MORE THAN FISH IN THE OCEAN

A group of well-to-dos got up from their table, leering at Wayne in the process and took their wine, silverware and napkins with them to the farthest seating section.

A leaf fell from an overhanging limb and Wayne swatted at it as he took a long drag from his cigarette, leering back at them.

"I wasn’t blowing smoke at you, you know," Wayne tossed out.

"Excuse me?" the gray-haired patriarch of the well-to-dos asked.

"I said, I’m not blowing smoke at you. You don’t have to get up and leave."

"Well, to be honest, the smoke was kind of bothering a few of my people over here."

"You’re in the smoking section and there’s, like, four tables between you and the smoke, besides."

"Technically, there’s only two."

"What?"

"There’s our table, two tables, then yours. That’s two, technically."

"Yeah, technically, I guess. But I’m at the long table angled this way and the two between us is like another three . . . whatever, you know? Just go to the other section."

"We will. Thank you."

The other well-to-dos jut off as the patriarch follows. Wayne steams.

"Just herd me into the train bound for Auschwitz, then," Wayne muttered.

The patriarch’s ears perk up and he made his way back to Wayne, pushing a hanging limb out of his way in the process.

"I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you," he asked.

"It’s like you pass a smoking ban and we’re all treated like Jews around here. So, sure, split us up, away from the others, then file us into the freight cars!"

"You are way out of line!"

"Oh, I’m in line! I’m in line! I just seem to have misplaced my Star of David, you Nazi!"

"I’m sorry, are you Jewish?"

"Well, no, but I’m a very repressed people."

"Look, son. My grandparents were exterminated in the Holocaust as well as my grandfather’s brothers and sisters. The only reason I’m here today, innocently moving my party from one section to another, is because my father worked his little fingers to the bone for three years in Auschwitz, separating shoes and clothes of the Jews that had been exterminated, including his own parent’s. He went to sleep every night never knowing if he was going to be hauled away to be shot or experimented on or gassed from one day to the next. So, if you think the smokers are an oppressed people, my boy, you obviously don’t know the meaning of the word. Now, if you’ll excuse me."

The patriarch walked back to his table around the corner. Wayne heard a murmur from his party as the patriarch rejoined them. Wayne’s face was flushed. He knew if he thought long and hard enough he would be able to come up with a response that would trump the patriarch’s without making himself look like a bigger asshole than he already appeared to be. But no response came. He considered walking around the corner to apologize, but instead he finished his cigarette and left the outdoor restaurant.

That night, after turning out the lights and lying on the mattress that sat on the floor of his efficiency, surrounded by his accumulated filth of unpacked boxes, dirty socks and empty beer cans, he whispered, "Fuckin’ Heeb."

Outside, the night grew darker.




-SLL