On Sunday Morning

On Sunday Morning

On Sunday morning he got up and rode his trusty-


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.


3 thoughts on “On Sunday Morning

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