Note from Kyle: This is the first half of the last chapter of my second failed attempt to write a novel. Make of that (and this) what you will.
The palpable frustration drove me inside, away from the seamlessly grey sky and sharp wind. The Inaugural Parade was already two hours late, and a rumor was swirling around the local news feeds that it would be yet another hour before the President's motorcade left; and we were another twenty minutes down the route, on top of that. No matter; I was warm now, and more importantly, away from the tension outside, which had grown too great for me to handle in my fragile state.
The place was a 15 table restaurant, a lot like Guiseppe's: Five six tops; six four tops; and four two tops. (We had an extra set of two tops, bringing our total to 17.) With the delayed parade, business was quite brisk.
They were handling it flawlessly. They were the perfect waitstaff. Thirty seconds from plating to service, and there wasn't a single empty water glass to be found. The life was just as electric as outside, but here, instead of a chaotic buzz was all whirling together in a beautiful dance. No frustration; just shit getting done; another fantastic example of the free market at its best. There was a modest wait time at the door, but that resembled more of a reverse-quarantine period, a chance to catch the infectious harmony moving the establishment in choir. And to get away from outside, it was a perfectly reasonable amount of time to wait.
After twenty minutes or so, a lady my age, 25 or so, with a black band tattooed on her forearm called my name. I was caught off guard when she showed no hesitation to give me a two top all to myself. When I was being seated I made a comfortable smile at her. She smiled back genuinely. If I were her, my thoughts would have been preoccupied, wondering 'who goes to a parade alone?'
I felt real, sitting at the paper covered table facing the storefront of the little family-owned diner on Pennsylvania. I was so thirsty that I emptied my water glass before the menu even arrived. But when it did, it was a solid minute before I even picked it up, I was too rapt in awe of the true human agency that surrounded me.
The thing was a one page photocopy and it was comprised everything they could reasonably stock up on -- knowing they couldn't really get extra ingredients past the security checkpoints mid-way through the day.
I met my waiter: his name was Charlie.
I had gotten caught up in the movement, and for a moment I had forgotten about the Charlie I hallucinated. He was the start of all of this Parade nonsense. The plain and simple truth of it was that I couldn't kill the president if I didn't have a gun. And there was no way I could acquire a gun if I were inside the security perimeter. I had finally convinced myself that the bald, mocha-faced man with the pencil mustache was no more real than a dream.
Truthfully, to avoid the parade would have been to run from his challenge, and in so doing, show I was still subject to his oppressions and desires. That was a thing I most definitely was not. He was not real.
I had already made a selection, so the waiter took my drink order and my main order at the same time. I wanted coffee and a "hell in a ham biscuit". It was a bit late for brunch, but things like that didn't bother me much. He apologized about the wait.
"It wasn't a problem at all." I told him.
"Well, just as our way of saying thanks for putting up with it, we're giving everyone a free dessert today."
I grinned. Genuinely grinned. I said: "Thank you," Chuckled a bit, nodded, and continued. "If the rest of the meal is as good as the first ten minutes, I'll be back here more." I nodded again. It really was the perfect restaurant.
Charlie left me.
The last six months had been awful. To finally be free of the burden of tangled dancing of Rockerfeller and the rest of the robber barons, of Charlie, of his horrible ideas, and most of all his horrible predictions. I was sick of his shit.
I had been expecting the parade to be a pretty calm and well organized event. More like the restaurant.
The room was brilliantly lit by the kind of vivid, spirited light that only shines in winter. Reflecting off the Easter-yellow and white striped walls, it made everything look fresh and crisp, while the agreeable thermostat gave the room a deescalating warmth.
The restaurant was a staunch departure from my apartment. The latter had been cluttered and grubby as the result of months of indifferent upkeep, although, I had managed to vacuum for the first time in months the day before the parade.
I had so much more time on my hands now that I had stopped spending my days chasing an imaginary man through the city. I quit Guiseppe's to do it, living off some money I had saved up.
The other people in the restaurant seemed to be as content as I was. They spoke in voices punctuated with life, all of which were vibrant and distinct. They sat in for my guest and made idle chitchat to me. It was a conversation so simple, my only reply was a smile no one noticed. They continued. And from their swirling rhythm they produced Charlie, carrying a large bowl on a plate.
"There was a mixup in the kitchen," he said, setting the steaming dish in front of me. "They made an extra for an order. We're usually not this fast."
"It looks great. Thanks."
It was every bit as delicious as it appeared. Good Southern-comfort food was hard to find in the parts of the District I stuck to. Biscuits and eggs, topped with fried ham and a jalapeno gravy; it was a kick start when taken in conjunction with the cup of coffee, which I had almost finished off by that point.
I was only a dozen odd bites in when the first chirp went off. A woman looked a little embarrassed as she pulled her computer from her purse to check her messages.
As she was reading, another chirp came. Moments later, a third.
The resonating conversations became turned heads and raised eyebrows. Hushed whispers and more people taking out computers. I hadn't brought mine.
It was rare that so many people's news filters would push an audible information alert at the same time. It was probably something to do with the Parade, or someone famous died. Probably the Parade, though. The woman who chirped first spoke up.
"The White House has released a statement: The Parade will begin in 5 minutes. It should be here in 25."
The conversations sprung back, imbued with anticipation. The waitstaff responded in full force, offering any interested patron to-go boxes and apologizing as they told the customers they would have to box the food themselves.
A young woman offered me a box, a bag, and the bill. I accepted all three; I quickly handed back the padded black folder, with a twenty inside. It was enough to cover the bill plus tax and tip.
"Thanks," She said. "I'll give this to your waiter."
"Have a good day," I said. She left confidently and with a sense of hustle, on to the next table.
I picked up the shallow, oversized bowl and herded the food in it into the open box. As I did this I reassured myself that a light brunch is all I wanted in the first place. That had been my original intent when I entered. I closed the box. A light shake and I opened the bag, and I stood it mouth up on the table.
Of the 15 tables, I was the first towards the door, the only one with cash. Normally it would have put me at a disadvantage but the restaurant only had two card readers.
Shimmying back into my winter coat, I picked up the leftovers as I stood up, and put them in the bag. I was ready to see the parade. It was going to be a good day, I thought then smiled.
