Barack Obama is Different

I am spending the evening around some of my favorite friends: books. Whether I enter a big box bookseller like Barnes and Noble or a small cramped hole in the wall with stacks and stacks of dusty books, I feel excited and anxious at once. All the possibilities of new worlds and amazing characters between these covers excite me, while looking at the stacks or shelves of books makes me anxious because I'll never have time to read them all.

Tonight I'm navigating around big tables piled high with coffee table books deeply discounted at Barnes and Noble. I look at one called The Complete History of the World, which keeps sliding on the slick glossy covers of the books underneath it because it's nearly two feet tall.

The table also has a selection of books about President Elect Barack Obama - his two bestsellers, a political pundit's analysis of him and a giant picture book of his campaign. Soon two female seniors approach the table. One of them opens the Obama picture book and stops at a double-page spread capturing close-up photos of three black women in the crowd at Obama's victory speech. Tears stream down all three black womens' faces and two of them grip tiny American flags in their clasped hands.

The older white women looking at the book pause at this photo, one smiles softly and the other utters a barely audible 'hhmm':

Smiles: My, my. It must be something to see one of your own finally make it this far.
Hhmm: Yes, well, Obama's not your average black. He's different.
Smiles: How do you mean?
Hhmm: Well, he's not on welfare, a thief or a gang member, is he? And he went to college. And got a job.
Smiles: Ohhh, shhh! Don't say that!
Hhmm: Why? I don't hear you disagreeing with me.

Unwrapped Girls are Nothing But Trouble

I am an all-day breakfast eater; I'll take eggs or pancakes for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Tonight, I stand in line with the dinner crowd at Archibald's, a local diner that serves delicious flame broiled burgers and seasoned fries. Sizzles and pops from the grill call out. The air is smokey sweet with the aroma of charbroiled beef. But I am here for a breakfast burrito, served all day.

I am three people away from the cash register. Behind me, a family of four waits to order - two parents, a teenage boy and an older man the young boy calls Pops. They speak casually and I hear the boy's father refer to the older man as "Daddy". Daddy has a thick southern accent and says, 'I tell you!' after sentences a lot. He wears a cap with a Kentucky Derby logo and a blue plaid flannel long-sleeved shirt along with dark jeans.

As I move one place closer to order, a gaggle of teenage girls bursts through the diner's entrance and bounces to the counter area to read the overhead menus. Shrill giggles, OMG!s and a 'Shut UP!' emit from the girls. All four are dressed for the beach on this unseasonably chilly California winter night. One girl wears particularly short shorts. The thin hot pink nylon clings to every curve of her young, tight apple butt leaving nothing to the imagination, including the little mounds of tan butt cheek peaking out from each side:

Daddy: Goo-ooood Lord. That gal just as soon walk around nekked.

Grandson: Ha! Come on, Pops. Lighten up! We're not as uptight as in your time anymore.

Daddy: Uptight? Uptiiiight! Listen here boy. Let me tell you somethin' you best remember your whole life through.

Grandson: Oh gawd.

Daddy: Ladies are meant to be unwrapped slowly, one small piece at a time. You go on get with some gal that's already flappin' her wrappers in the wind and you'll get nothing but trouble. Every time.

Grandson: Unwrapped? Like Christmas presents?

Daddy: That's right. A good woman is a gift.

Grandson: So Mom, when do I get to unwrap some girls?

Mom: When you're 30 or independently wealthy. Which ever comes first.

How Superman Defeats Broccoli

The brisk fall evening has me yearning for hot soup and warm bread. I arrive at my favorite destination for such comfort foods, The Soup Plantation. I love to people watch at buffets; euphoria is in the air with so many delicious choices and no limits besides self-imposed ones.

It's a busy dinner crowd. Adults are giddy at the bread station (myself included) with three kinds of cheese breads, baked potatoes, muffins and more. I remember this is where I watched the Bathroom Sneak last year and wonder if he's been back since. The children here provide a stark contrast to their indulgent parents. Most look out windows or twirl in their chairs, eating a bite now and then. They've not yet courted a love affair with food, like we have.

My full plate and I take a two-seater table along the edge of the main dining area. Tables for four occupy the center of the room. Parents, a young boy and a grandfather dine immediately to my left. The boy and his mother sit with their backs to me, across from the dad and grandfather. A bright red Superman cape covers the boy's back and I wonder if he's had a Halloween costume day at school.

The little boy chatters to his family constantly. His mother taps his plate and he takes intermittent bites of food. About 15 minutes into my meal, I hear stronger urging from his mother:

Mom: Brandon, eat the broccoli now. You have to finish just these few pieces. It's very good for you.

Boy: Yuck! I don't like that. I don't want to.

Mom: Stop it. Dip it in the ranch dressing and it will taste better. No desert until it's gone.

Boy: (shakes his head vigorously back and forth) I DON'T LIKE IT. It tastes like trees.

Dad: What do you mean it tastes like trees? Have you ever eaten a tree?

Mom: It looks like a little tree, but it tastes good. C'mon Brandon, no more fussing. Eat it.

Moments later, the parents return to the buffet. The boy looks at his grandfather, who is deep into his salad. The boy looks toward the buffet and then down at his plate. He swings his legs a few times. His hand quickly snatches a broccoli floret and gingerly drops it under the table. He looks again at his grandfather, still busy eating. The boy's hand returns to his plate. Several broccoli florets lob under his table, bouncing on the floor.

The parents return with soft serve ice cream and some fruit. The mother looks at her son's plate:

Mom: Good job honey! Dad, you must have the magic touch.

The grandfather smiles to himself. The boy's mother returns to the buffet for her son's ice cream and the family enjoys desert together. As they prepare to leave, the boy darts away from the table and his mom follows him. The dad collects the coats and walks away as the grandfather rises. He opens his wallet and leaves a tip. The older man stretches his back, puts on his jacket then bends under the table and picks up the broccoli.

Dying to Vote

I am soaking my feet in warm sudsy water in the little basin below my chair at the nail salon. A pedicure is the one cosmetic luxury I refuse to surrender to my tightening budget for a couple of reasons: one, my lower back issues make straightening my leg after contorting to paint my toes a slow burn and, two, my little piggies take on a life of their own if they are not professionally maintained. I'll give up dinner and drinks before I cancel the pedicure.

The afternoon's heat hangs in the salon. My eyes burn with the day's computer work and I let my heavy lids fall. The more the foot bath vibrates, the farther away my cares go. The pedicurist lifts my foot onto the platform and goes to work. Little pangs of ticklishness make me smile.

A young girl's shrill voice rings out. I pop my eyes open and see two teenage girls bouncing through the door. Their energy shows through radiant smiles and easy giggles. They are white, tall and long-haired, one blond, one brunette, with thin jean clad legs and the requisite flip flops for pedicured toes. They take empty chairs on either side of me and continue their conversation seamlessly. After some chatter about last night's episode of "90210":

Brunette: I'm soooo tired of watching it on the small screen in my room. My Mom keeps hogging the flat screen to watch all that economy junk.
Blond: Ugh. Seriously. If I have to hear about that Main Street Wall Street stuff again, I'm gonna kick the screen!
Brunette: Haha! Ha! Yeah, and all the election crap? I mean, who cares? Politics are boring!
Blond: Thank you! That's what I tell my Dad and he's all, you should care about your future -
Brunette: Heehee! Whatever. It's boring.

The pedicurists working on the girls' feet do not take their eyes off the job at hand. They are young Asian women, perhaps mid-20s. They are simply dressed with minimal make-up. Their shiny black hair shrouds their faces as they continue working, stooped over on small stools.

Blond: My Dad keeps telling me I better to register before Monday.
Brunette: Well I'm not voting either. What's one vote gonna matter? Plus Obama and McCain are both weird!

The woman working on the brunette's feet looks up at her, and then to her coworker who says something in their native language. The woman again looks at her customer. In broken English she says, "You vote. You must vote. In my country, people they die to voting."

The girls look at each other and laugh. The woman's coworker says something to her. She looks down and resumes working. As I leave the salon, I notice a little alter in the corner with a Buddha, some fruit, incense sticks and a small American flag.

New Old Lovers

I'm having an early dinner by myself at a friendly coffee shop called Hoff's Hut. I'm always hopeful to eavesdrop something juicy when I'm dining alone; it's so much easier to listen and I go deep under cover with my nose in a book. I'm done with my meal and am nursing a hot tea. It seems I'm not going to hear much tonight. The waitress refills my hot water and I give it one more try, although the booths around me are empty.

I'm draining the last honey packet into my mug when the hostess walks by showing an elderly couple to the booth in front of me. She bids them a good meal and leaves while the man helps the woman sit down. She bends stiffly, slowly navigating the bench's right angle. She sits down with a sigh and says, "There we go". I hear a smile in her voice. She sits with her back to me. Her bright white hair is in a medium length ponytail tied with a black scrunchy. She pulls her ponytail into place with hands tipped with rose pink nails.

Her husband is bald with glasses and a light blue sweater vest. He holds a closed-mouth smile the entire time he browses the menu. They discuss various choices and both decide on the same thing, the meatloaf dinner. As I watch him over my reading glasses, he continuously leans forward when she speaks, nodding his head. His replies are punctuated with mild laughter. His eyes are blue and rarely leave her face. They talk about her new jewelry after they order:

Her: (Showing him her finger) Well, what do you think? I like how it turned out.

Him: (Takes his glasses off and pulls her hand closer) It's beautiful. Very nice. The greens and blues are just beautiful.

Her: Yes, I really love it. Just love it. Thank you, sweetheart.

Him: (He kisses her hand)

Her: She even commented on it, how unusual it is. She's a nice girl. She does beautiful work.

Him: Yes, she does. Can she make earrings? See if she can make you earrings to match.

Her: Oh no, it's enough.

Him: See if she can do it.

The waitress brings their beverages. The lady goes into her purse:

Her: Oh, honey, I guess we should give you this coupon now.

Waitress: Oh, it's your anniversary! Congratulations. How many years?

Him: Two years today. I never imagined I'd be twice blessed. I'm a lucky man.

Pancake Euphoria

I’m grabbing a bite at a neighborhood charbroiler near and dear to locals’ hearts. As usual, the place is buzzing with customers and I’m happy to find a stool at the counter that faces large windows overlooking the street, instead of the kitchen. There are a handful of tables outside, along the restaurant’s perimeter. Those are also occupied by people enjoying late breakfasts.

In front of me, on the other side of the window, sits a family of three with a cherub-cheeked little boy. He is white, perhaps five, with dark brown curly hair and deep brown eyes. He sits behind a pile of pancakes on his plate. With each bite, he pours more maple syrup atop the remaining stack until his mother gently removes the bottle from his reach.

He eats happily, smiling and patting his tummy every few bites. His parents talk to him and all three laugh easily throughout the meal. When every bit of pancake is gone, the boy dips his finger in a pool of syrup on his plate and swirls it around. Before he can bring the maple finger to his mouth, his mother intercepts it and wipes it clean with a napkin. He says something to her with great enthusiasm on his face. She replies and after a few moments, both come inside and walk towards the ordering counter.

I hear his mother ask the cashier to get the cook and I wander up to the condiment area to listen better. A Hispanic man appears in a cook’s uniform and the boy beams up at him:

Mom: Go ahead, honey.
Boy: Um, uh, hi!
Cook: Hi.
Boy: Um, Miss Johnson says that everybody has a job. And if somebody does their job good I should tell them. So I’m telling you. You make the best pancakes ever in my life!
Cook: Oh! Thank you.
Boy: You make the best pancakes! You should make them all day because they are really, really, really, REALLY good. Your pancakes are better than IHOP even!
Cook: Thanks a lot young man. You know what? You make me feel happy. I’m gonna be happy all day because you like my pancakes so much.
Boy: Yeah! You should be happy. You make good pancakes.
Mom: Thank you, we’ll see you later.

Mother and son walk away and continue down the street together. They leave behind a grown man in his cook’s outfit who is still smiling as he prepares someone else’s meal.

Cougars at the Casino

A spontaneous trip to the Indian casino puts me at the Crazy 4 poker table between two chain smoking older men laughing too loudly at the dealer's jokes. After a hand worse than the first, I slide under the smoke cloud and off my stool, heading for the terrace with a panoramic view of the mountain vista. Fresh, cool air flushes my face as I open the glass door and step into the sunshine. This alone is worth the hour drive. About 20 others enjoy the view, sitting at little tables against the railing.

Some have cocktails and chat, others simply sit in silence gazing at the mountains. I find the perfect nook and settle into the corner chair, turning it to face the railing. Two women chatter on my left. Their conversation does not pause when I sit down. They are both blond with hair styled in the edgey cuts so fashionable these days. The one with her back to me wears a turquoise top and a thick gold chain around her neck. As she speaks she waves her left hand up and around, red nails swirling. Her right hand holds a glass of white wine.

Her friend is also heavily necklaced with gold chains that drop down an impressive cleavage revealing an orange tan underneath her tight white sweater. She sports large black sunglasses with the Channel logo on the side, which I see when she steals glances of the vista as her friend drones on.

The face I can see is tight, but both pairs of hands and little cracks in the voices suggest late 40s, early 50s. The one in white holds a drink in one hand and a cig in the other. She nods in agreement as her friend rants:

Turquoise: I mean, I just told him, I said, "Just tell me right now. Is this how it's gonna be? Grilling me every time I don't call back right away?".

White: Oh. Yeah. Right.

Turquoise: Right? Who needs that? I don't need that.

White: Who needs it?

Turquoise: I told him. I'm not your wife, hell I'm not your girlfriend -

White: Hahaha! Exactly. Oh these guys, these poor guys just don't know what to do with us.

Turquoise: TELL me. I mean, tell me about it. The insecurity, the checking up, the checking in. I don't need that.

White: No, no. Me neither.

Turquoise: He's acting like a little girl. Haha! He's acting like one of his little girlfriends he complains to me about!

White: Ha! Isn't that just precious. Well, here, girl (she holds her drink to toast). We've come full circle.

Turquoise: Cheers to that! Come on. Let's go find some young and dumbs at the bar.

The two pop compacts, relipstick and strut inside. I finish jotting down some notes of this conversation and look to the blue sky, about to commit the scenario to memory. A hawk circles high above, looking for prey.

Last Supper

I'm at a favorite neighborhood coffee shop for a quick dinner. The servers are very friendly and always stand at the ready with endless refills of beverages, condiments, dessert samples and extra napkins. A lot of regulars dine here, myself included. An older man and I face each other, with an empty booth in between. He is white, wears a cap with an American flag patch and unzips a sensible blue windbreaker as he settles in to his seat. He unfolds a newspaper and looks around, acknowledges several servers with a wave and a smile. Within minutes, a young brunette comes over and gives him a hug:

Waitress: How are you today?

Man: I'm alright, honey. How 'bout you? How's school going?

Waitress: Oh, it's going. It's hard. I have two chem classes.

Man: Well you stick with it, honey. You're a smart cookie and you'll do fine.

(Two more waitresses come over, along with a young man)

After more greetings:

Man: Well, it looks like this is gonna be it. I'm leaving Sunday for my daughter's.

Waitress: Oh no, William! You really are leaving us?

Man: If my daughter'll have me. She might change her mind. Haha! It's the best thing, honey. She worries about me.

Waitress #2: William this place will not be the same without you. We'll miss you.

Man: Well I'll sure miss you all, too. And my pot roast dinner!

More staff stops by and exchange well-wishes. The man is jovial and smiles amidst handshakes and hugs. After he's ordered his meal and the waitresses tend to other tables, he lowers his head for a moment. He takes his glasses off and wipes one cheek with his hand. He takes out a handkerchief and quickly dabs at both eyes. He removes a pill bottle from his jacket pocket, uncaps it and swallows the mediation with a big gulp of water. He busies himself with his newspaper and his pot roast soon arrives. As the waitress sets the dish on his table, he places his hand on hers for just a few seconds, then gives it a light pat and winks.

When she walks away from him and toward me, she wipes tears away.

Magic Mirror

I'm in a dressing room when two young female voices enter. They chatter back and forth, excited. Hangers clank on metal rods. Girlish laughter. The two crowd into one stall next to me. Zippers unzip, shoes are flung off. A cell phone rings, playing "Party Like a Rockstar" by Shop Boyz. The call's ignored.

Girl 1: I totally need jeans. So bad.

Girl 2: Me too, but I'm only getting shorts today. And my gloss.

Girl 1: Oh my god that makes me think of that song, 'my lip gloss is poppin', my lip gloss is cool!'

Girl 2: My lip gloss is gonna make me pop! Make Ryan pop!

Girl 1: This is soooo cute, but I don't wanna get any tube tops until I get my boobs. I cannot wait until the 28th!

Girl 2: I know. You are so lucky. Your parents are so cool. You're gonna look so hot for senior year!

I have to see these girls. I am long finished but wait in my stall until I hear their curtain slide open. They look just like I did at 17.

Mercy

An older man walks slowly on the beachwalk. Cyclists and rollerbladers whiz past him. He walks toward me and squints at the sun. He is in shorts and a t-shirt with "Semper Fi" on it. His tennis shoes are bright white. He walks a beagle alone. A group of young black boys walk past me, shirtless with pants hanging below their hips and underwear sticking out. They are laughing loudly with each other. The man stops and stares. The beagle pulls forward.

"Mercy", he says, under his breath.