The Man Calls me Sir

Sorry I didn’t do this, sorry I did do that.

I’ve been sorry for as long as I can remember, and I am sorry about that too.

I am not rich, and I am not poor. I live in constant preparation for life. This isn’t life, but it will be soon.

“Yes that’s all, thank you”. I speak to the waiter.

I am a cashier, I am a taxi driver. I am a wrecking ball man, I am the man serving your drink. I am every woman and man. I am adaptable, if nothing else.

Today is my 29th birthday, and this is the only celebration in the itinerary. I sit in a diner, in a booth, alone. I field a birthday call from my mother.

“Yes Mom, thank you, love you too”.

She's so far away. Or I guess I am far away. I’m the one that moved.

I am accustomed to being alone, and frequently lose myself in fantasies of the past. Lovers that I didn’t love, lovers that I loved too much. Jobs I quit and jobs I was fired from.

I want to replace all the days that have no diary entries. Redo the days unrecorded by cell phone photos. All the unremarkable days almost perfectly untracable, almost guaranteed to be forgotten.

I twirl my napkin on the slick laquered table. My drink sweats. I don’t, since the air conditioning is more than adequate in here.

I am a background actor, in one of the only cities where that is a job. I play the cashier in sitcoms, “man with drink” at a party, "passerby number 2" in a cop drama. I may hold a gun, I may point it, but I do not speak. My characters don't have much to say. Despite the boundlessness of fictional narrative, my characters manage to be completely mundane.

And so do I. Life imitates art, in this case.

"Dessert, sir?"

The waiter is uncomfortably formal. I never like being called sir, especially by people older than me. Maybe I'm looking old.

"Yes, uh. Chocolate cake please."

"Chocolate cake it is, thank you sir."

I stare forwards, and suppress the urge to mock him.

I look down, under the table. I straddle a leather bag. Inside is my little birthday surprise. I reach inside and grasp cold black steel.

"Your cake sir."

I stand, erupting, awake and volatile, more alive than I've ever been. Frothing at the mouth, I command the room, finally!

"Put your hands up, waiter!"

I put a six-shooter to the man's chest, real western-style. He is stunned, and I push him back. He stumbles.

I move on to the man at the register. An older man, he could be the waiter's father. This is a man I should be calling sir, or risk being impolite.

"I need all the cash you got, sir!"

As I kick the front door open and head for the escape vehicle, I look back. A slice of chocolate cake looks good enough to eat.

"Damn, damn!"

Chocolate hits my lips just as police sirens become audible.