A Bit Tired

Upon reflection I could see he was fatigued. The slight drag in his step, the constant retreat from topics that required excessive feedback, and more than anything he was wearing two different types of shoes as we strolled down O street for church services.

I held his shoulder every now and then with slight rubs and gentle pulls on his Polo as if saying, “I know you think your head is about to blow off your shoulders from the stress, but I’m here if you need me.” Church was nice. Catholics we are. A bit of standing, a few knee drops, a little hand-warmed oil, a lot of hugging, and off we were to eat.

“There ya are”, almost slurring as he dropped a buck into the hands of a homeless man as we exit the church. I like that he does this for people. Not because I think he’s altruistic or anything that grand, but simply because he knows he’s a part of a community -- his community. Also, he saves me damn near four or five dollars a day because when the homeless approach me, I can honestly say I gave earlier.

The hostess was sweet. Petite, tanned, young, and full of smiles as we asked about a table. The restaurant was Italian, very nice and a bit crowded, especially for an early Sunday evening in Washington, DC. We had both dined there before, loved the food and we were ready to settle in, relax and enjoy a good meal before finally getting home to sleep. But no, not tonight, not at this restaurant. As little hostess explains that there are no tables available I can see my dear friend gazing onto the outside patio. I stir, shuffle my feet, and begin to twirl my hands one over the other knowing full well there is nothing I can do to halt the impending onslaught this girl is surely to receive. She is nothing to him now. His fatigue disperses and is replaced by a gush of justification that emanates from his face with the intensity of 10,000 scorching suns.

I know what is coming, but Missy Hostess has yet to feel the fury. “How about that four-top right there,” his finger straightened and pointing through a window onto the patio, his eyes narrowed ever so slightly, sending those accusatory rays of intensity right onto her doe-like face. Her lips slowly descend and cover her teeth, her smile fades, her dimpled cheeks smooth out as her face drops ever so slightly, and as she lifts her head, lowers her eyes, she asks, “There’s only two of you yes?”

The following 94 seconds involved a manager, some words, and Hostess sliding out of the way into her corner until my dear friend purged his demon. I stood by my friend as he discussed the horrors of this PR nightmare with the manager. I gallantly positioned myself appropriately between the two of them, blocking all views from passer-bys who may have taken notice of his Rockport loafer on one foot and a Nike Sneaker on the other glaring up at us all saying, “I’m a bit fatigued.”

A few more words are exchange, people behind us now, and I tug on his sleeve and we leave for another spot to eat.