Here’s a prose poem for you where we find an understandably outraged guy whom you could consider either a social activist or a blowhard. Whatever name you choose, I think we could all agree that he sure talks a lot.
A Dinner Speech That Could Have Saved the World If Anyone Was Listening
I was making a list of people I’d like to see waterboarded, then forced to watch a hundred back-to-back episodes of The Jersey Shore—this fantasy inspired by a woman who was arrested for wiping her Covid-19 spit onto organic Pink Lady apples in the local market. “Now that’s a metaphor that could use deciphering,” my friend said, seemingly disturbed by my fantasies. “So it’s okay for people to spray the police with battery acid,” I replied, “or to beat them with American flags, yet I’m supposed to be calm, I’m supposed to be fair, and not call people names. As if the solution to our presidential problem will occur over an urbane dinner table of mashed potatoes and meatloaf, or in sweaty locker rooms among reasonable men bragging about their 401ks, or knitting circles of bony-knuckled soccer moms admiring each other’s abs. But how to stay calm when people point paintball guns at you, practicing for the real thing? I admire the usher who beat a guy with a flashlight for not wearing a mask, or the librarian who threw a rock at a heron for devouring the Koi fish he lovingly nursed for two long years. You have to make choices, right? Today I chose to go to Four Town Farms and guard the tiny turtle eggs their parents have entrusted to nature. I threw myself madly before a family of geese to keep them from wandering into the road. In spite of rednecks stalking polling stations in their oversize pickups, in spite of those blue-suited politicians whining like babies as the earth burns up like a fried egg, I will soldier on, by God, I will soldier on!
“Boy, that was a mouthful,” my friend said, passing me the catsup, wanting to know if the calamari was worth it.
Lately it’s been brought to my attention that I talk too much. No surprise there since I come from a long line of windbags. Add to that, I’m now retired so I have more time to talk—to anyone who will listen, though a captive audience is best.
Like the bank teller, powerless to leave her post.
Or the Starbuck’s employee trying to humor me while other customers shuffle their feet and sigh thinking they might intimidate me into silence.
Or the guy in the next lane at the pool, who pretends he’d like to continue our conversation on global warming when he really just wants to keep his heart rate up.
I could give many more examples, but, as is very evident, I enjoy wasting people’s time. In fact, I consider it one of the entitlements of aging.
At least my kind of banter is better, not to mention more social, than the tactics of a woman I encountered at Rite Aid, who spent ten minutes mumbling to herself as she emptied out change from a pink rubber squeeze cylinder decorated with yellow smiley faces.
My brush with her provides an example of what comes from verbally infringing on the space of others.
I was with my teenage son waiting to purchase a handful of caramel creams whose bullseyes gazed flirtatiously at me from a large plastic container situated between two registers that were being worked by high school girls. As everyone knows, the rule is to remain in line until a sales associate says, “Next person.” Everything was proceeding in an orderly fashion, until a woman about my age went rogue and bolted for an open register.
Rather than being outraged, I was as happy as a coyote coming upon roadkill. To me, she was another wrong-headed individual who needed guidance, and I was just the man for the job.
“Excuse me, Mam,” I said. “You were not the next person in line.”
Everyone froze as she turned and faced me. Her long silver hair was tied back, which highlighted her exquisite cheekbones and large blue eyes. She wore a red plaid flannel shirt, tight jeans, and cowboy boots, so I took her for an outdoors type, maybe a horse person. It certainly would’ve been easier to confront her if she hadn’t been so attractive.
“Pardon me?” she said, narrowing her eyes.
I could feel the other customers drifting away as if they’d forgotten to purchase an item, so I tried to be as cheery and non-threatening as possible. It’s a technique I’ve perfected in situations like these. “With all due respect,” I said, “you were not the next person in line, and I believe that’s what I heard this young lady say.”
She stared at me for a few seconds, then grimaced, as if someone had punched her in the gut.
It was then I began to pontificate on how uncivil and thoughtless people had become, especially during the Trump era. I was about to shift gears from there to road rage, when she took a deep breath, and said, “Oh, shut up, you asshole.”
My son, who prides himself on being anonymous, headed for the acne aisle. Left alone, I couldn’t help but laugh. In another life, this woman could have been my soul mate. Her outrage, her wit, her total lack of concern for what others thought were all traits I admired. I could imagine us spending our golden years annoying complete strangers.
At that moment, I was happy for her to call me anything she wanted, but instead, she turned around and took her good old time counting out change.
When she was finished, she glared at me one final time. As she passed me on her way out, I tried to make amends, but she raised her middle finger over her head, not once looking back.
What a woman! I thought, before trying unsuccessfully to locate my son.
Back at the cash register, I grabbed a fistful of caramel creams and began a conversation with one of the young cashiers about an upcoming family excursion to Ireland, but my confrontation with the equestrian seemed to have spooked her into silence.
Although you might argue that my verbal shenanigans are shameful, you’ll get no apologies from me. I’ve never wanted to be the strong silent type. Those are the guys who simmer until they take a swipe at their wives or run someone off the road. Even when I was a middle grader, my mother said that if no one else was at my school bus stop, I’d talk to a tree. It wasn’t an insult. She felt it was healthy for me to speak my mind, and if I was talking to a tree, then at least I wasn’t bothering her.
Looking back, it’s clear I got the blowhard gene from my father. I can recall many times people telling him to shut up. At my first wedding reception he went on about how 50% of marriages end in divorce, at which point my future mother-in-law told him to “button it.” And on our way to a golf course in Canada with two of his cronies, he talked so much—often turning completely around to see the effect of his jokes—that he almost drove us into the Niagara River.
But unlike my father, I can listen when I want to, and I truly like asking people questions, whereas once my father got going, it was all over. And if you ever got the rare opportunity to interject something, you quickly realize that to him your voice was nothing more than a temporary buzz to be endured until he could continue his monologue.
Although I like to think I’m more self-aware than my father, my son may disagree.
He and I were at the orthopedist’s office. He had broken his foot and needed a follow-up visit. As we sat in the waiting room, I surveyed the other invalids. I was just about to ask a skinny guy wearing tortoise shell glasses where he bought his New Balance running shoes, which would have led me into a history of my neuroma operations, when a medical assistant asked us to follow her to an examination room. There I tried like hell to engage the doctor in a conversation about parents who push their children in sports, but he wanted no part of it.
Our next stop was the DMV where we hoped to get my son’s learner permit. What a sea of people, and once they’ve stood in line with hundreds of hacking future drivers for an hour to get a number, they’re not going anywhere unless the place bursts into flames.
First, I talked about drywalling my basement to a guy in a Carhart hoodie and beanie who was built like a Transformer. Next up was a woman, a recently divorced bartender, who related the gory details of her ex-husband’s infidelities with a nineteen-year-old pedicurist. “He can die in hell,” she said, and I agreed that seemed like a proper punishment. I told her I had raised one of my sons solo for a while (admittedly exaggerating my selflessness), whereupon she said, “You’re a goddam saint.”
How could I argue?
Finally, I ended up in a conversation with an ancient Japanese woman wearing an orange T-shirt decorated on front with an image of Mt. Fuji. I told her about how my oldest son was teaching in Japan, and about the beautiful places he had visited there. She smiled and nodded, and I would have gone on for another hour if her granddaughter hadn’t shown up and explained that her grandmother didn’t speak English.
“Finally, your perfect audience, Dad,” my son exclaimed, enjoying the moment immensely.
As a reward for passing his permit test, we headed for the Beef Barn, a greasy spoon specializing in all the good stuff: grilled cheese and fried fish sandwiches, BLT’s, and, not surprisingly, roast beef. Each table even has a complementary bag of homemade chips resting in its center like an arrangement of petunias.
Waiting for the waitress, my son said, “Will you do me a favor?”
“Of course.”
“Don’t tell the waitress about my foot or me getting my permit.”
“Why not? You should be proud.”
He squirmed a bit. “No one really cares, Dad.”
“Of course they do,” I said, and to prove my point I corralled our favorite waitress. “Amanda, Lucas got his driver’s permit today. What do you think about that? He doesn’t think anyone cares but me.”
My son squirmed a little more.
“Well, I sure do,” Amanda said, “and that’s why your grilled cheese and fries are on the house today.” Then she scampered away to speak with the manager about this arrangement.
“Geez,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Am I embarrassing you?” I asked.
“No, I’m just not like you.”
“That might be a good thing,” I joked.
“Yeah, though people seem to like you,” he said, as if trying to console me. “I think it’s because you’re a nice guy,” he added, looking a bit surprised by his compliment.
“Thanks,” I said. “I realize that was probably hard for you to say.”
“Not really.”
“Well, maybe we should stop talking and get at these chips? Even I can’t talk with a mouthful of food.”
“Actually, you can,” he said, “I can even give you a few examples.”
“No, I’ll just take your word on it,” I said.
And then we dug into the chips, not talking about much of anything until the grilled cheese arrived.
You can find Peter Johnson’s books, along with interviews with him, appearances, and other information at peterjohnsonauthor.com
His most recent book of prose poems is Old Man Howling at the Moon
His most recent book of fiction is Shot: A Novel in Stories