The two boys are back together, despite the combined efforts of Mother Nature and a slow-leak rear tire that is beginning to get on my nerves. Call me demanding, but I like a tire that can hold its breath for 50,000 miles without whining. This consistent I need air attitude is a bit much, forcing me to decide every two days whether to waste two minutes stopping for air or forty-five minutes seeking more thorough treatment. So far, two minutes always wins.
The roads were nothing more then a spiderweb of ice rinks, and the van, even after thirty minutes of warming up and shaking the ice from its windows, was proving to be no skater. The trip had mishap written all over it, so I just kept my mouth shut as we began a wild slide that only ended when the two of us were sitting side by side in a restaurant, eating greasy hamburgers for lunch. Who am I to argue with destiny?
“The fries need more salt,” my son says. I almost tell him to just rub them around on his greasy fingers, which already have enough salt stuck on them to season every spud in Idaho. But I see he’s smiling. He’s only joking, attempting to hone his budding sarcasm skills.
I did have an opportunity, while we were ordering, to come up with a new theory. Or maybe it’s no theory at all, but just a reflection. I’ll let others decide.
While I waited for my son to make up his mind, I found my gaze drifting away from the gigantic hamburger pictures and the faux shakes, spinning on strings all around my head. And then, through the slightly hazy fog of grease, I spotted a monitor near the end of the counter. It seems I’m on television.
And suddenly it’s time for theory. Or reflection. It’s simple. If you take any unshaven man in a bulky jacket and ski cap, lean him on the counter of any restuarant, convenience store, or gas station, and then play this image on a television mounted from a ceiling, you will reduce that man into looking exactly like a desperate, potentially armed felon.
It must be some sort of translation error that happens along the way. Something must get distorted somewhere between here and there. I don’t think I look like a felon in real life, but I sure did just then. Was it the clothing? No, they seemed normal. My facial appearance? Couldn’t be, you could hardly see my face at all (which did seem cleverly felon-like of me, I thought, and a possible flaw in my theory). Maybe it was based purely on location. Hmmmm. I wanted to take off my coat and hat and stick them on the next guy in line, just to give it a test. In the name of science and learning and higher understanding. All that stuff. But I held back, not wanting the challenge of having to explain myself to not only the man, but my son, who would surely wonder what the hell? Or whatever the eight year old equivalent is.