Seattle, Washington
Written Wednesday, April 30, 2008

SPITTING WITH BREAKFAST

Setting: A neighborhood café on a Sunday morning around ten o’clock.
Outside: Spring rain and wind and cold.
Inside: Bedlam - too many customers, too few waiters, and only one cook.
Players: A family of four. Waiting, waiting, waiting.
Mother and Father: Urban, middle-thirties, jeans-and-T-shirts-and-fleece.
Dog: Big brown Lab tied up outside, barking, barking, barking.

They are here because the father has decided to treat the family to a Sunday breakfast out. But nobody seems happy about it. The mother stares out the window. The father is absent-mindedly cleaning out his wallet. The daughter is grooming her hair. The little boy is wiggling, wiggling, wiggling.

The girl is in the 9-10 range, already pubescent, with mind focused on dangly earrings, lipstick, kitten heels, personal cell phone, perfume and a bra. She doesn’t have all of these things yet, but that’s where her mind is.

The little boy is in the 4-5 range, already in an energy-explosive state, like a bomb that’s primed, fused, and ready to blow. He should be taken to an open field and allowed to run in circles and scream. But he’s here. Wiggling. He should have been tied outside with the dog. Which is where his mind is.

Finally, the food arrives. The family eats in concentrated sullen silence.
The girl tidily finishes her eggs, and then starts being a Mommy, harassing the little boy to stop making a snowman out of his pancakes and bacon.

The little boy makes a face, sticks out his tongue, and spits on his sister.
She screams. As only pubescent sisters can at such moments.

Uncomfortable silence in the café. Everybody’s looking.

The father makes one of the cardinal parent mistakes: Making a threat you will not likely follow up on. “Stop it or I’ll kill you,” is an extreme example. But this father growls, “No spitting! If you do that again I’ll jerk you up and take you home and put you in your room!”
The girl sits smugly, knowing there will be a follow up move by somebody.
The mother looks out the window again, avoiding what’s coming.
The father - in an “I mean it” position - glares at the little boy.
The little boy grins.
His father has just handed him a golden ticket out of here. Spit. Go home.

He spits on his sister again. On cue, she screams again.

Now all eyes in the café are on the drama.

The father goes red in the face, and starts to get up.
The mother reaches out, catches his wrist, says, “John, John - look at me.”
He looks at her.
The mother makes a brilliant move.
The mother purses her lips and spits at him - a gesture without moisture.
And laughs.

John laughs and sits down.
The little boy hangs his head and giggles.
The sister does the complaint-whine, “Daddeeee . . .”
The father purses his lips in the spitting position aimed at the daughter.
And she laughs.
Bomb disarmed.
Time to go.
They leave. Laughing.
The knowing kind of laughter - when silliness is wisdom in disguise.

Alone at my table, I catch the eye of the mother at a family breakfast sitting across from me. She smiles. Laughs.
I return the laugh.
Her family knows why, and laughs.

Afterward, walking home in the rain, I realized a great opportunity was lost.

We should have given the spitters a standing ovation as they left.
Pancakes and bacon and spitting and laughter.
Great breakfast combo!