Two men talk with the owner of the restaurant at the cash register. The men apparently meet to read some sort of Bible verse a day book. They confess that they read at the slower, more leisurely pace of a verse a week. But somehow their conversation is about how they never see their wives.
“I get in about 10:00, and she gets in about 9:00.”
“I was saying that same thing myself.”
“We never see each other.”
“I know what you mean.”
“We never have time to talk.”
“That’s it exactly.”
You get the gist.
Meanwhile, in the booth next to me, sit another middle-aged couple. Their heads are buried in newspapers. Their eyes dart back and forth. Hands move in perfect synchronization. Pages are turned quickly and efficiently, without the aid of a licked thumb for better grip. Their papers never fold or bend or become unruly. They are newspaper masters.
But their kingdoms are tiny. They hear nothing of the conversation going on not more then five feet away. They are busy devouring their newspapers, which they are able to do faster then I can eat an order of eggs benedict. But I am a slow eater. My size is merely a deception.
I wish I could somehow switch the couple’s newspapers with the books clutched under the arms of the men. I wish this very much. I would like to see the couple rip through that Bible verse a day book. I’d like to see them trying to hide from each other behind such a small cover.
And I’d like to see the men stand around the cash register discussing what is important in life with nothing but newspapers under their arms. I might make a casual gesture, and draw their attention to the newspapers. I would sit back and sip my coffee and just watch the men, looking to see if salvation is as sure for men with nothing but local news to draw them together.
I would like all of this very much.