Slowcomotion

My mouth was reeling that fateful Saturday afternoon, as if it had just been hit by a Jim Shields fastball. Taste Buds fled like terrified Orcs from avenging Ents. Nerves split and frayed like the rigging on Old Ironsides during battle. And smoke, I fancied, ascended from my ears the same way it does when Jerry finds himself in an uncomfortable situation and reacts according to the laws of cartoon physics.

I had just finished my first bite of a spicy chicken sandwich. Yes, I can handle spicy stuff, thank you very much. It's not like I'm a wimp. Contrary to popular and familial belief, I can take a challenge. In fact, I would readily devour the world's hottest pepper if I wanted to. But I just don't want to. You see, some things are simply outside my comfort zone. I don't feel like eating spicy food. It burns my tongue. It makes my ears smoke. Yeah, I'm a wimp.

Last Saturday I put my foot down. I decided I didn't have to put up with all that capsasin or let my tongue be fried like a potato sliver. I would buy an ice cream sundae to assuage the fires in my mouth and dispel the rainclouds lurking behind my eyelids. With fresh determination, I sauntered over to the restaurant counter and waited. Then I waited a while longer, and a while longer yet. There was something amiss. I looked around for an employee.

The woman in the kitchen was alive—even I could deduce that much by the steady rise and fall of her chest. But she certainly wasn't kicking. In fact, she was hardly breathing. One of her feet slowly rose from the ground, made a leisurely arc through mid-air, and settled a little way ahead. Then the other foot rose placidly to take its place. I plunked down my elbows and watched the spectacle, forgetting for a moment that my tongue was melting behind my lips.

There was no one else in line. Back at the grill, a frantic Mexifornian shot around like Speedy Gonzalez, making and bagging orders for the drive-thru. At the pay window sat a third employee, more dilatory than the first, who moved with a lethargy reminiscent of cold molasses. She was folding the Mexifornian's bags shut, gradually extending them toward impatient and outstretched hands, and counting out change with the enthusiasm of an aquarium snail. The Slow Poke I had observed first obviously noticed the action at the pay window, because she modified the path of her arduous trail to lend a hand to Molasses. Despite all the wisdom that had been instilled in me over the decades, I stared. It was mesmerizing.

Then my tongue reminded me what I was supposed to be doing, and I shook myself awake. Was there balm in Gilead? I needed relief on the double. Speedy had his hands full. Molasses was stuck to an earphone and speaker. Slow Poke was my only hope. "Um, excuse me" I muttered. She didn't move. Or did she? It was hard to tell. "Excuse me," I spoke up louder. Her head began to turn, followed by her shoulders, her torso, and finally her legs. She ambled over to the register.

I sighed in relief and was just opening my afflicted mouth to order when, in a twist of fate as excruciating as it was unexpected, she began to smile. I tried to stop her. I used English, Latin, Esperanto, and three dialects of sign language to get across to her that I didn't need the smile, that all I needed was a cup of ice cream, that I would pay extra, that I would slip her a few bills under the table. It was no use. The lips moved inexorably onward, upward, seeming as they climbed to shout "excelsior" in their enthusiasm. And yes, there was enthusiasm in that smile. It was a deep, full, cordial smile that evinced every bit of the meticulous effort and precious time employed in its creation.

I winced and summoned patience. As the smile progressed, more customers began to line up behind me. When the lips had waxed into a crescent, the cheeks began to glow. Then the eyelids complacently began to join in. I was desperate. Turning to the crowd behind me, I offered a silent plea. Couldn't someone do something? But I was met by a sea of hypnotically glazed eyes and slack jaws. My mouth was feeling quite OK now, and in answer to a low rumbling in my stomach, I glanced longingly toward my chicken sandwich. Horrors! Speedy was wiping off tables and I realized in a flash that the sandwich was in his path. My chicken sandwich. My spicy delicacy. I broke from the line and ran for it. I leaped over several chairs and shouted a warning, but arrived just as Speedy swept my lunch into a trash can. I staggered up, and a tear brimmed over my eyes unto my cheek. Then I looked at the line. Even had it been moving, there were too many people to wait out.

I would be eating somewhere else today, I concluded as I trudged out to my car. Somewhere where slow motion was merely a cinematic effect.

The Day I Fell Asleep in a Public Sauna

It's one of those things you just don't do. Every guy knows it even though it isn't written in any book of rules. If animals watched animal planet about human beings, the narrator would say that it's a miracle that this inviolable rule is passed down through the generations. It's the unspeakable error; the unpardonable sin. We all know saunas are full of perverts, but we can handle them when awake and on the move. Alas, I let my wits get the better of me. Yesterday, I fell asleep in a public sauna.

It was a tough day. First the lead in my only pencil snapped off in the middle of a test and my very strict proctor wouldn't let me get up to sharpen it. Then someone snuck Valium into my inhaler ("as a joke, hahaha"). Then some custodian waxed the steps and I ended up tumbling down four stories. I broke the fall with my dignity. And a little old lady with a walker.

By the time I reached the wet sauna I was definitely ready for some R & R. I clambered on in, found a seat next to a fat Chinese dude, rested my head on the wall, and closed my eyes. I let my troubles fade away with every deep breath of the eucalyptus-oiled mist. The extreme heat, the long day, and the obscured, dream-like vision conspired against me. My back slid slowly across the slick tile wall and I curled up in the fetal position. The last thing I saw was four more fat naked guys coming in.

It was definitely one of the most unique wake-up experiences I've ever had. The thought process ran something like:

This is so warm.
I don't even need a blanket.
This mattress sure is hard though.
Oh, it's tile.
That explains it.
Say, I'm all wet.
That's embarrassing.
It's misty, too.
Oh, great.
What did my roomie do now?
No, I'm not in my room.
My room has a lamp next to the bed.
This is most definitely not my room.
I'm buck naked.
That's unexpected.
There's five sweaty fat naked guys sitting next to me.
Also unexpected.
Say, I just fell asleep in a public sauna.

I sat bolt upright, then overcompensated and knocked heads with a sweaty fat naked guy.

"Sorry," I muttered, groping for the door.

He sniffed and snorted as if just waking up. "Hm? What, what? Who's there? Lunch time?"

We'll fast-forward the story to the part where I run, screaming, from the building. Next time I'm bringing a six-pack of Coke and a taser.

Close Call

The other day I was driving the roughly twelve mile stretch between school and work. It was shortly after 12:30 and the lunch hour traffic was lighter than usual. I was singing along with Jason Aldean on a freshly burned disk of assorted country music and generally trying to look cool, calm and collected as I bobbed my head to the tune and adjusted my sunglasses. The road seemed to come to me and I really didn't notice much other than the white lines to my left and the base boosted sound from the speaker on my right.

I didn't care too much about my speed, but was going about five miles per hour above the speed of traffic (roughly sixty) and, if my memory serves me correctly, the zone was listed for 45. The town where I go to school has a large police presence and the road I was traveling is such a transit artery that regular patrolling is a guarantee. Still, I thought little of the authorities when I noticed a gap in the traffic ahead of me and accelerated to pass a car and settle in.

Never glancing at my speedometer, I grinned as I heard the first notes of a new Josh Turner single and started singing along with Firecracker.

Ahead of me was an intersection that is arguably the largest and most traveled in all town. It's on a road between two large higher education institutions and the cross street is a major east west route (Pacific and March, for those of you in the know). When I was no closer than three hundred feet from the light, it switched from green to yellow.

I calculated quickly and determined I could make it. Then I down-shifted and gunned the engine, leaping forward with less caution than the yellow light demanded. To my left, I noticed a red Isuzu Rodeo, making a similar attempt.

(I've always wondered about the wisdom of naming a car "Rodeo;" it doesn't speak much to the smoothness of the ride).

Just before crossing the white line and entering the large square of the intersection, I happened to glance at my speed and noticed I was almost thirty over the limit. I'd started out a tad fast, speed up to pass a car and then severely violated the applicable traffic laws during my approach to the light.

But as fast as I was going, the Rodeo was going faster. Without a radar gun, I can't be entirely accurate as it its speed, but I would wager an honest nickel that it was going on the high side of 85. Maybe even 90.

As we breezed through the intersection, two geese on a flight south, I noticed the distinctive white and black markings of a CHP officer out of the corner of my right eye. You know the type: reinforced bumper, light rack and overweight driver. I instinctively engaged the clutch and tapped the breaks to slow down, but the officer's lights were blinking and he had pulled out of his perch before I could slow below the posted limit.

Embarrassment and disappointment are the only two emotions I remember as I carefully pulled my car to the side of the road and engaged my emergency blinkers.

My first ticket.

I had been driving - seriously driving - nine months and now I would have a point on my license, my insurance costs would skyrocket and I would have to sit through a class on traffic safety - as if I didn't know all the rules I'd violated. I sighed and leaned back, waiting for the prefect to come to my door.

But the officer never came. In fact, the cop car chased down the Rodeo and a uniformed officer was knocking at the door of the red SUV when I drove by a fraction of a minute later.

I don't know how much weight I lost in those few moments when I thought I was going to be ticketed, but it must have been measurable. My heart was beating like I'd just drunk three Red Bulls while watching Mission Impossible and my palms were sweatier than T.D. Jakes after a hard sermon. As if to reinforce my feelings, my stereo was playing Keith Urban's Stupid Boy.

The rest of my ride to General Mills was about as slow as I can remember. I don't believe I ever came within five miles of the speed limit and I spent the entire time in the slow lane.