It was about 5:50 a.m. and Bagel Masters didn’t officially open until 6:00 a.m. A lot of people in today’s society don’t like to break from the official hours of operations, but luckily Carmine and Margaret, the proprietors, had no such hang up. They figured they were there, the coffee was hot, the door was open, so why not help out a poor soul in dire need of his morning caffeine fix. As I strolled over to my favorite local coffee house, I fired up my pipe. I had been trying hard to quit of late, perhaps a little too late, since I had been smoking for the past thirty years. But as they say, better late than never. For the past several weeks, I had regimented myself to having one smoke in the morning, one at high noon and one after dinner.
In my own mind I had rationalized that would somehow be more acceptable than smoking heavily throughout the day. One of course could ask the logical question, ‘How could anyone think rationally about smoking? Any fool knows it’s bad for you at best and fatal at worst.’ But that was a philosophical debate for another time, right now I desperately needed my morning coffee.
As I entered through the door, I put aside my philosophical meanderings. I walked over to the coffee urn and drew a large cup of the high octane.
“Good morning, Fred,” Carmine bellowed from behind the counter.
“Good morning Carmine, Margaret,” I replied. Margaret just nodded. Carmine then engaged me in a conversation about fly-fishing on the Delaware while Margaret continued preparing for the daily onslaught of humanity. Then again, that onslaught of humanity was their customer base and those customers did pay the bills, so in effect Margaret was doing what had to be done. Carmine, however, felt no such moral imperative as he continued the conversation.
From the corner of my eye, I noticed a large heavy set, queen sized woman entering the establishment with a cell phone in her right hand. She was dressed in a blue sweat suit, with white sneakers. Although most people either jog or work out in this mode of dress, this was most definitely not the case with this woman. The sweat suit was for purely cosmetic reasons; its job was to hide her body. I was sure that in warmer months she was perfectly capable of wearing a sack dress or a muu muu. Half of my brain was now engaged in the conversation with Carmine while the other half was meandering about the physicality of this woman.
The woman got her cup of coffee and then waddled up to the counter where she ordered a veggie bagel. Margaret dutifully took the order and asked the woman if she wanted anything on it. The waddler then asked for low fat cream cheese, like that was really going to help her with her obesity. The waddler then turned her attention to me. With her nose curled up, nostrils flaring, and a disdainful look in her eye; she proceeded to address me in a most distasteful manner.
“SIR, Your not supposed to be smoking in this store. Don’t you realize, the dangers of second hand smoke, not to mention how offensive it is to a non smoker such as myself?”
I shot back immediately, “Madam, what in the hell are you complaining about, it’s killing me.”
Carmine and Margaret just smiled and I left quickly on a high note, stopping only to pick up the local paper from the vending machine outside the door.
I walked the one hundred paces back across the street to my house, opened the gate, proceeded up the walkway and then up the front porch steps. All of a sudden, before I could open the door, I heard a loud commotion on the side of the house. I hustled down the steps and ran to the source of the conflict. It was my cat, Tuxedo, squared off with a raccoon twice his size. As I raced towards the two combatants, the cat’s attention was diverted to me. In a split second, the raccoon lashed out and swatted Tuxedo, sending him sprawling into the bushes. Before the old lion could regroup the raccoon had fled the scene in a most cowardly fashion. I grabbed the cat, spilling my coffee on my leg in the process and carried him into the house. The cat was fine, no cuts or bruises of any kind. Needless to say my pants were soaked through with the scalding coffee. Somehow, I don’t think the cat cared, the old lion was now poised at the sliding glass door, tail flicking back and forth, to and fro. From my years of observing him, I could tell Tuxedo was in a high state of pique. The only sane thing I could do was to feed him quickly before he turned on me.
CHAPTER THREE
The cat was now chowing down on his second can of cat food. It sounds easy ‘feeding the cat,’ but nothing involving this cat was ever easy. My wife, in fact, had to leave explicit instructions on the chore. Although you would never have known it from looking at him, Tuxedo had feline leukemia.
Making sure he got his daily medication was critical to his well being. After opening the first can I had to put in 1cc of interferon, 2.5 ccs of Clavamox, and touch of vitamin C for good measure. Then I took a fork and mashed it altogether and presented the dish to the cat. Martha Stewart couldn’t have done any better, but I doubted that I’d ever get an invitation to appear on her show to prove it.
After devouring the first can with all his medicine, Tuxedo usually demanded another which I promptly prepared. No thanks from the cat were ever given, but then none were ever expected.
Since I was still without my cup of coffee, other than the one that was on my pants leg, I again retraced my steps back to Bagel Masters. The walk over had a certain deja vu quality to it. Happily I was able to accomplish my mission without any major incidents involving large women.
After getting my coffee I returned to my living room, safe from the world outside. I sat back on the couch and enjoyed my well-earned cup of coffee as I leafed through the paper. Nothing of any great consequence had occurred in the world while I was asleep, the Yanks won, the Mets lost, and there was only one new scandal involving the president. A good day for the Yanks and the president and a bad one for the Mets and the American people. I must confess the president had recently become a source of irritation to me. After all the affairs, lies, and cover ups; the American people still seemed to like him. I had now become convinced that the only way his popularity could go down was if he was found in bed with a dead hooker or a young boy. But that was probably just wishful thinking, I’m sure the President and his in-house spin doctors would find some way of justifying it.
It was now closing in on 7 o’clock, I was able to successfully skim the paper, in spite of Tuxedo’s relentless harassment about wanting to go out, which at the moment was not a prudent course of action. I was trying to explain to the cat, why he couldn’t go out when I was startled by a loud knock at the front door. From my vantage point on the couch, I was able to look through the front window at the intruder. It was Dave Reed, my mechanic.
“Good morning Dave, how are you doing this morning?”
“Not bad, I brought back your car, it’s good as new.”
Dave was a first class mechanic as well as being a close friend of mine. The car that Dave was returning to me this morning was my baby, a classic 1979 Triumph Spitfire; for my money the classiest little sports car ever made. I didn’t use the car much in the winter months, so every April I’d have Dave go over the car from top to bottom and get it ready for the summer months.
“Did you have any problems with the car?” I asked.
“No, nothing unexpected, I just gave her a tune up and checked the fluid levels.”
“How much do I owe you?” I asked.
“I got the bill right here,” he replied.
“Never mind the bill, if I can’t trust you I’m in bad shape.”
“You owe me two hundred and twelve dollars, just make it an even two hundred.”
I