I once knew a fella named Big Fat. He was appropriately called by that moniker because, as you might guess, he was big and fat.
Big Fat had enjoyed quite a lot of success in his life. He had owned several restaurants in Georgia and prospered quite well in that undertaking. But after the passing of some years, as is often the case, things began to change and Big Fat’s fortunes finally began heading in the opposite direction of his ambitions. Simply stated—he went broke! When the smoke had cleared, the only things remaining were his odious debts and his wife and kids who were even less desirable. So, Big Fat did what many of us would like to do faced with such a situation—he packed his bags and ran. Boy, did he run—all the way to Costa Rica where he had heard the whiskey was cheap and the women were cheaper.
Now, a man still has to make a living doing something. With that in mind Big Fat opened another restaurant—or, at least, kind of a restaurant. It was located in some seedy section of San Jose, had four tables and almost as many seats and featured, shall we say, a limited menu. On a visit to San Jose, I stopped by his place for a quick “hello.” After imbibing a dozen drinks or so, I decided it was time to have a bite to eat. With this in mind, I asked Big Fat what was the bill of fare. He said nothing and just pointed to a chalk- board that hung un- noticeably above the bar. It read: “MENU, HAM & CHESSE SANDWICH.” “Well, if that’s all you have,” I said, “I guess I’ll have a ham and cheese sandwich.”
“Can’t,” Big Fat replied.
“ Why not?” I asked.
“ We’re out of ham.”
“Well, how ‘bout a plain-old cheese sandwich?”
Just as I asked the question, I could hear Big Fat blaring out his response:
“ We’re out of bread, too.”
So, I graciously settled for a piece a cheese and, of course, a couple dozen more drinks and finally got the courage to ask a simple question.
“Big Fat,” I began, in the best business-like voice cheap whiskey can provide, “How in Hell’s name do you expect to make a living in this cruddy place, in the middle of no place-ville Central America-- where no one speaks your language—and you don’t speak theirs-- how in the Hell do you expect to make it selling cheese one slice at a time?”
“Billy P,” he said, placing his hand on my shoulder in a fatherly-like way as if to give counsel, “It’s never too late to waste the rest of your life!”
And so it is. Perhaps, spending the time and effort pounding out these memories, I just might prove his point.
That’s The Catch…
Has anyone noticed that the ASPCA has gone into competition with the adoption agency for CATHOLIC CHARITIES? They each show these gut- wrenching photos, of dogs or children and you can adopt either one. For $18 bucks you get a dog. For $22 you get a kid. Either one comes with photos that promise to tear your heart out (those big, sad eyes). I can’t afford both so I took the dog. They are $4 cheaper- don’t eat as much, have shorter life expectancy, and, unlike kids, always feel bad after they pee on your carpet.
Billy P
Big Fat had enjoyed quite a lot of success in his life. He had owned several restaurants in Georgia and prospered quite well in that undertaking. But after the passing of some years, as is often the case, things began to change and Big Fat’s fortunes finally began heading in the opposite direction of his ambitions. Simply stated—he went broke! When the smoke had cleared, the only things remaining were his odious debts and his wife and kids who were even less desirable. So, Big Fat did what many of us would like to do faced with such a situation—he packed his bags and ran. Boy, did he run—all the way to Costa Rica where he had heard the whiskey was cheap and the women were cheaper.
Now, a man still has to make a living doing something. With that in mind Big Fat opened another restaurant—or, at least, kind of a restaurant. It was located in some seedy section of San Jose, had four tables and almost as many seats and featured, shall we say, a limited menu. On a visit to San Jose, I stopped by his place for a quick “hello.” After imbibing a dozen drinks or so, I decided it was time to have a bite to eat. With this in mind, I asked Big Fat what was the bill of fare. He said nothing and just pointed to a chalk- board that hung un- noticeably above the bar. It read: “MENU, HAM & CHESSE SANDWICH.” “Well, if that’s all you have,” I said, “I guess I’ll have a ham and cheese sandwich.”
“Can’t,” Big Fat replied.
“ Why not?” I asked.
“ We’re out of ham.”
“Well, how ‘bout a plain-old cheese sandwich?”
Just as I asked the question, I could hear Big Fat blaring out his response:
“ We’re out of bread, too.”
So, I graciously settled for a piece a cheese and, of course, a couple dozen more drinks and finally got the courage to ask a simple question.
“Big Fat,” I began, in the best business-like voice cheap whiskey can provide, “How in Hell’s name do you expect to make a living in this cruddy place, in the middle of no place-ville Central America-- where no one speaks your language—and you don’t speak theirs-- how in the Hell do you expect to make it selling cheese one slice at a time?”
“Billy P,” he said, placing his hand on my shoulder in a fatherly-like way as if to give counsel, “It’s never too late to waste the rest of your life!”
And so it is. Perhaps, spending the time and effort pounding out these memories, I just might prove his point.
That’s The Catch…
Has anyone noticed that the ASPCA has gone into competition with the adoption agency for CATHOLIC CHARITIES? They each show these gut- wrenching photos, of dogs or children and you can adopt either one. For $18 bucks you get a dog. For $22 you get a kid. Either one comes with photos that promise to tear your heart out (those big, sad eyes). I can’t afford both so I took the dog. They are $4 cheaper- don’t eat as much, have shorter life expectancy, and, unlike kids, always feel bad after they pee on your carpet.
Billy P
2 comments:
For a scene to be truly surreal, it has to go beyond the realm of what we call odd or strange. There has to be a feeling of displacement. Time must bend a bit. And there's got to be a bewildering wrench thrown in for good measure, something so incongruous that its absurdity somehow balances out the vague sense of menace in the air. Or at least 'baseball's been good to me'
I couldn't agree more...Pass the Sangria!!
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