastard’ took it upon himself to challenge the chef. He entered the bustling kitchen and demanded to see the Head Man!

The head chef had no time for him and turned his back.

The impudence of the man!

The bastard grabbed him, then the chef stabbed him.

You do not come in my kitchen and tell me how it’s done!

The staff was aghast, but sided with the chef. Now what’s to be done?

The waiter went back to the table and apologized,

Apparently the gentleman had a spat with the staff and chose to leave the premises in a fit. He exited out the back. 

Those at the table were at first confused, but, given who you're dealing with...and an offer for a comp’ meal, they could not refuse, and any break from the big baboon, was a wonderful excuse. What a fortunate passing. They toasted the chef and had a marvelous dining experience, promising to come back the next time they were in town.

Two weeks had passed, and the restaurant offered up some special cuts, and a faux gras to die for. It was a huge hit on the gastronomic scene, and, yet, strangely enough, the whole time, no one had bothered to seek out the lout.

V