Show Yourself

The fast food joint was an air-conditioned oasis in the kind of heat that made your shirt stick to your back and sweat run rivers through your hair.  But in here, the acrid scent of drying sweat was losing the war against waves of grease coming from behind the counter as burger jockeys battled a never-ending line of teenagers and couples and families with petulant, squalling children in tow.
   
Ricky inspected his meal sadly.  This was his favorite restaurant when he was little, but the burgers seemed to be getting smaller and smaller with each passing year, and he was beginning to regret his decision not to wait until home for a bite.  A harassed looking young woman with two toddlers in tow took the table across from him, and the older boy almost immediately started smearing ketchup on the back of his chair with malicious delight.  Ricky tried not to listen as her reasoning turned to pleading and then to anger, but it was impossible to even pretend privacy in such close quarters. 

At first, nobody but Ricky paused as the restaurant doors were slammed open and a man, disheveled and damp, lurched in.  He shoved past the lines of waiting customers and leaned over the counter, where he swayed for the briefest of moments before grabbing a startled cashier and mumbling something to her.    Conversation dropped to a sudden, horrified murmur as almost everybody strained to hear him.  The cashier just stared, a deer caught in the headlights.  He leaned back so far he nearly lost his balance, then swung around and surveyed the room through narrowed, bloodshot eyes.  “I know you are here,” he yelled.  “Show yourself!”

Ricky felt the color drain from his face as he sunk down in his chair.  He wasn’t good at confrontation, and he certainly wasn’t good at violence, and it seemed both were heading his way, right up to the moment when the man stumbled past in a cloud of booze fumes so thick you could cut it with a knife. 

“Look at you, you ungrateful god-damn wastes of space,” he yelled.  “Why the hell did you lock me out like that?  Haven’t I done everything for you?  Huh?”  He seemed to be addressing a wide-eyed middle-aged couple sitting in the far corner.  Both the man and woman were frozen in place; mayonnaise was leaking from the burger in the woman’s hand, and the man had a fry hanging out his mouth in a way that would have been comical if he didn’t look so entirely consumed with terror.

The drunk grabbed the corner of their table for balance before he continued his tirade.  “Haven’t I given up every god-damn thing for you?  Haven’t I worked hard to put bread and butter in your ungrateful god-damn mouths?  And now, NOW –“ a fine spray of spittle flew across the table as the man worked himself to a climax “-NOW JUST BECAUSE A MAN IS DOWN ON HIS LUCK, YOU GIVE HIM THE BOOT?  What kind of country are we living in?  WHAT KIND OF COUNTRY ARE WE LIVING IN?” 

The last comment seemed to be directed at the restaurant at large.  The man spun around slowly, glaring at everyone with a kind of quivering, impotent anger, before he turned his attention back to the couple.  He seemed like he was about to burst but then – inexplicably – he suddenly deflated.  After several long, drawn out moments, he leaned over the table, plucked a fry from the unresisting man’s tray, spun on his heel and marched himself out of the restaurant. 

As soon as the double doors swung shut behind him, conversation returned at a roar.  Several cashiers huddled around their affronted workmate, and the unlucky couple unfroze and started proclaiming their confusion and innocence to anyone who would listen. 

Ricky slid his phone out of his bag and dialed a familiar number with shaking hands.  He covered his mouth and glanced around to make sure no one was looking.  “Hey Mom,” he said, as quickly and quietly as he could. “I know where Dad is.”