Memory Lane Alert! (This one time, at band camp…)
Some people would shy away from hamburgers served with eggs on them. Perhaps they don’t eat meat. Perhaps they don’t like eggs. Perhaps the thought of the two cohabitating in a bun is a bit much for them to, um… stomach.
I am not one of those people.
Some people will only grace the interior of the Texas Inn in my hometown or the White Spot where I went to school when, shall we say, recovering from a night of excess. They’d only gobble down a Cheese Western or a Gus Burger to stop their spinning heads or because they’d never remember it the next day.
I am not one of those people, either.
Oh, I have sat at the counters at both establishments and slurred out an order in the wee hours. I mean, hey!, those greasy burgers do something to settle an unhappy stomach, and the little Cokes from the T Room were manna in times of need.
However, I’ll happily eat at these places stone sober. Paul and I skipped out on the meal we were being served at his (or maybe my?) 10 year reunion to go have Spot Specials! I believe we had Krispy Kremes warm off the griddle a la mode for dessert. (Yum.)
Bun and I have a date to go just the two of us to the T Room this summer when out on our annual pilgrimage. I hope I am choosing wisely… so hard to choose which should be her first—the scrambled Cheesy or the fried Gus? These are the hard decisions we parents face all the time!
Anyway, one late night, when I was at The Spot after last call, meeting my monthly cholesterol requirements in a single meal, a scruffy gentleman to my left had something he needed to tell me. See, at both The Spot and T Room, you’re liable to run across some of your more colorful eating companions: the kind who’ll, if you’re receptive, provide you with all manner of interesting entertainment and invaluable information.
He’ll save you!
Pardon? Aside from Paul and the man cooking behind the counter, I was the only person there at the time. I did that thing—you know, where you look behind you just in case there is someone else who could possibly be the intended recipient of such a statement. It was only me.
He’ll save you and keep you well. You see. You will see!
Blink. Blink. (Such was my eloquent response: staring and blinking.)
My mind was searching… searching… What could this man mean? The Almighty? The guy was certainly one of, shall we say, the unwashed masses, but that didn’t mean he was not religious. It also didn’t mean he was not unpredictable and prone to verbal or physical outburst if I went with my standard wiseass proclivities. Maybe he meant God! Maybe he meant the University Police Officer who was strolling up and down the street (though Officer Handy, as we called him, seemed unlikely to be of any help to anyone on this earth, unless they needed help accepting a ticket for open container violations).
Who is going to save me?
Him! He will do it. You see.
My new buddy pointed at the grubby, mute TV up in the corner.
This is what I saw.
It’s been about 16 years, but I won’t declare this prophecy a dud quite yet.