Steve Dublanica's Blog, page 12

Who Do I Look Like?

“Daddy,” my daughter asked me from the backseat of the car, “Who do you look like?”

“I look like me,” I said. 

“No, I mean what famous person do you look like?” 

“Mom says I look like Matt Damon.” 

“Whose Matt Damon?” 

“A famous actor.” 

“Do you look like him?” 

“I’m much better looking than Matt Damon.” Not true, but I’ve got to keep my self-esteem up somehow.

“Who else do you look like?” Natalie said. 

“Grandma thinks I look like Nathan Fillion” 

“Whose he?” 

“An actor on television.” 

“Do you think you look like him?” 

“No.” I can only delude myself so much. Besides, my mom’s vision isn’t too good. 

“But one time,” I said. “I was in the airport and a guy came up to me and said I was the spitting image of his brother. Even his wife thought I was him.” 

“Did you look like him?” 

“I don’t know, they didn’t show me a picture, but everybody has someone who looks like them. They’re called dopplegangers.” 

“You mean there’s someone who looks like me?” Natalie said. 

“Yep,” I said. “Maybe not exactly like you. But close. And she can be anywhere in the world. One day you might run into her.” 

“That’d be weird.” 

“It is, I said. “But it’s not uncommon. There are two red haired actresses out there who look so similar that I always mix them up.” 

“You were famous,” my daughter said. 

“For like ten minutes. And that was long ago.” 

I’m a little touchy on the subject of doppelgangers.  When I was a waiter customers told me I looked like Elton John or Nathan Lane. Two very talented men to be sure, but I prefer being compared to the likes of Messer’s Fillion & Damon much, much more. When I started this blog, I wrote under the non de plume, “The Waiter” and struggled mightily to maintain my anonymity.  But, when my first book came out, I was forced to let everyone know my real name and see my real face. I couldn’t do book tours or go on Oprah with a bag over my head. The reactions people had to seeing the real me, however, were mixed: ranging from “You’re not what I thought you’d look like” to “You look like the waiter who ate Cleveland.” Ouch. One reader told me she always envisioned me looking like Adrien Brody and sounded very disappointed that I did not. 

Later that night, when my daughter was asleep, I went into the bathroom to perform my evening ablutions. Filling the sink with warm water, I placed the new silvertip badger shaving brush I bought myself for Christmas into the water to soak while I took a shower. When I was done, I loaded my shaving brush with fine English shaving soap from a puck, lathered my face, and then grabbed my heavy doubled bladed German safety razor off its stand and then carefully proceeded to scythe the whiskers off my face. I have found my skin prefers evening shaves to morning ones. After re-lathering and making a couple of more passes, my face was soon smooth as a baby’s ass. 

After a warm water rinse followed by a splash of witch hazel, I applied some aftershave moisturizer, rinsed out my brush and razor, and then placed them back on their stand to dry. Then, after I brushed my teeth and flossed, I took a small and very expensive vial out of the medicine cabinet to perform my last task of the night – undereye cream to get rid of the dark circles under my eyes. Looking at my shaving stand and the manly creams, soaps, hair sprays, pomade, and unguents on the bathroom shelf, I realized I take up more toiletry real-estate than my wife and daughter combined. “Vanity of vanities, says Qoheleth.” I murmured. 

After washing soap and whisker remnants down the drain, I toweled off the sink and then looked at myself in the mirror. Who do I look like? My wife is secretly hot for Daniel Craig and, though he’s only a month older than me, I know it’d be laughable to compare myself to him. Thank goodness Annie decided to marry moi but, if Danny gets divorced, I might be in trouble.  No, I don’t look like anyone famous, but then again someone told me I looked forty-five just last week. I’d have been flattered if that person was – oh, how can I put it politely – certifiably off their rocker. Nope, I look like someone’s husband, father, brother, uncle, godparent and friend.  I am what I am and that will have to be enough.

Slipping into bed, my wife leaned over and drew her hand across my cheek. “So smooth,” she whispered. Then she turned off the light. 

Messer’s Damon, Fillion and Craig, eat your hearts out. 

The post Who Do I Look Like? appeared first on Waiter Rant.

My Hero

I was doing squats at the gym yesterday when a young woman stepped into the squat rack and picked up two five pound plates off the floor near my feet. Safety issues aside, that I might’ve wanted to use them was obviously no concern of hers. I’d have said something if I didn’t have two hundred and fifty pounds balanced on my shoulders. After completing my set and racking the bar, I shot her a dirty look, but she was too busy texting on her phone to notice. If I had done what she did back in the 80’s some neon wearing muscle bound gym rat at Jack Lalanne would have chewed me out, and deservedly so. Then again, most young gym goers are Ipodded and oblivious these days. I leave my phone in the car. 

After powering through another set, I sat down huffing and puffing to rest and chug some water. Before my surgery I could squat three hundred pounds and have slowly been trying to get back to what I was before. But since the sweet bird of youth seems to have taken flight, I might just be kidding myself. While my oxygen levels returned to normal, I watched as the young woman who swiped my weights finished up her deadlifts and then walked away, texting furiously, not bothering to strip her weights off the bar. How rude. 

When I was done with the squat rack, I moved over to the leg extension machine to work my quads some more. But as I moved the weights up and down, I was treated to a pair of broheims filling the air with loud talk about their sexual exploits or, rather, their lack thereof. 

“That Brittany is one stone cold stuck up bitch,’ the first said. 

“She ain’t worth it bro,” the other said. “Plenty of other poontang out there.” I don’t know about you, but I think Brittany dodged a bullet. Remembering I was once a clueless young man myself; I tried blocking out their chatter by focusing on my form – but my concentration was shattered by what seemed to be loud noises of sexual release. 

“Oh yeah, baby! Do it! Do it!” 

“Ohhh! Yeah! Arrrgh!” Groaning inwardly, I didn’t even have to turn my head to identify the source of the orgasmic vocalizations. I knew it was Porno Couple. 

“Porno Couple” is the mental nickname I’ve given to a thirty-something man and woman who like to cordon off several machines with their gym bags, hoodies, weight straps, water bottles, gloves and towels so they can do “supersets” without anyone hopping on “their machines” and then proceed to grunt and groan like they’re in a swinger’s club. They also waste a lot of time socializing and high fiving people instead of using those machines, not caring if someone else would like to use them. 

Sure enough, when I looked, Porno Couple had laid claim to the entire back station. Then a guy around my age stepped in to use the lat pull down bar. 

“Mind if I get a set in?” he asked. 

“Dude,” Porno Guy, who’s quite built, said. “We’re using that.”

“You’re using all of them?” the man said, pointing to their gear strewn all over the floor. 

“Yeah,” 

The man just grinned. “No worries, bro. I’ll only be a few minutes.” Then, ignoring the dagger looks these vocal exhibitionists were giving him, he proceeded do pulldowns with the weight pin set to the highest setting. Seeing this, Porno Guy just stared at the floor and said nothing. – mostly because the guy who’d interrupted him was built like a brick shithouse. I’m talking huge. I guess there’s always a bigger fish. 

Chuckling, I returned to my workout and then, when I was finished, moved to the calf raise machine. After I’d finished my second set, the huge guy who wasn’t impressed with Porno Couple tapped me on the shoulder. 

“Mind if I work in?” 

“No worries,” I said.

Being much taller than me, he set the shoulder pads to max height, set the weights as high as they would go, and performed his calf raises with what seemed like minimal effort. Then, when he was done, he set everything back to how I’d had it before and wiped off the pads. Simple gym etiquette.  

“You got good calves, man.” Huge said when I was done with my turn. 

“Not the weight you’re moving though,” I said, returning the machine to his preferences. “Impressive.” 

Huge shrugged. “I’ve been doing this a long time. You got strong calves naturally, I can tell. Some guys can work for years and not have ones as good as yours.” 

“I’ll take all the compliments I can get, thanks.”  

Then a young woman and her boyfriend walked past us and proceeded to dump their winter coats and gym bags on the floor, creating a tripping hazard.  After they left, Huge said to me, “Don’t they know what the rules are? No gym bags on the floor.” 

“Inconsiderate,” I said. “But what are you going to do?” 

“Kids today,” he grunted. “No fucking respect. Not like in our day.” 

“When I started working out,” I said. “I remember being schooled in gym etiquette by some no shit guys.” 

“Can’t do that anymore,” Huge said. “Kids today will claim you’re making them uncomfortable. Pull out their phones and start recording you.” 

“I asked a girl last week if I could work in with her on the pulldown machine and she looked at me like I was a child molester.” 

“They never learned how to share. I blame the parents.” Then Huge walked over to the kids’ stuff and moved it to where no one would trip on it. The girl’s boyfriend looked like he wanted to stay something but, when he crunched the numbers, thought better of it. 

“Don’t want anyone to fall, bro,” Huge said to him, smiling. “Have a nice workout.” 

“You’re my hero,” I said, softly when he returned. Huge shrugged his massive shoulders again.  

“I see you around here a lot,” Huge said. “You work out hard.” 

“Just trying to salvage what’s left,” I said. 

“Just keep doing what you’re doing.” 

“My name’s Steve,” I said, extending my hand. 

“Pete,” he said shaking it. “See you around.” And, like that, two middle aged men made a small connection while youth cavorted around us with blind indifference. 

Done with the weights, I decided to get a little cardio in on the treadmill, but all the machines were taken save one – and a pink gym bag lay in front of it. Since the bag probably didn’t belong to the old man on the empty machine’s right, I figured it belonged to the young woman running like a gazelle on the left. So, I scooped up the bag up and placed it out of the way. 

The young woman turned her head and looked me up and down. “Were you holding this machine for a friend?” I asked. But since a pair of earbuds were hanging from her ears, I figured she didn’t hear me. Getting no response, I cranked the machine to four miles per hour and set the incline on high. 

As my blood started pumping again, I looked at the television above me and wondered why anyone watched the 700 Club at the gym. “Your body is a temple of the Lord,” I guess. Bored, I looked across the gym and watched as Huge performed sitting dumbbell curls with what looked like eighty pound weights in each hand. When it comes to pumping iron, God must have a soft spot for this big fella. 

My hero. 

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Castles In The Sky

Several months ago, one of the cops in my town donated a near mint condition bike that used to be his daughter’s. “Barely a scratch on it,” he said. 

“You could donate it to the thrift barn,” I told him, referring to a local outfit that accepts books, clothes, and toys, sells them for a song, and then gives to money to local charities. “I’m sure some kid will be happy to get it.” 

“No,” the cop said. “I don’t want some picker to buy it and sell it for a profit.” Message received and understood. He wanted it to go to someone who really could use it.  That bike, however, has been taking up space in my office for months, waiting for someone who meets the cop’s criteria.  But it’s not the first time this kind of thing has happened to me. 

Several years ago, a man came to my office looking to donate a large medieval castle set complete with four inch figurines of lords, ladies, knights and horses. In pristine condition, it was made in the 1980’s and looked very expensive. 

“I bought it at FAO Schwartz for my son,” the donor told me. “But he died before he got a chance to play with it. I’ve held on to it for years, but now I’m at the point where I can finally let it go.” 

Being a father myself, I thought about all my daughter’s toys and what I would do if the unthinkable happened. I could see myself not letting go, maybe leaving Natalie’s room with all her stuffed animals on her bed – waiting for a return that would never happen. I wondered if this man kept his son’s room as a shrine for thirty years. I could not and had no wish to try imagining his pain. 

“I’ll make sure it goes to someone who could use it,” I told him.

I thought unloading the castle would be a piece of cake. I was wrong. None of my clients wanted it, saying that it was “too big.” I tried calling several children’s hospitals, but they demurred citing “liability reasons.  So, the castle remained in storage, making me wince with guilt every time I saw it. I had made a promise and failed to honor it, making me worry what would happen if that father popped in and saw it still unloved and unused. But I never saw him again. 

After several years, I thought of donating it to the Thrift Barn but decided against it for the very reason the cop didn’t want to bring his daughter’s bike there – because some sharp eyed picker would buy it for twenty bucks and then sell it for hundreds on eBay.  Lining some guy’s pockets with another person’s tragedy just seemed wrong so I waited. And waited. Then a day care serving underprivileged kids operated by Head Start came to me looking for food donations. After giving them a carload of food, inspiration struck. “I have this lovely toy castle set,” I said.  “Would you like to have it?” When I showed it to them, they smiled. 

“Yes, they said. “Our children would really enjoy it.”

Now dozens of tiny tots are playing with that castle set.  I have no doubt they’ve put some wear and tear on those lords, ladies, knights and horses – but it’s bringing delight to poor children who’re now imagining a world of filled with chivalry, tourneys, dragons and magic, exactly what that bereaved father wanted. Mission accomplished – finally. Eventually that bike will also find a deserving home. I just need to be patient.

I think about that father often. During my tenure I’ve encountered several parents who’ve lost their children and it always frightens me. The possible death of a child is a specter that hangs over every parent’s head, mine included, though I suggest you keep such dreadful musings to a minimum. Now, when I see that bike, I always think about that man’s dead son. I hope he’s found some measure of peace, knowing in a way that surpasses understanding that is son is now happy – eternally playing with infinite joy in that Great Big Castle In The Sky. 

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Chili x ∞

My wife and were watching a show on Netflix about the subject of infinity when they trotted out an example that blew my mind. If you put an apple in a box and left it in there for an infinite amount of time, the apple would eventually decay and turn to dust, but all the particles that used to be the apple – 1024 power of them – would be swirling around in there, slowly reacting with each other until they turned into a plasma burning at unbelievable temperatures and, as all these particles interacted with each other over endless millennia, they would eventually reconstitute themselves into all 10×1024 states the amount of particles originally in the box could possibly occupy   – like a pocketknife, a banana, a lightbulb, butterfly, flashlight, etcetera, etcetera. “This,” a physicist said, “Is the power the infinite has over the finite.” And, since we’re talking about infinite amounts of time here, eventually you’d open the box and, voila, your apple would be there again. “How did that happen?” the same physicist said. “How did this hot gas turn into an apple? But eventually it has to. In fact, every possible thing that could exist in the box will exist.  And they will each exist an infinite number of times.” 

When physicists talk about such things, they often sound like high schoolers on an acid trip. “Far out man!”  But, if you follow their logic to the utmost extreme, that means everything in the cosmos, over an infinite amount of time, must eventually occupy every state it can possibly occupy – meaning there will inevitably be exact copies of you and me out there in the universe doing exactly what we’re doing now!  Ugh. Truth be told, trying to imagine such vastly mind boggling things gives me a slight case of nausea. And, when you think about it, learning about science’s often counterintuitive proclamations about what reality is usually isn’t much use for the average person on the street – but it does wonders for martial spats. 

“Honey,’ I said to my wife as we were preparing dinner, “Something in the fridge smells.” 

“Don’t start,” Annie said, tensing. My wife and I usually have arguments over her proclivity to keep leftovers past their expiration date. 

“You can’t smell that?” 

“You always throw out leftovers when they’re still good.” 

“Whatever that is,” I said. “It smells like botulism. Please find it and throw it out.” 

With a “harrumph” Annie delved into the fridge and, after much rummaging around, produced a Tupperware container of the chili I made last week. 

“I think it’s the chili,” she said, opening the container. “Yep” she said, after a sniff. “That’s the culprit.” 

“Were you hoping that, if you left it in the fridge for an infinite amount of time, it’s atoms would turn into a hot plasma and eventually reassemble into a fresh batch of chili?” 

“Very funny,” she said, giving me a withering stare. I wisely skipped saying, “It’s hard to be right all the time.” Science is a bitch. 

Later that night, however, I found those physicist’s words echoing in my head. “This is the power the infinite has over the finite.” Infinity can be a scary thing. Who hasn’t looked up at the night sky and felt infinitesimally small compared to the sublime grandeur of the stars above? Like everyone, I find the idea of my finitude daunting – that most of those stars I see will be around long after I’m dead. But, after I take a few breaths, I try remembering that infinity’s vastness is indeed it’s power, that it’s the very thing that makes room for everything there is – everything that is not infinite like us. And if everything is recycled in endless permutations? Well, maybe the Hindus are on to something there. But when I finally slipped under the covers and shut off the light, I couldn’t shake the feeling I’m on an endless journey that’s only just begun. Maybe I’ll find my chili out there waiting for me. 

Far out, man  

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The Best Ever

My wife and I lead busy lives and, when we come home from work and deal with an energetic almost nine year old, we’re often exhausted when the subject of “What’s for dinner?” comes up. Last night we succumbed to laziness and went to a Japanese restaurant – sitting on bamboo mats, slurping tea and eating sushi. It was very tasty but, truth be told, we probably eat out too much. So, early yesterday evening, I decided a home cooked meal was in order. But what to make?

Examining the contents of our fridge, I noticed we still has a pound of ground turkey left over from making chili and an unopened package of button mushrooms and asparagus sitting forgotten in the vegetable crisper. Then I had an idea. If I can make chili with ground turkey, why not Salisbury steak? There must be a recipe for it somewhere on the Interwebs. Sure enough, there was.

Getting a glass bowl out of the cabinet, I mixed the turkey with panko breadcrumbs, minced garlic, salt, pepper, Worcestershire Sauce, ground mustard, some onion and garlic powder and an egg. Then, after I formed four oval shaped patties, I let then rest on the counter while I scrubbed some potatoes and placed them in a pot of water to boil. Then I trimmed the asparagus, cleaned them, arranged the spears on a baking sheet, sprinkled on some sea salt and then drizzled them with olive oil.

Heating up a stainless steel pan, I poured in some canola oil and then, just before it started smoking, placed the turkey patties in and seared them for about four minutes on each side. Then I took them out of the pan, covered them with some aluminum foil and set about making the sauce. After slicing up the mushrooms and an onion in quarter inch slices, I poured some olive oil into the pan and a dollop of butter and, when the butter started foaming, threw in the ‘shrooms and onion and cooked them slowly on low heat for several minutes. Then I added two tablespoons of flour, mixed everything into a roux, added two cups of chicken broth, a bit of salt and pepper, more Worcestershire Sauce, heated the sauce up to a healthy simmer and the then put the turkey patties in for twenty minutes, covering the pan and making sure to flip the patties once every five minutes. 

As the “steaks” were cooking I popped open a beer, drained the potatoes whist reserving some of the liquid, and then mashed them up with a bit of milk, butter, pepper, effluence of potato and garlic powder. Then, when my wife arrived home from work, I slid the tray of asparagus into the oven to roast. 

“Smells good,” my wife said after giving me a kiss. “What’s for dinner?” 

“Turkey Salisbury Steak – I think.” 

“You’ve never made that before.” 

“I felt like experimenting,” I said. “I just hope Natalie likes it.” My daughter can be a notoriously picky eater. 

As my wife pulled Natalie away from her Minecraft obsession to wash her hands, I plated dinner – making sure each turkey patty was smothered in sauce and then, in a nod to my waiter days, carried all three plates into the dining room and then deposited them on the table. 

“Voila,” I said. 

“What is it?” Natalie said, sniffing her meal suspiciously. 

“Turkey Salisbury steak. “

“What’s that?” 

“it’s like a turkey burger,” I said. “Just with a brown sauce. And there’s mashed potatoes. I know you like those.” 

Being a kid, Natalie started in on the potatoes first, nibbled on an asparagus spear and then, as I watched with bated breath, took a forkful of my creation and put it tentatively into her mouth. 

“What do you think?” I asked. Natalie made no reply but ate another bite – then another and another. 

“It’s really good, Steve,” my wife said. “Where’d you get the recipe?” 

“The Culinary Institute of You Tube.” 

Eating my warm food and drinking my cold beer, I watched in amazement as my daughter cleaned her plate. Then, after pushing her plate away she said, “That was the best dinner ever.” 

Whaa? 

“I’m glad you liked it, dear,” I said, shocked into submission by words I never thought I’d hear come out of my daughter’s mouth. 

“Could you make this every day, Daddy?” 

“Well,” my wife said, “We’ll certainly add it to the menu. “

“It’s the best food ever,” Natalie said.

“Good job, Dad,” my wife said. 

“You’re very welcome.” 

A while later, as my wife and I did the dishes, I said. “Well, that was a first.” 

“I can’t believe she said it was ‘the best ever,’” my wife said. “Can you believe it?” 

“After everything I’ve cooked over the years, it turns out Turkey Salisbury Steak was the big winner.” 

“There’s no knowing with her.” 

“I loved TV dinners with Salisbury Steak when I was a kid,” I said, “You remember them? The ones with the little apple cobbler for dessert?”

“My mom never made those,” my wife said. “She cooked everything from scratch.” 

“Considering all the salt and preservatives in those things, she probably did you a favor. No need to embalm you before you’re dead.” 

Ah, yes, the 1970’s – when parents fed food to their kids that would get child services sicced on their asses today. But back then we didn’t have the panoply of world cuisines that are now just an app click away. Then again, parents smoked in cars with the windows rolled up while their children cavorted unsecured in the back seat back then too – much less heard of Thai or Vietnamese cuisine. But my father, who was always the more adventurous gourmand of the family, once blew his whole paycheck taking us to Beni Hana in Manhattan for a strange thing called hibachi.  I still remember the cook flipping shrimp tails into his chef’s cap and setting the grill on fire to my toddler brother’s delight while my grandmother’s looked on with barely disguised horror. It was new and different, and I loved it. To this day, I always like going to a hibachi place on Father’s Day because of that happy memory. This time, however, I’m old enough to guzzle a few Sapporo’s too. 

After giving Natalie an apple for balanced nutrition, we sat down and watched an episode of the Simpsons – my daughter’s new fave. Chuckling, I remembered when that show was considered sort of risqué but now, compared to all the crap that’s out there, it’s almost wholesome family entertainment. Then, after half an hour, I noticed my daughter nodding off, carried her up the stairs, watched her brush her teeth and get into her jammies, and then performed our nighty tuck in ritual of burying her under the covers, selecting her stuffed animal companions for the night, the bestowing of kisses and “I love yous” and then, finally, turning off the light.  

“She asleep?” my wife asked, sitting up in bed, reading. 

“Out like a light.” 

“Good, she has roller skating lessons tomorrow morning.” 

After performing my nightly ablutions, I slipped under the covers too – noticing my wife was wearing her black negligee. Oh boy. 

“That was a really good dinner, hon,” she said. “Now turn off the light.” 

“Are you ready for the best ever?” I said once our room was dark save for the illumination of the moon. 

“I’ll manage somehow.” 

Then, as the autumn wind rustled the leaves of the oak tree outside our bedroom window, my wife and I enjoyed our dessert course. 

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No Lollipops

One of the perks of being a municipal employee is that I get the flu vaccine for free. No visits to the doctor or pharmacy – just go into the auditorium, roll up your sleeve, and get stuck. 

“Will you also be getting the COVID vaccine today?” the clerk taking my information asked. Oh goodie, a twofer. 

“Yes,” I said. 

“Do you have your vaccine card?” 

“Indeed, I do.” 

“Oh,” the clerk said, looking at my card. “This is your fifth dose.” 

“Eternal vigilance is the price of good health.” 

“Huh?” 

“Don’t worry about it.” 

“Here’s your number,” the clerk said, handing me a placard. “The nurse will be ready for you in a moment.” 

After a short wait playing Ms. Pac Man on my phone, my number was called, and I walked over to the vaccination station and rolled up my sleeve. 

“Are you getting both shots today?  the nurse asked.

“Yes.” Then I answered all the questions these people normally ask. No, I did not have a fever, been exposed to someone with COVID, travelled to some far off pestilent country, had a bad reaction to previous vaccines, was allergic to anything, or had been confined to a skilled nursing facility in the past thirty days. 

“When were you born?” the nurse said, clicking her keyboard. I grudgingly told her. 

“Could you give me both shots in the same arm?” I asked. 

“Your arm will be sore.” 

“Better to have one sore arm then two.” 

“Okay, just give me a minute.” 

As I watched the nurse draw the vaccines from their vials, I felt a spurt of anxiety. Not that I’m afraid of shots mind you – but getting anything medical done gives me the heebie-jeebies these days. “Don’t be an idiot,” I told myself. Then the nurse injected me with swift professionalism and then watched in horror as a rivulet of blood started coursing down my arm. 

“Oh dear,” she said. 

“It’s that daily aspirin,” I said. “You should see me when I cut myself shaving.” 

“Let me clean that up.” Then, after being squeegeed with alcohol and triple Band-Aided, the nurse announced me fit for duty. 

“What,” I said. “No lollipop?” 

“Sir?” 

“I was told there’d be lollipops.” 

“Sorry, sir.” 

“You want a lollipop?” a coworker getting lanced at the next station chortled. 

“You’re never too old for lollipops.” 

Putting my sweater back on, I joined some of the newly vaccinated as we waited for the proscribed fifteen minutes. I thought about skipping out early, but there was a cop watching us. 

“Now I’m surrounded by a protective bubble,” the Recreation Director joked, showing me his arm. 

“Now we’ll live forever,” I said.

As we watched the clock tick, I asked the Rec Guy how his pregnant wife was doing. “She’s due around Christmas,” he said. 

“Your first was born during the worst of the pandemic and now your second’s coming during the holiday rush. Talk about planning.” 

“What can I say,” he said, smiling. “This one was a surprise.” 

“Mine was too.” 

Moving along, I struck up a conversation with our animal control officer and discussed a hoarding case we were working on. “Did you find her cats?” I asked.  

“No,” she said. “One of them’s probably dead in the house.” 

“Smelled like it.” 

“Shame.” 

“I have a soft spot for animals,” I said. “I could never do your job.” 

Shaking her head, the dogcatcher said, “I just helped with a job in New York. Lady had one hundred and ninety cats.” 

“That’s insane.” 

“And she was loaded, isn’t that something? But the neighbors told me after her husband died, she just started accumulating cats.” 

“That happens,” I said. “Their hoarding disorder was under wraps or somewhat manageable and then, when a major loss occurs, it’s off to the races. If people only knew how many hoarders were in this town,”

“Ain’t that the truth.” 

Looking at my assembled coworkers rolling up their sleeves, I realized that I’d known most of them seven years. One guy younger than me just became a grandfather, another just had a baby, and there was the nice lady who always remembers everyone’s birthday. And they’ve all watched my daughter grow from a wee toddler to a vivacious spitfire of a third grader. But there were some newer faces in the room too; younger people just starring their lives, getting married, having kids and wondering what life had in store for them. If we’re all lucky, the flu and COVID won’t be one of them. 

Seven years. That’s the longest time I’ve worked in one place in all my life. My old therapist told me that, after a lifetime spent dealing with dysfunctional churchmen, health care apparatchiks putting profits above patients and jousting with tyrannical restauranteurs, I’d always have a hard time trusting any work environment. But now, in my fifties, I’ve finally found that elusive stability in a place I’d never dreamed I’d be. And when I had to go out for cancer surgery last year, my colleagues donated vacation and sick time so I didn’t have to deal with going on disability. It was nice not having to worry about my paycheck – something that would’ve never happened if I was still in the restaurant business. For the first time I’m in an environment where people care for one another and, even if my job ends tomorrow, I’ll know it was good for me to have been here.

Newly inoculated and off the clock, I walked into the parking lot and headed for my car, reviewing the workday in my head. It had been a busy one: helping a Ukrainian refugee with two kids, a homeless guy who needed to find a place to live, prepping for holiday programs, accepting donations, dealing with that hoarder, fielding endless phone calls and emails and, of course, giving people food. Keying open my car, I looked at the Catholic church across the way and smiled. Whether it was by coincidence or design, the color of the municipal building’s cladding was almost the same hue as that much older ecclesiastical pile of stone. Musing over fate’s sense of humor, I remembered that I graduated from seminary school thirty-two years ago but ended up doing pretty much the same job – just without doctrines, incense, vestments, and the celibacy part. As my very wise wife once told me, “Your job is the parish you never got to have.” Yes, it was good for me to have been here. 

Even if I didn’t get a lollipop.  

The post No Lollipops appeared first on Waiter Rant.

The Last Face Redux

Lying on the operating room table, I was strangely calm. Looking at the surgical light hovering above me, I counted how many times I’d been put under anesthesia. Not counting wisdom teeth extractions, having broken bones set or colonoscopies, I’d been put under five times – once for almost six hours. After all those surgeries, I emerged from the haze of drugs quickly, always knowing where I was and what had happened. I figured today would be more of the same.

“Okay,” the anesthesiologist said. “Time to go night night.”

“What are you giving me?” I asked.  

“Propofol and (unintelligible) plus an inhalant.” 

“Sounds good to me.” 

“Okay. Here it comes.” 

When I had my cancer surgery, I’d figured I’d have enough time to compose myself before the drugs hit – to say a prayer or crack a joke – but the anesthesiologist did me dirty, knocking me out moments after I was slid onto the table. Maybe they figured they had a live one. This time, however, I felt myself floating away as the drugs pushed through my IV line, giving me the chance to focus on what was important. Although I was having a minor procedure, I knew there was a real risk, no matter how minor, that I wouldn’t wake up. So, after saying a quick prayer, I summoned up an image of my wife and daughter. 

Years ago, I watched a woman die. Afterwards, I was unnerved to realize that I was probably the last face she ever saw. I’m sure if she had her druthers, that woman would’ve have preferred to have seen something other than my sweaty mug hovering over her, but death is funny that way. But now, as I felt my consciousness slipping away, I focused on my wife and daughter’s smiling faces. If I went down for the dirt nap, that was the last thing I wanted to see. Then I felt a mask being slid over my face. 

“Inhale deeply,” the anesthesiologist said. Annoyed at the interruption, my eyes snapped open, and, to my distress, I noticed I was wide awake. “Oh shit,” I thought to myself. “I’m not going under.” 

“Breathe.” 

Complying, I inhaled but, after a couple of lungfuls of the metallic tasting gas, I was still awake. “It wasn’t like this all the other times,” I thought to myself. That’s when panic set in.  

“Breathe deeper,” I heard. “Breathe deeper.” 

As my eyes wildly scanned the OR, they fell upon a clock that read 12:30. “I got to stop this,” I thought to myself. “I’ve got to get outta here.” 

“Mr. Dublanica,” a voice said. “You’re all done.” 

“Huh?” 

“All done. You did great.” 

Peeling my eyes open, the first thing I saw was the face of another clock. 12:50 PM. I’d been out only twenty minutes. That my sense of temporality returned so quickly was reassuring. 

“Would you like something to drink?”

“Please,” I said. Having ingested nothing for fourteen hours, I was a bit cranky. 

As I guzzled my ginger ale and devoured a packet of crackers, I mused on my panic in the OR. That had never happened to me before – probably because, unlike all my other surgeries, I hadn’t been given a sedative prior to anesthesia. It was only a minor procedure after all, but I was chagrined that the last face I saw was the sterile face of a clock. 

An hour later a nurse wheeled me outside, handed my wife the discharge instructions, and I was soon on my way home – alive, well and free of the thing that had been bugging me for over a year. 

“How’d it go?” my wife said as she guided the car onto the highway. 

“I freaked out a bit when they were putting me under,” I said. “But I’m fine.” 

“I’ve never been under anesthesia.” 

“I’ve done it lots of times,” I said. “This time was different. But how are you doing?” 

“I’m okay. I just did errands until they called me to pick you up.” 

“Good to keep busy.” 

Then my wife said something that saddened me.  “I was preparing myself for the worst.” 

“It was just same day surgery,” I said, putting her hand in mine. 

“I know but….” Annie’s been through a lot these past couple of years. Sometimes I forget that. 

“Well,” I said, “I hope you weren’t dusting off your Match.com profile while I was under.” 

“Stop.” 

“I think you’re too old for Match now,” I said. “If I shuffled off my mortal coil you’d probably have to go on Our Time.com. You know, one of those websites with silver haired vixens saying, ‘I’m sorry my husband’s gone but I still have to get laid.'”

“I’m glad I don’t have to do that.” 

“Me too.” 

After a drive thru lunch in a parking lot my wife took me home, deposited me into bed, and I fell asleep – only to be awakened by the exuberant noise of my daughter returning home from school.  

“QUIET” I heard my wife hiss, “Your father is sleeping.”

Lying in bed, I listened to my daughter as she tried to silently creep up the stairs. Then the door to my room creaked open and Natalie poked her head inside.

“Hello, dear,” I said. 

“Are you all right Daddy?” 

“I’m fine.”

“I’m going to have a sleepover at Aunt Tara’s tonight!”

My daughter has no idea I had surgery and this fun distraction was planned long ago. Despite all our efforts to protect her from my ordeals, Natalie’s had a rough time of it too. 

“Have a nice time. Be a good girl.” 

“Okay Daddy.” 

“Give me a kiss.” 

Feeling my daughter’s lips on my cheek, I began to tear up. The procedure I’d just undergone was to fix a complication from my cancer surgery. Nothing major, just removing a do-dad that had migrated to another part of my body causing infections. “A pain in the ass,” my doc told me. “But nothing serious.” Despite his reassurances, however, it was an unwelcome reminder of the hell I’d gone through before. 

“I love you sweetheart,” I said. 

“I love you too,” Natalie said. 

“Run along now. Have a good time.” 

Alone again, I thought about the clock in the OR and how that could’ve been the last thing I saw. Then again, if I had died, the last my wife would have seen of me was sitting in a waiting room with a mask obscuring my face. That couldn’t have been easy either. Shaking my head, I figured I was being morose but then it dawned on me – maybe I have been looking at this all wrong. 

After watching that woman die all those years ago, I became somewhat preoccupied with whose face I would see last. Getting cancer only aggravated the situation. But then I membered that God, at least as he’s classically defined, is infinite, eternal and beyond time. He is everywhere at every moment – the very thing in which we live and move and have our being. For Him, all our lives – from birth to death – occur in an eternal now. So, it’s not a stretch to imagine that, once we’ve shuffled off that aforementioned coil and enter into an existence where the clock ticks forever, we’ll have a new sense of time. Measured against the vastness of glorious futurity, we will then understand, in a strange but wonderful way, that everyone who ever lived was born and died at the exact same time. That means there will be no waiting for your friends and family to join you in the Empyrean because they will already be there, snug in eternity’s warm embrace. So, in the end, don’t waste time wondering whose face you’ll see last – just whose you’ll see first. And, if you’re like me, I suspect you already know.

And that wouldn’t be so bad.

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The Grace of Bad Luck

“My blood pressure’s going to be high,” I told the med tech.

“Let me guess,” she said. “You have white coat syndrome.” 

“Yeah,” I said. “That’s it.” The reading came out 140/72. Not as bad as I thought. When I took it at home that morning it was 120/70. I guess those deep breathing exercises worked.

“Your O2 is 99%. Pulse seventy five.” The tech said. “All good. Now get on the table.” 

I was at my cardio doc to get EKG for a minor surgical procedure next week but, as soon as I felt the Lysol accented wax paper on the table touch my skin, my vitals ratcheted up a notch. 

“This is my first time doing this by myself,” the tech said. “But I’ll have the nurse go over it to make sure I did it right.” 

“New on the job?” I asked. 

“It’s my first month.” 

“What did you do before this?” 

The tech smiled, “I used to work at McDonalds.” 

“I worked at a Burger King back in 1984,” I said. “It was brutal. Didn’t make it a month.” That was probably because my boss used to call me “Burger Boy” and always told me to get my “cute buns over here.” Now, looking back on it, I could have filed at sexual harassment claim – but such litigation was in its infancy back then.

“You’re not going to believe this,” the tech said as she put the electrodes on my chest, “But I worked there since I was fourteen.” 

“Why so young?” 

“I liked making my own money.” 

“Which McDonalds?” She told me. 

“I take my daughter there sometimes,” I said. “She likes the playground.” 

“It was a nice place. The manager was very kind. It was like my family.” For the first time, I noticed the tech was trim, shapely, and the mask she wore highlighted a lovely pair of brown eyes. Glowing with youthful vigor, I figured she was in her early twenties. 

‘You were there a long time,” I said. 

“Yes, I was.” 

“Well good luck on the new job.” 

“Thanks. Now lie still. This will just take a minute.” 

As I listened to the machine drone, I reminded myself that I’d always passed these tests with flying colors. But what if today is different? That’s when I felt a tickle of dread. 

“All done,” the tech said. 

“So, I said, trying to defuse the tension I was feeling, “Do you know what the irony of your life is?” 

“What?” 

“You worked at McDonalds and now you work for a cardiologist.” 

“You know?” she said, “I never thought of it that way.” 

“Happy to lend you some perspective.” 

“I’ll give the strip to the nurse and then you can go. It’ll just be a minute. Stay here.” 

As is common in a busy medical practice, that “minute” turned into half an hour. As I waited, I found myself getting more anxious with each tick of the clock.  Performing the breathing technique my therapist taught me to calm myself, I inhaled deeply, held my breath for a spell and then exhaled through my mouth slowly. This time it didn’t work – but at least I knew what was troubling me. 

In March of 2021, I was sitting on another wax papered table in another antiseptic smelling room waiting for another doctor. Fearful and nervous, the minutes passed like hours and, despite my efforts to keep up calm, I was almost climbing out of my skin. Then the door swung open, and the doctor asked me to follow him to his office. “Oh shit,” I thought to myself. “The only time you see patients speaking with a doctor in his office is in a pharmaceutical commercial. This is going to be bad.” Then, as soon as I had settled into a comfy leather chair, the doctor lowered the boom. Cancer. Surgery. Survival rates. Do it soon. That’s when my soul left my body. 

Watching myself from the ceiling, the part of my brain that was still working told me I was having a dissociative episode, a defense mechanism the mind employs when faced with severe trauma. Noticing I had mentally checked out, the doctor asked for my wife’s number, got her on speakerphone, and repeated everything he told me. As I listened to them talk, I noticed their voices sounded like they were underwater and very far away. Because of COVID regulations, I’d come alone so, when we were finished, I had to drive myself home. That I didn’t get into an accident was a miracle. 

Then came batteries of tests to see if the cancer had spread and going to get the second opinion. More wax papered tables, Lysol and waiting for that door to open. The bone scan, which lasted an hour, was one of the most frightening experiences of my life. Then, as I weighed my treatment options, I bifurcated into two separate personalities – a middle aged man scared out of his wits on one hand and a ruthlessly pragmatic father of a seven year old girl on the other. Opting for the most aggressive treatment, surgery, was rationally a very easy choice. I had a wife and seven year old daughter who needed me very much alive. But all the emotional stuff that followed was quite a struggle. Somehow, with the support of my wife, family and friends, I navigated the storms – far from perfectly I might add – and had the surgery. Then, after the pain and months spent recuperating at home, I waited to see if the hell I’d been through was worth it. It was. The pathology reports came back clean and, after a year and a half, I’m still cancer free. I was very, very, lucky. So why don’t I feel that way?  

Five months after my cancer surgery, I had to go in for a colonoscopy. My first probe at fifty revealed a nine millimeter polyp that was excised and biopsied. It was negative, thank goodness, but I was told I’d have to come back in three years for a follow up. So, when I got to the gastroenterology center that November morning, I was a nervous wreck – convinced that I would be on the receiving end of more bad news. “Just because you got lucky once,” my fevered brain told me, “Doesn’t mean you’ll get lucky again.” Let’s just say when they took my blood pressure, it was a bit high. The doctor, however, knowing what I’d been through, was very kind. When I woke up from my delicious propofol nap, I found him holding my hand. “You’re clean as a whistle,” he said. “One less thing you have to worry about.” I think I may have cried. 

I never used to have a problem going to the doctor, but now it’s like running through a gauntlet of fear. When I went for my last annual physical, the wax paper, Lysol and waiting in the exam room triggered a small panic attack. The doctor, noticing my elevated vitals, asked what was wrong. “Doc,” I said. “No offense – but I hate all you people.” 

“I understand,” she said. “You went through a severe trauma.” Then she took my BP again to make sure it had settled down, reviewed my blood work, told me to lose a few more pounds and then sent me home with a clean bill of health. All my fears had been for naught and, as I drove back to work, I remembered what another doctor once told me, “It is better to be lucky than good.” If that’s true, Fortune has indeed smiled upon me. But why don’t I feel lucky? Am I incapable of gratitude? Selfish or immature? There are some people who think surviving such a health scare should make you a more patient, kind, and spiritually evolved person. But here I am, still the same guy, filled with all the foibles and sins I possessed before rouge cells in my body tried to kill me. 

I am now, however, very aware of life’s fragile brevity which has made me more impatient with peoples’ bullshit. Just a few weeks ago, I lambasted a health care worker who screwed up caring for one of my most vulnerable clients – swatting down his rote excuses and polite evasions until I forced him to say the words I wanted to hear – “I’m sorry. We made a mistake.”  Then I hung up, leaving him to stew in his anxiety. Unkind? Sure – but if there was some kind of cancer canonization ceremony, I guess I wasn’t invited. Then again, maybe I’m just full of sour grapes, upset that cancer shattered whatever illusions of invulnerability I had left.  Last month, when I talked with a relative who hadn’t known about my ordeal, he said, “You must have been so angry.” 

“I’m still angry,” I said.  

But I know anger helped me get through my cancer, giving me the energy to fight. People say having a kumbayaish attitude is essential when combating an existential threat, but saints die of cancer everyday while cosmically selfish assholes survive. Maybe I’m one of those assholes but being all beatific doesn’t improve your odds of survival one way or the other.  It’s all a matter of luck. Random and scary but true. Besides, I didn’t have the energy to work on my sanctity. When you’re dealing with cancer, meeting people’s expectations of spiritual enlightenment is too much pressure. 

Back sitting on that EKG table, I remembered that my outsized reactions were aftershocks from my medical odyssey. Maybe that will stay with me all my life. Who knows? But then a quote from Cormac McCarthy floated into my brain, ““You never know what worse luck your bad luck has saved you from.” Rationally, I know my experience was probably the best thing that ever happened to me. If they didn’t find the cancer early and excise it when they did, my chances of making it out of my fifties would’ve been slim.  And my anger? I guess I’m still busy raging against the “dying of the light.” I still feel guilty though, thinking that my trial should’ve made me a calmer, better person. But I know I’m still can’t wrap my head around what I went through, lacking the perspective to understand what grace, if any, my bad luck wrought upon me.  

Driving back home, I wondered if I’d ever know. 

The post The Grace of Bad Luck appeared first on Waiter Rant.

A Seat At The Table

Years ago, when my wife to be and I were Christmas shopping in a ritzy mall replete with Tiffany, Hermes, Rolex and high couture retailers, we decided to get coffee in the VIP lounge to which Annie’s uber elite travelers credit card gave us entrée. When we got inside, however, every seat was occupied. That didn’t bother me – until I spied a middle aged woman sitting alone in a seating area complete with four sumptuous leather couches. Ten or fifteen people could have been sitting there, but the woman had “reserved” all the spots by draping fur coats and expensive leather jackets on all of them. 

I knew what was up. Her family and friends were shopping in the mall, leaving her to guard, or rather hoard, their precious real estate. What made it even more galling was the woman pretended to be enraptured by NFL game playing on a big screen TV. Judging by her loud comments on the gridiron action, it was obvious she knew as much about football as I knew about particle physics. Standing with my coffee, I watched her closely, thinking her inept cheerleading was a ploy to cover up her nervousness at hogging all these spots while dozens of patrons were standing around. Then the woman caught my eye and an avaricious smile played on her heavily made up face. “This is all mine” it seemed to say. “And you can’t have it.”

As my blood began to boil, I thought that if this woman was greedy with such a small thing, then she was probably greedy in all things. And, judging by her pantomime, she knew what she was doing was selfish but didn’t really care. Yes, yes, I’m probably being a tad judgmental, – perhaps frustrated that I couldn’t cool my heels on those sumptuous couches – but her smile reminded me of Jesus’s warning about wealthy folks trying to thread that camel though the eye of the needle. But for whatever reason – proletariat resentment perhaps – I never forgot that woman. 

Fast forward a to 2013 when my wife and I were at the Del Coronado Hotel in San Diego and I suggested grabbing a cocktail on the outdoor patio facing the ocean. I’d been there on a moonlight night four years earlier and had a lovely time swilling martinis by the fire pit with some very nice people. The only thing missing was a special someone in my life. So, when Annie and I got to The Del on our honeymoon, it was a box I had to check. Despite the bar being very crowded, the hostess said she had a table free. A happy surprise. 

But as the hostess grabbed our menus, I heard a sharp intake of air from the well-dressed and maintained woman standing next to us. “But that’s our table!” she hissed, pulling on her tanned husband’s expensive blazer. “THAT’S OUR TABLE!” I figured the pair was waiting for another couple to join them and, since their full party hadn’t arrived, they had to wait for the next available table. They would have a long wait since happy hour was just getting into full swing. 

Much to my delight, the hostess sat us at one of the best tables in the house. After ordering drinks (Non-alcoholic for my two month pregnant bride) and some small plates to nosh on, Annie and I settled in for a very nice time. But as I sipped my martini, I felt that tickling sensation you get on the back of your neck when someone’s staring at you. Looking over at the hostess stand, I could see the aggrieved woman peering at me angrily while her husband harangued the girl who’d given “their table” away – tapping his watch for emphasis.  An equally bespoke couple was now standing next to them, sending waves of ocular hostility my way.  We had beat them to our coveted piece of real estate by a scant minute.  

An hour later, after our drinks were finished and the plates cleared away, the waitress looked at us nervously and asked us if we wanted anything more. Looking back at the quartet, I could see they were still waiting for a table and primed with purses and wraps in hand to jump into our seats before they had a chance to cool. Being a former waiter, I knew we were taking up a four spot and that foursome was probably going to spend more money than us, hence a bigger tip. Or maybe not. It’s been my experience that such people are parsimonious as far as gratuities are concerned. But I also knew management probably wanted to get these cranky people seated and out of their hair. 

“Actually,” I said. “I’d like another martini. And the dessert menu please.”  

The waitress smiled wanly, walked to the front and whispered something into the hostess’ ear. I must admit, when she related the news to the anxious foursome, the looks on their faces was priceless. By this time, however, Annie knew something was up and I told her what was happening. Being a nice person, she got flustered and wondered if we should leave. “Fuck ‘em.” I said. “We’re on our honeymoon. We’ll stay until the sun sets.” 

As we imbibed our second round and had something sweet, the looks we got from the aggrieved couples became persistent, palpable and toxic. If I weren’t so tough, I might’ve been intimidated. That’s when I remembered the greedy woman at the mall. Turning my head, I lanced one of the waiting women with my thousand yard stare and smiled. “This is mine,” it said. “And you can’t have it.”  I seldom get to enjoy such niceties and figured I’d earned a chance to snag a nice seat at the table. That foursome probably thought it was theirs by divine right. Discomfiting them didn’t bother me in the slightest.   

After another forty-five minutes, however, I noticed the sun was in no rush to set and decided enough was enough. Motioning for the check, I laughed when it was delivered into my hands at warp speed. Looking over at the quartet, I could see their faces pulled taut with strain, like they were horses chomping desperately at the bit. Shaking my head, I settled the bill and left a tip so large, I still won’t tell my wife about it. Then, after a brief bit of canoodling, we got up to leave – and the bus people pounced.  As the foursome raced past us to claim their seats, I caught the first woman’s eye. “Have a nice evening,” I said. The look I got in response was carcinogenic.

Was I as awful as the woman in the mall? I’ll leave that for you to decide. But as a former server who waited on entitled and nasty patrons for years, the experience was cathartic – exorcising that couch hoarding faux football cheerleader from my soul. Everyone deserves a seat at the table from time to time. Everyone. And if that occasionally pops someone’s bliss bubble? The notion that life should be a blissful and carefree journey from one pleasure to the next? Oh well. 

Fuck ‘em.  

The post A Seat At The Table appeared first on Waiter Rant.

How I Think The Apocalypse is Gonna Roll

Gabriel’s trumpet sounded, the end of the world came to pass, and the righteous were queued up outside Heaven’s Gate, clamoring to enter Paradise.

“I can’t wait to get in,” one of them said. “I’ve worked so hard to get here.” 

“I heard they serve a mean margarita at the Elysium Café,” said another. 

“There’ll be chocolate fountains, unicorns, and we’ll all have many mansions on silver clouds!” another member of the elect crowed.  “Hey, I see him!” 

“God?” 

“No, Elvis!” And sure enough, there was The King, wearing sunglasses and a white rhinestone jumpsuit, rapping with St. Peter.  But as the righteous waited while St. Pete checked his ledgers, a murmur started working its way through expectant crowd. 

“Hey, did you hear?”

“No what?” 

“The rumor that’s going around?” 

“What rumor?” 

“That He’s going to let everyone in.” 

“Everyone?” 

“Everyone.”

“Are you fucking serious?’ 

“That’s the word on the street.”  

“It’s fake news! He can’t let everybody in! That’s not how it’s supposed to work.” 

“I’m only telling you what I heard.” Predictably, consternation ensued.  

“You mean He’s gonna let adulterers in?” 

“That’s what I’m hearing.” 

“Muslims, Buddhists, Jews, gays, fornicators, queers, abortionists, prostitutes, criminals, atheists, zealots, and trannies?” 

“Everyone.” 

“Democrats too?” 

“Yep.” Eventually the rumor filtered through the entire crowd – and the elect started getting pissed. 

“This had better not be true! I followed the rules! I lived by the Book!” 

“I went to church every Sunday and tithed ‘til it hurt!” 

“I passed up on banging my smoking hot secretary for nothing?” 

“I picketed outside abortion clinics! Why’d I even bother?” 

“I gave up marriage and kids for this?”  A priest of course. The indelible mark gave him away. 

“I travelled the world trying to convert heathens for Jesus!”

“I fought for family values! 

“I tried stacking the government with good Christians!”

“I wasn’t allowed to dance! WTF?” 

“I was faithful and obedient to my husband, and he was a right asshole! Are you saying I could’ve taken off with my personal trainer? 

“I preached against the evils of homosexuality when I could have taken off with my personal trainer too?” 

“I never smoked, drank alcohol, coffee or got vaccinations! I treated my body life a temple of the Lord!” 

“I was faithful to the Magisterium!” 

As the assembled bitchery whined on and on, the elects’ anger sooned reached critical mass and they began cursing the Almighty. 

“If everyone can get in, then it was all worthless!”

“This is bullshit!” 

“Just who does He think He is?” 

“Not my God!”

“Goddamn Him! 

When the bitter crying and gnashing of teeth finally reached its crescendo, the pit of Hell opened wide and all the righteous jumped willingly into the Inferno. “Fuck this shit!” they cried. “I don’t want to share Heaven with those people. Not even if Elvis is there!”  Then, after the last one leapt into perdition’s flame, the chasm of Hades snapped shut. 

And Heaven’s Gate opened wide. 

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened,” God voice boomed, “And I will give you rest!  Come to me all who are lost! You have been found!  Claim your inheritance that I’ve prepared for you since the beginning of the world – where there is no more suffering, death and every tear will be wiped away! Behold, I make all things new!” That’s when those people – those the righetous rejected – started walking through the Gate. And Elvis was there to greet them. 

“King!” the multitudes cried, “Why are we getting into Heaven when all the righteous are not? We don’t deserve this!” 

“Hey, I’m not a theologian folks,” Elvis said. “I’m just an entertainer.”  

“C’mon, you must have some idea.” 

“From what I can tell,” Elvis said, “The Big Guy doesn’t care about who deserves what. He just wants everyone to be happy.” 

“But we were told Hell was for people like us!” 

The King shook his head sadly. “Heaven’s not a gameshow with prizes for people with the right answers. It’s not a reward.” 

“But they that’s not the way the world works!” 

“No, it isn’t.” Elvis said. “But the way I got it figured, God doesn’t much care how the world works.”

And with that, the broken and forgotten, the suffering and the lost – the ones who never got a chance – walked into God’s Kingdom. And the people who thought they had God all figured out? The ones who wished salvation for themselves but not others? Well, they didn’t get shake Elvis’s hand. At least not yet. 

Several trillion years later the damned in Hell, having vented their rage for eons, finally fell exhaustedly silent. “Do you hear that?” one of them said. 

“I don’t hear anything.” 

“No listen, I swear that’s Elvis singing.” 

Sure enough, the sound of The King’s singing could be heard wafting across the cooling embers of Hades – and it was the first touch of sweetness its’ prisoners had felt in millennia. 

“Sounds like they’re having fun up there,” one of them said.

“Think we can climb up?” said another.  

“We can try.” Then, one by one, the damned took that first step. It took a long, long time, but eventually every soul worked his or her way out of the Pit and got to shake Elvis’s hand. 

“It wasn’t fake news,” the damned said, their eyes finally adjusting to the light. 

“No,” Elvis said. “It was always good news.” 

Then and only then, when Hell was empty and Heaven was full, was the work of salvation complete; causing all creation to joyfully sing God’s praises. And as the Seraphim and Cherubim rocked out with the King, the Almighty smiled, happy all his children were home. 

“Thank you,” He murmured. “Thank you very much.” 

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