The Spoken Word

The other day I was doing my post-holiday returns and exchanges when I stopped off at Rubio’s to rest my feet and grab lunch. Before I even had the chance to take my first bite a flock of seagulls (aka Parley's Country Club housewives) made their perch at the table next to me. The squawking was relentless as they caught up on all the neighborhood gossip. I tried to block them out but started to recognize specific names as I reached the mid-point of my Chicken Burrito Especiale. My stomach no longer craved the Baja cuisine in my hands; I wanted to throw up as private details dripped from the beaks of these vicious ladies.

After a mental check that these names were more than coincidence or happenstance I tried to block them out like I do at church services. It does not matter the denomination, there are always the gaggle of ladies that try to make themselves feel better by trashing those around them. I know this from experience as a victim and a spectator. I gleaned who was on the verge of divorce, who had a gay son sent home from a mission, the Christmas ruined by a father’s gambling habits, their ironic wagers on when a cocaine addicted father would relapse, and on and on. By the time I forced the last bite in my mouth I wasn’t sure if I was going to cry or scream. I decided to let it go but changed my mind by the time I dropped my tray at the trash and refilled my Dr. Pepper.

With purpose in my step I approached the table of public nuisances. With a big smile on my face and camouflaged as if I could have been any of their sons I injected myself into their dialog.

“Pardon me?”

With initial annoyance they stopped and looked at me. It was like when a flock of birds are fighting over a bag of chips and someone approaches, it was a wide-eyed nervous pause. Mistaking me as a possible neighborhood resident, maybe a child of some unnamed family acquaintance, or even a member of the country club they all politely smiled and I even received a “aren’t you the son of…”

I interrupted. “Sisters, Jesus prompted me to come over here and tell you to stop talking Shit and love thy neighbor.”

Shock overtook the table while those at the surrounding tables took notice at the new found silence from our corner of the restaurant.

I kept smiling, raised my eyebrows with the tilt of my head, turned and walked towards the door. I left a wake of awkward silence trailing behind me. A silence that typically accompanies the instance of a parent spanking a child too forcefully in public. An awkward disdain from strangers has a knowledgeable sting that can slap reality into ones life. Awkward indeed, but not for me.

I headed to Barnes & Noble and contemplated if my actions were too harsh. No, they weren’t. These ladies needed a wake up call and I needed to be their table conversation at dinner that night. They would wonder in fear who I was and what I might repeat. I very well could have been that quiet gentleman that sits in the back of Sunday School and spectates. I could be that man indeed because I am.

Later…

While at the bookstore, with a copy of Entertainment Weekly in my hands, the short dark-haired lady had found me and found the strength to start a conversation.

I saw her out of the corner of my eye as she debated approaching me like a teenager does when they want to ask for car keys (after having wrecked a car the night before).

“How dare you?!” is all I heard. She was convinced that she could create a socially insufferable situation for me like the one she experienced 15 minutes earlier. With a look that I have perfected as a camp counselor dealing with difficult teens I lowered my brow and distinctly asked her, “you have no idea who I am, do you?”

She wavered with the possibility that I could cause her societal bruising.

She continued, “How dare you speak to me and my friends with such foul language!”

My response was succinct and in a hushed tone that made her upper lip curl.

“How dare YOU take advantage of another's situation and turn it into lunch hour gossip. You are ugly on the inside – loud, mean, and ugly. That’s not up for debate”

I placed the magazine back on the stand and her enraged reply went mute in my ears as I again turned and walked to the door.

Maybe those ladies will think twice about their group conversation the next time they are in public. Chances are they won’t. Creatures of habit rarely change their tune.

If anything they will start looking around more often at church for someone that looks a little like me. Too bad they won’t ever find me.