While sitting in a restaurant with my wife this past weekend, my mind began to wander. Way back. About 44 years ago. Back to another time when I was sitting in that very same restaurant. It’s undergone some renovation and has a new name, but still the same building.
I could see the place the way it used to be, and for a minute or two it was almost like I’d traveled back in time. I started to smile to myself as I remembered an incident. My wife asked what I was thinking and I related the story to her. She didn’t think it was all that funny, so I thought I’d give it a try here:
S, there I was, about seven or eight years old, sitting at a table with my brother. We’d been there for quite some time, about two hours or more, waiting on our parents to finish talking to whoever we were with. Sorry, I don’t remember just who else was there.
We were at our own table, and getting a little restless. So, we got the bright idea of using our straws to shoot pieces of the crushed ice from our drinks. At first we aimed at various insignificant things: the windows, pictures on the wall, or the exit sign. Then, one of us, not sure who, started launching our ice projectiles toward an elderly man sitting across the dining area. Soon, it was both of us, taking turns. Seeing who could hit our new “target.”
A few of our missiles landed close and the guy, a little confused, would look around wondering what was going on. Then, one of us — again, not sure which one — scored a direct hit. The old man was a bit startled as the ice splattered over his glasses. He took them off to clean them and gazed around the room, searching for the culprit. My brother and I feigned innocence of course, acting like we weren’t paying attention to the man and his “adventure.”
It should have been rather obvious who the guilty party was —we were the only kids in the entire restaurant — but for some reason the man never said a word. Not to us or our parents. Just resumed eating. Although, he did try to keep a watchful eye out for the rest of his meal.
Figuring we’d gotten away with enough for one night, we held our fire and moved on to other things. I couldn’t really tell you what, but probably things just as mischievous.
I know, not a very inspirational story. Hardly noble. But hey, we were kids. Kids having fun. We had a laugh and no one got hurt so all in all a decent outcome — sort of. I guess that depends on one’s perspective.
Then I had another thought; maybe there’s more to these straw bans than just the stupidity of legislators... ~
Bruce A. Borders is the author of more than a dozen books, including: Inside Room 913, Over My Dead Body, The Journey, Miscarriage Of Justice, The Lana Denae Mysteries, and The Wynn Garrett Series. Available in ebook at www.amazon.com/Bruce-A.-Borders/e/B006SOLWQS and paperback on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Books-a-Million.
I could see the place the way it used to be, and for a minute or two it was almost like I’d traveled back in time. I started to smile to myself as I remembered an incident. My wife asked what I was thinking and I related the story to her. She didn’t think it was all that funny, so I thought I’d give it a try here:
S, there I was, about seven or eight years old, sitting at a table with my brother. We’d been there for quite some time, about two hours or more, waiting on our parents to finish talking to whoever we were with. Sorry, I don’t remember just who else was there.
We were at our own table, and getting a little restless. So, we got the bright idea of using our straws to shoot pieces of the crushed ice from our drinks. At first we aimed at various insignificant things: the windows, pictures on the wall, or the exit sign. Then, one of us, not sure who, started launching our ice projectiles toward an elderly man sitting across the dining area. Soon, it was both of us, taking turns. Seeing who could hit our new “target.”
A few of our missiles landed close and the guy, a little confused, would look around wondering what was going on. Then, one of us — again, not sure which one — scored a direct hit. The old man was a bit startled as the ice splattered over his glasses. He took them off to clean them and gazed around the room, searching for the culprit. My brother and I feigned innocence of course, acting like we weren’t paying attention to the man and his “adventure.”
It should have been rather obvious who the guilty party was —we were the only kids in the entire restaurant — but for some reason the man never said a word. Not to us or our parents. Just resumed eating. Although, he did try to keep a watchful eye out for the rest of his meal.
Figuring we’d gotten away with enough for one night, we held our fire and moved on to other things. I couldn’t really tell you what, but probably things just as mischievous.
I know, not a very inspirational story. Hardly noble. But hey, we were kids. Kids having fun. We had a laugh and no one got hurt so all in all a decent outcome — sort of. I guess that depends on one’s perspective.
Then I had another thought; maybe there’s more to these straw bans than just the stupidity of legislators... ~
Bruce A. Borders is the author of more than a dozen books, including: Inside Room 913, Over My Dead Body, The Journey, Miscarriage Of Justice, The Lana Denae Mysteries, and The Wynn Garrett Series. Available in ebook at www.amazon.com/Bruce-A.-Borders/e/B006SOLWQS and paperback on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Books-a-Million.
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