On Sunday Morning
On Sunday morning he got up and rode his trusty-
but-not-at-all-rusty-thirty-seven-year-old-ten-speed
five-miles to the best-breakfast-restaurant-in-town.
He rode on the bike path next to the road that takes
vacationers to rental cottages and the beach. The
Beemers, Caddies, Mercedes and one Maserati
buzzed loudly as they passed like steel-aluminum-
plastic-four-wheeled-giant hornets and wasps. Some
WASPS turned left at the outdoor worship service
but many went on to the best-breakfast-restaurant-
in-town. When he arrived he carefully maneuvered
his bike among the cars jockeying for a parking
space, parked the bike, went in and ordered a cup
of gourmet-coconut-and-dark-chocolate-flavored-
coffee and a pig-in-the-blanket and then sat
outside at one of the tables to eat, drink and read
the latest issue of The Sun magazine, but as he sipped
and chewed he watched the Sunday morning
vacationers at the parking lot version of bump
cars at a carnival, only just barely missing
bumping as they eagerly, seemingly selfishly,
speedily sought out an open parking space.
Some double parked blocking three or four
cars from getting out if they needed to
in-order-to-run-in for a take-out-order from
the bakery next to the restaurant. Some stole
spots from others slipping in like laughing
hyenas while another waited for a car to pull
out of the space. The displaced driver gunned his
engine like the lion in the MGM logo
announcing his presence with a great roar.
After they parked, the pilgrims got out of
their cars and flip-flopped in no particular
hurry up to the door of the restaurant having
secured a spot in the lot. They moved non-
chalantly as if they had been entitled to
to be where they were. All that was missing
was a doorman. He noticed that the drivers of the
cars with the Illinois license plates were the
most aggressive in their pursuit of parking and
that came to him as no surprise. It just confirmed
previous experiences he had had winding his
way through the Windy City, especially the time
he observed the road rage directly in front of
him as he drove along the Dan Ryan in the
shadow of the tower-formerly-known-as-Sears
during rush hour which he knew to be just about any hour.
Brakes screeched, bottles flew and he prayed.
He went back to his pig and continued reading
the interview with a progressive rabbi on how
there could be world peace if only nations
practiced the hesed (loving kindness) of
Yahweh and took seriously the compassion
and love and justice of Jesus and stopped
acting like uber-nationalistic, hyper-capitalistic
creatures living out of their alligator brains.
He sat there sipping his coconut-dark-
chocolate-flavored-gourmet-coffee and simply
shook his head as a Lexus flew by barely
missing a Range Rover backing quickly
out of a space. The Rover, oblivious to the
near miss, roved all over the parking lot
on its way out onto the road that would
take the passengers back to the vacation
home, the beach, maybe an afternoon
round of golf and, of course, the
eagerly anticipated happy-hour later
with single-malt-scotch and single-barrel-
bourbon before dinner before
the trip back to the city to catch
a few winks before putting on
the three-piece suit.
.