2002-11-21 - 12:39 a.m.
Unlike the style mavens of his generation, Johnny didn�t look natty and disoriented on purpose. Rather, his conscience prevented him from dedicating too much time in the day towards self-maintenance. He was extremely lacking in the self-consciousness department and had no idea what sort of impression he gave to others, which was one of his redeeming qualities but made him the most unlikely candidate for a political appointment. When Johnny talked, other people often came away with the impression that he had forgotten to take the medication that was supposed to make him more focused and animated. But Johnny didn't have any psychological problems that a doctor could fix. He'd tried therapists and psychologists from time to time, to sort out his head and feel better about his place in society. He was very guilt-ridden, and he didn't know exactly why. This guilt wore him down somewhat, flattened the bounce from his voice that had endeared him to so many when he was a tot.
No one really messed with Johnny, because he was so unassuming. But to a stranger on the street he might appear to be one of Reagan's Millions, a wandering discharge from the state hospital. His walk was ambling, his coat bulky and covered with small stains, his eyes always looking pavementward. Sometimes he would find things on the sidewalk, such as a magazine or a hat, and pick it up and take it with him on his journey to wherever he was going that day. He was also clumsy, and frequently dropped his pile of newspapers or his glass of ice onto the ground. Then he would curse and swear and call himself Stupid Clumsy Prick, planting for people a negative perception of himself � doing the job for them, so to speak.
In his own quiet way, Johnny he was actually successful to some extent -- a dependable paralegal who could wizz through wills and estates like nobody's business. In college, his grades had been good enough to get him a scholarship to Ireland in the winter of 1991, and while there he gained much respect from the other regulars at O�Finley�s, the downtown Dublin bar he patronized on Fridays and alternate Wednesdays. Paddy Finnegan, the owner of O�Finley�s for 17 years, thought the slight, blonde-haired Johnny was quite pleasant for an American, considering that he did not complain about the food or try to act like everybody's travel buddy.
Johnny's many clients often rewarded him at Christmas time with gift certificates, usually in $5 or $25 denominations, to an assortment of local restaurants and small shops. One day, Johnny decided to use one his smaller certificates to pay for his lunch at Hooker�s Deli, which had just opened on the corner of Main and Farngel Streets two months previously.
Upon entering the place, Johnny performed his standard ritual: Look for a table for two, then leave a piece of paper on the table so that others would know it was reserved. Put his coat in his large backpack, fidget a little, find then lose the certificate, then find it again in his back pocket (he had put it there while putting his keys in their special backpack compartment, after he had taken out the certificate). Walk to the back of the line and stand there.
�I�ll take the roasted turkey sandwich with mayonnaise and no pickles, please,� Johnny said to the man at the cash register, who looked either 20 or 30, and had a light mustache.
�Anything else?: Asked the man.
�A small drink, too, and a cup of soup.�
�Would you like a drink?� The cashier asked, obliviously.
�A small drink.�
�And soup?�
�Yes, soup would be good.� Throughout this exchange, Johnny never let on once that he thought the cashier was failing to play the dutiful member of the service industry by not paying attention. After all, he didn't really care -- and the cashier wasn't earning enough money to care, either. All Johnny could think of was the soup he would soon eat, the soup that would take away the monotonous chill inside him. Johnny was always very cold; today he craved something salty and flavorful that, who knows, might help with his anemia.
Johnny paid for his food and grabbed the Styrofoam cups meant for his drink and his soup. He walked over to the �Soup Station,� and noticed two basins with different names. Choice A was chicken and wild rice; since he was ordering a turkey sandwich, he didn�t want to go overboard on poultry. Choice B, Wisconsin cheddar cheese, seemed more suitable for the day. He scooped up a ladleful of hot, thick orange goo, hoping it would taste as good as it was rich, and not be excessively salty. But just as soon as he filled his bowl, he sniffed the soup and recognized the familiar scent of bacon, which he stopped eating while a high school junior. Pigs were intelligent creatures, he thought, and shouldn�t be killed to become processed breakfast meats or evening chops.
�What are you doing?� he heard from behind. It was a small, stocky woman, a deli employee.
�I don�t eat bacon so I don�t want to eat this soup,� Johnny explained.
�Huh?�
�I don�t eat bacon,� Johnny repeated. �This soup has bacon. I don�t want it. I�m putting it back.�
�You cannot do that!� The woman scolded. �People might see you and I don�t know what they�d think.�
�I don�t know either.�
�Please, please don�t do that,� the woman said, a hint of sadness in her voice. �Please don�t ever do that again.� She pulled the metal bucket of cheesy soup, now maligned in her eyes, from its cradle and walked away, leaving a hole in the soup station that steamed from the pan of hot water placed below the countertop. Left with only Choice A, Johnny cleaned out his cup with a napkin, grabbed the ladle sticking in the piping hot poultry soup that he didn�t really want, and filled it. He then walked over to his table and began to eat.
Johnny fished for reasons why the woman had become so upset about his aborted soup trick, and felt regret for what he had done. He abhorred waste and would always finish his plate even if he disliked what he was eating, which happened very rarely. Personally, he thought that if he saw someone empty their cup of soup back into the common bucket, he would assume that the person had also noticed bacon chunks and poured it back because they didn't eat pig meat. Or maybe the person had decided after it was almost too late that they really wanted the chicken and rice soup, and had decided to return the cheese soup for somebody else�s enjoyment. He would never think the person had done anything to spoil the reputation of the soup, such as spit or put a saliva-coated spoon in it. He thought maybe the woman was jumping to conclusions about the other people in the deli, assuming that they wouldn�t trust other eaters like him, assuming that he had harmed the soup or played with it in some way. Then he remembered in which country he was, and it all made sense.
After he finished his lunch, Johnny collected the Styrofoam cups to throw them into the trash. Who knows what had become of the bucket of soup, he thought, biting into his smoked turkey sandwich. Too late now to save it.
�Even more waste,� he told himself silently as his cups fell into the bin. �I am on a rampage. What next?�
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Things are going to get a lot worse before they get worse. � Lily Tomlin |
