Life on an Average August Evening

I’m sitting at a sidewalk table at sunset at Marcello’s Pizza and Subs, a neighborhood joint that for 26 years has been a tradition in Buckhead. The first Miller Lite draft went down quickly, so I ordered another. Marcello, the joint’s proprietor and The Emperor of Pizzas, sits with me, discussing the economic conditions of the planet. In between spurts of genius, we comment on the orange ball descending over the distant oak trees creating a magnificent sunset as music from The Godfather plays softly.

“Marcello,” I said, “things are moving too fast… life is like a roll of toilet tissue—the closer to the end it gets, the faster it goes.” He laughed and allowed, in his less-than-perfect Italian English, that the sunset didn’t seem to move too fast, every second had its own beauty, no wasted motion.

Amid the deserted parking lot of the shopping center there was motion. Bobby, a burly 30-something brute sits hidden in his black Chevy Blazer like a viperous reptile. He boots cars. The sign at the parking lot clearly warns, “No Parking, Cars Will Be Booted or Towed.” Non-believers in the written word continue to park their cars there, look around innocently and stroll to Hal’s next door to buy expensive food and drink. They have no idea how expensive their evening will soon become. Neil Diamond began to sing for me.

Many came back to find the yellow boot restricting their departure ~ costing 75 bucks to remove it. Bobby was making a killing from this cottage industry. Life was getting better by the minute for Bobby.

Next door at Freshens Yogurt Shop teenagers come and go, but not before standing at the ATM to extract some of daddy’s remaining funds. Often it took two or three of them pooling their money to get enough to buy that “low-fat” yogurt. Clearly some had not restricted their diet to just fat-free yogurt. But then they have the rest of their lives to diet.

As it got dark a yellow jeep cruised in, stopping within inches of my table. It seemed like a bully on the block, and I was about to say something until the driver got out. I always wait to see what they look like before confronting them about indiscretions. Tonight this paid dividends.

He was about 40, bald, tattooed, wearing an all-black tank top with a black karate belt around his waist, and body-fat content less than zero. It was clear that he didn’t go in for sissy food like yogurt. I always make friends with this type. Come to find out he’s the guru of Craig’s Xtreme Training Camp. His card has a red skull and crossbones motif ~ he looked the part.

“Dude, how extreme is your training camp?” I inquired. He was friendly and went on to tell me he made men out of boys, Terminators out of women. He had assembled a field of old truck tires, ropes, chains, sledge hammers and other assorted torture devices and used them for whipping city folk into shape. I didn’t inquire what shape they were when they graduated. I invited him to the island to deal with some of my flabby friends. He drooled at the image!

His last name wasn’t American. He was probably from the Czech Republic, Serbia or another of the extreme Eastern Europe bloc countries where torture is still condoned without constraint. I made a friend and plan to use him on the next contentious inquisition with the banker.

Marcello soon left me with Jacque, a Greek immigrant, and Maria, the waitress who keeps my table available and supplied with abundant sausage ziti and Miller. Lavish tips insure this treatment. The sunset had long since faded, replaced by the blue, red and yellow neon of beer signs. They continued to incite my thirst and I saw no reason to cease the support of such venerable American institutions.

The younger crowd began to arrive. Since age and youth have few mutual interests, I left, thinking, there’s nothing like a quiet, neighborhood August evening to reinvigorate the spirits. The Eagles were singing, “Take it Easy,” as I strolled out.

I promised myself I’d do just that!


Bud Hearn
August 13,2009