The scene: An Elm Street restaurant.
The players: Two co-workers and a novice waiter.
"What's the soup du jour?"
The waiter: "Lemme check on that." She returns a few minutes later.
"Sorry," she says. "The soup du jour was yesterday."
--- by Robert Bell
The guy walking down Friendly Avenue early Sunday morning wearing the red Santa hat and black hoodie proclaiming "Christmas sucks" was a contradiction in fashion that begged for an answer. So we asked.
"Spent the night at a friend's house and she gave me this for the walk home," he said.
He seemed pleasant enough and there was a hint of a smile on his face so we left without clarifying which article of clothing he borrowed.
--- by Robert Bell
Several years ago (the VCR era to be exact), the wife and I got cozy on the couch to watch The Blair Witch Project. Big mistake. The next day we flew up to Maine for a week in the woods. Just me and her and 12,763 acorns falling onto our cabin's tin roof each night.
Which brings me to my point: That wet fog that's blanketing downtown right now? That might be charming elsewhere -- San Fran perhaps. But not Greensboro. Not after we went to the movies last night and saw The Mist.
At Laser-X, the laser tag center on West Market Street, the teen-aged attendant dutifully went through the rules of engagement with a roomful of six-year-olds and their parents.
"Aim for the lights on your enemy's chest and shoulders," he said. "If you get shot, your gun won't work for a few seconds."
"Any questions?" he asked.
"Just one," said a parent, yelling over the din of kids hyped on birthday cake and eager for combat. "Before everyone starts shooting at each other, maybe we could try talking out our problems?"
He didn't last long.
She sat at a corner table in the Barnes & Noble Starbucks this morning, oblivious to the blur of shoppers. Before her were three boxes of freshly bought Christmas cards, two sheets of postage stamps, her address book, a large coffee and seemingly all the time in the world.
Who says the holidays have to be a rush?
Big Four flags decorating front porches on Saturdays in the fall...Those occasional 68-degree days in January...Greensboro's modest skyline that suddenly fills your windshield driving up Martin Luther King Drive...She-crab soup at Ganache...Hagan-Stone Park in the winter...the Bog Garden in the spring...Center City Park fountains in the summer...Guilford College in the fall...N.C. A&T's marching band (you can keep the football team)...Stamey's sweet tea (you can keep the BBQ)...Sunset Hills aglow with giant Christmas ornaments...seven-minute commutes...Christmas at Burlington City Park...The Powerhouse of Deliverance Garden Cathedral Choir -- all 75 of them...Grimsley vs. Page...Billy vs. Skip...The 17th floor of the Wachovia Tower (unless you know of a better way to gaze down on all those church steeples poking through Greensboro's towering trees)...Black cherry ice cream -- but only if it's from Homeland Creamery in Julian...the guy who sells his art on Saturdays outside Alex's Cheescakes...Alex's cheescakes...Fireworks at FirstHorizon (or whatever they're calling it these days)...Kirkwood's Fourth of July parade...Wake Forest's quad hours after a big win...Friday nights at the Eden Drive-In...Saturday mornings at the downtown Farmer's Market...Sunday brunch at Revival Grill...Monday Night Football at Fisher's Grille...Tuesdays with Morrie...the 90-second walk from your parked car to PTI's front doors...Lobster Ravioli at Positano...The cage elevator at the Biltmore Hotel...Orson Scott Card's deliciously pretentious Rhino Times column...Any black-and-white movie at the Carolina Theater...The clock atop the Jefferson, er, Lincoln Financial Group building...My wife's meatloaf (sure she can make it anywhere, but she makes it here)...Lake Brandt (pre dought)...It ain't Charlotte.
They looked so cute at Cafe Carolina & Bakery in their matching Grimsley sweatshirts. He pushed aside the history and algebra textbooks and reached across the table to hold her hands. She never took her eyes off him, laughing at everything he said.
Then came the food and the awkward, messy lesson for both: Never EVER order French Onion soup on a first date.
The woman in the combat boots and soiled sweater walked down Elm Street on Monday dutifully checking each trash can until the display window at Schiffman's caught her eye. She stood there for several minutes, looking at all the sparkling wonders inside.
And I thought to myself:
Is she reminiscing of good times gone by or dreaming of better ones ahead?
Look at them sitting there sipping their $4 coffees, tickling their laptops for the next answer. Is this anyway for high school kids to do their homework? Relaxing on an overstuffed couch at Caribou Coffee?
Where's the rock-hard chair and table? Where are the shelves crammed with books that smell like your grandmother's den? Where's Old Lady Walkowiak shushing you every 10 minutes?
I bet they wouldn't know a Dewey Decimal System if it bit them on the ... Wait a minute! Is that what I think it is? A...a scone?
MS. WALKOWIAK!
The Scene: A jam-packed post office at Friendly Center earlier this week.
The Players: Postal employee Ralph Collins and a self-absorbed shopper (that would be me).
Collins: Good morning, sir, how's it going?
Me: Pretty good, thanks, how about you?
Collins: I'm fine as well, sir, but really I was talking about your package. How's it going? Next day? First class?
The little girl was fondling the all the sexy (read: short) sequined holiday skirts at Dillards last night until she could contain herself no more.
"I wish I could have all of these for Christmas," she told her father.
"Honey, I'm afraid you're several Christmases away from getting a dress like that," he replied.
He looked at my daughter and I and rolled his eyes. I offered a sympathetic smile.
We ran into them a few minutes later in the men's department -- just as my 5-year-old girl held up a holiday-themed necktie.
"Daddy," she shouted with excitement. "You need to get this! It has snowmen just like your underwear!"
This time it was the other dad who was smiling. Only his wasn't so sympathetic.
On Green Street, the hand-written sign taped to a parking meter Tuesday afternoon needed no elaboration: "Meter maid is heartless."
On Market Street, the same could be said Wednesday for the plea scribbled on the back of a business card and pinned under a car's windshield wiper: "Don't have change! Back in 5 minutes! Promise!"
Here's hoping the heartless meter maid has Wednesdays off.
The grocery bags, one brown and one white, remained stubbornly snagged high up in the tree in Cascade Park since Halloween. I know this because they are my bags -- at least until a lusty wind from Mother Nature confiscated them.
Through rain, sleet, snow, and wind they clung to the same branch, shreds of their former selves, faded in color but hanging tight.
I passed them every day on the way to work and I wondered: What will happen when the tree begins to bloom? Will the budding leaves push the bags on their way? Who will win, man or nature?
And then this morning they were gone.
Now I wonder: Can spring be far behind?
I am home today with Riley, my 6-year-old son. He has a fever of 103. Like most 6-year-olds, he's less than enthusiastic about taking medicine so I sat on the edge of his bed and gently explained his choices:
"Do you want a suppository or grape-flavored tablets?" I asked.
"What flavor is the suppository?" he replied.
When she is nervous or scared, my four-year-old daughter Kate often turns to her six-year-old brother for reassurance. More times than not Riley is kind and patient in dispensing his brand of comfort. Other times ... well, take today's trip to the Greensboro Coliseum for the circus.
Kate: Riley, what if the Tigers try to eat us?
Riley: Don't be silly, Kate! These tigers are professionals!
He held the cellphone with one hand while steering with the other.
And with each passing minute the 20-something seemed to grow increasingly annoyed with mom on the other end.
"Yes, mom, I know. You told me this morning. Remember?"
"I'm going to finish it when I get home, mom. I have to go now."
"I will. Mom, PLEASE. I have to go."
This went on for a few minutes before he finally got rid of her.
"Mom, you know how you tell me not to drive and talk on the phone? Well, I need to switch lanes so I'll call you later."
He closed his phone and did as promised, steering his cart toward the shorter check-out lane at the Harris Teeter.