Christmas in the Waffle House

While the rest of America was sitting around the dinner table, stuffing their faces with honey glazed hams, roasted potatoes and comforting pumpkin pie that tasted very much like home, Charlie drove around this little town in his 1988 Honda Civic that was somehow still held together by superglue and the will of God. How lonely it all felt, the night of Christmas Eve. All of the stores were closed around this tiny college town. The students all left more than a week ago, just a day after their final examinations. And Charlie, he had nowhere to go. This year, his sister joined her in laws and he could not afford the plane ticket to head up north to his family farm in Indiana. How he ever ended up in this Southern town is a tale for another day. But as he looked at his watch, he realized that it was almost 8:36pm and he has still not had anything to eat since that morning breakfast bar.

Troubled days were all Charlie knew during that past year. Ever since Nancy took off back in late February, just a couple of days after he gave her that special gift that he bought her for Valentine’s Day. Where she was now? Charlie did not have the faintest clue. Maybe she went back to that old boyfriend of hers whom she always spoke about. The guy who could last much longer than the typical three and a half minutes that Charlie could offer on the average night. Nancy was long go and with her so were Charlie’s hope for a better year to come. Now, all that he cared about was getting something to eat, something to ease his pain if only for a few moments.

Thank God for the Waffle House, Charlie thought to himself as he parked his old car next to a pickup truck. The place seemed busier than it should have been on Christmas eve, but then again, it was the only place open and the town was full of lonesome people much like himself. He parked himself on the booth right by the cash register. Christmas eve 2007 and there he was. There was not much to say after all.

So what will you have honey? She asked.

I am not really sure, I have never really eaten here before. I guess I will have some waffles, that only makes sense after all, does that sound like a good choice?

You want them plain or do you want chocolate chip waffles or maybe some pecan ones?

I’ll take them plain and also, can I get a cup of coffee.

You got it sugar, and then she walked away.

Looking around at the crowd that surrounded him, Charlie felt more at ease than one may have suspected. You can say what you want about people who eat at the Waffle House on any given day but now one could ever claim that these kind of folks were uninteresting.

There was that lonely old fat man who could barely fit into his booth, the two younger college students who wore black band T-shirts and were covered in tattoos, there were the regulars who knew the names of the waitresses and that of the guy who operated the grill. Charlie looked around at the wait staff and wondered to himself why they all referred to that bustier older woman as Mama.

An old black lady sat around with her three grandchildren around the corner booth. They kept on laughing with great fervor, displaying a sense of family that Charlie hoped to one day capture if only for a couple of holidays. Of course that all depended on him meeting the right girl.

But good girls were hard to find and Charlie was still licking his Nancy’s wounds.

The waffles came with a warm smile and a side of butter. Can I get you something else baby? Maybe a little more coffee?

Christmas music played and the warmth was not limited to sweet dough that was slowly moving down his stomach. With New Years Eve promising to be just as lonely as tonight. Charlie looked through the address book of his cellular phone in hopes of coming up with any possible name that may help him avoid this painful solitude.

Janet was out of town and Jessica flew back to Los Angeles. He thought about giving Rachel a call but than again that was not such a great idea.

Living life with this sense of loneliness never made any sense neither did the mercilessness of the holiday season. Whether he would find a woman to kiss on New Years Eve was still a mystery to Charlie. But at least he knew where he would go in case he would remain alone. Thank God for the Waffle House he thought as he drove out of the parking lot.

Hard-Boiled Men

New Jersey and the death penalty

Jersey was sick and tired of her old leather jacket. She got it as a gift a few years back from John her old college boyfriend. Three years have pasted since graduation and she was no were near to where she thought she would be back when she was younger. She could still recall those days at the University of Pittsburg, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes in the area outside of the so called Cathedral of Learning. Only three years have pasted and already all hope was washed away. Jersey planned on becoming the great American novelist. That was always what her father hoped for. He loved literature only slightly less than he loved his own daughter. When she was born, her mother thought about naming her Emily after her mother but he her father somehow managed to convince her to name the young girl Jersey after his favorite author Jerzy Kosinski. Jersey never liked her name. Like all children she wanted to fit in.

That all changed after the fall of the Soviet backed government. That’s when her father quit his university position in the Hungarian University of Fine Arts where he taught world literature and moved his family to the United States. Jersey could still remember that flight to New York. She never set foot in an airplane before. She was simply petrified as the plane flew into the atmosphere. She recalled how her father held her hand while reading to her. Till this day, she could feel that ease that came to her as her father read from the short stories of Anton Chekhov. He always knew how to encourage her no mater how sad or alone she felt in this world.
Three years have past since she graduated from her undergraduate studies. Four painful years since her father past away. And what did she have to show for it all? An old jacket given to her by another disappointing man and a handle of short stories. That was pretty much it.
Jersey walked into that old Salvation Army store where she traded her old jacket for one that seemed even older. Never minded how much she paid for that old rag, at least she was rid of that old memory. She walked into the connivance store for a pack of cigarettes, there she ran into Dylan. He was also a student in professor Kinder’s American literature class. He too was named after a famous writer. Most people always assumed that he was named after the famous Bob Dylan. Few ever knew that his mother wrote her dissertation on the hidden Catholic themes in Dylan Thomas’ famous work Under Milk Wood.

Dylan was all smiles as usual. She never saw the guy sporting a frown. At first she thought of him as a fake. Nobody can ever be all that happy. That all changed after professor Kinder read his short story “Being There” about Dylan’s days growing up in the heartland of Indiana. Her words rang with genuine humility. He clearly was a good guy.

And then, on that day, after he asked her out for coffee, as he held on to that box of Malbero lights, she felt so alive if only for a moment. She carefully smiled in his direction, turned back and slowly walked away.
A newspaper on the coffee shop counter must have been left behind by someone who had no use for it. Jersey picked it up and smiled. The headline on the front page read the following “New Jersey Abolishes the Death Penalty”.

Jersey smiled for a moment with a sense of irony. Thinking back to Dylan’s smile, she could if just for a moment once again feel somewhat alive.

NYC Novels

Jews and Christmas

Around the corner of 68th and Columbus there was a Christmas tree stand that offered a variety of trees of all shapes and sizes to the people of New York. The many who live alone settle for one of those shorter trees that are easier to carry. Those usually went for $30. They cost $25 to those who knew how to bargain down. Those with families, especially the ones who had children had to go for the large ones. Those were much more expensive. But nothing made Christian people feel more blissfully festive that those glittering lights that shun within the realm of that fresh winter pine. Or at least that was what they always told me.

Regardless of what anyone may say or think, there was something special about the Christmas season for any of us regardless of religion. These days, no one is allowed to refer to it as the Christmas season any longer. You were supposed to say the Holiday season. No one wanted to offend anyone else these days. We were all tipping toeing around one another’s hypocritical toes.

Even though the snowstorm was getting worst with every passing minute, she continued to stand out there in the cruelty of the snow. On the other side of the window, people sat gathered within the confines of that corporate warmth. Sipping on hot chocolates and soy lattes, they had no sympathy for the poor Christmas tree girl who was freezing her tits off for $6.75 an hour. To those who actually took the time to notice her, she appeared like an anomaly, like a white polar bear who ran around the Central Park zoo, like the kind of a person whose disposition made us all feel that much better about our own lives.

It was rather atypical for me to find myself around these parts of the city. I never really understood what the big deal was about the upper west side.

An hour later, as the wind bashed across my face, I thought about it all and smiled away. Holding on to a small Christmas tree under left armpit and her number scribbled on a small note within my right pocket, I felt so alive and thought about just how great it was to be a Jew in Manhattan around this time of the year.

Hard-Boiled Men

The World Of Navine

Check out this great new blog from my friend and great scholar Navine Karim:

http://www.vinrim.wordpress.com

Sleeping with celebs

You know, I told him, dating a woman who is more than ten years younger than yourself is not as easy as it sounds. Take my Samantha, just for a minute, as an example.
Sam is 24 years old, she downloads music, she doesn’t read books. When she finally picks up the printed word, it is usually Glamour or Cosmo Magazine. Sure, those great magazines taught her how to give descent head, but it also filled her head with way too much shit. Sam watches television for hours. She loves that TMZ.

Last night, after we made love, Sam turned around and told me about that Teri Hatcher lawsuit that is being pursued by some skin care company. She told me all about the ruckus that Eva Mendes dealt with when she got out of Manhattan's Gramercy Park hotel. Sam was concerned about the reported tension between Brittney Spears and Paris Hilton, God, she claimed, will they ever really be true friends? Sam told me all about another breakup between Lindsay Lohan and Riley Giles, Hulk and Linda, Solange Knowles and her man.

I walked out of the bedroom and rolled a joint. A long and meaningful inhale made my life that much more bearable. A man in his thirties could only take that much. When I returned back to my bedroom, I watched Sam polishing her perfectly manicured nails.

I never heard of Eva Mendes, I did not know who Solange was or why I should care. I put on that old Tom Waits album to listened to his cigarette worn voice breezing through my ear drum. Sam has never heard of old Tom, nor did she know who Henry Miller was or Bukowski, or Leonard Cohen, or Kosinski, or……..

Samantha’s skin glowed in the essence of its youth. Her breasts seemed firm and vivacious popping out of her extra small sized Victoria Secrets nighty. Oh such beauty within her thighs.

A man as smart or obtuse will always lay within the bed that he made for himself. Such was mine, picturesque and forlorn. Samantha fell asleep to those cheerleader dreams that sweetened her night. I diminished within my own. Years went by and memories remained.

Not even time itself could put away those memories of a woman that I left behind.

NYC Novels