Calculator Thomas the Train Face Funny
Jonathan Goldstein: Funny how life can be a spilling taco one minute and a cherry soda the next
Jonathan Goldstein: 'Whenever you think you've been completely crushed, there's always a little something left to get creamed'
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Emily and I are at our favourite breakfast place, "Tacos de los Muertos," which I believe means "Tacos of Death." It's a name that makes eating tacos feel death-defying and heroic, which, at 10 a.m., I suppose it is.
The novelty of being able to pick whatever restaurant I want and then eat at it any time I choose never gets old. As a child, the one restaurant our family ate at was called "Schneider's" and we ate there at 5 p.m. to catch the early-bird special. As I recall it, Schneider's was essentially a living room with a cash register where one learned it was time to finish up one's meal when Mr. Schneider walked out of the bathroom in his boxer shorts, a toothbrush in his mouth.
About to bite into a soft-shelled corn taco, it suddenly sags and, no sooner than it spills onto my lap, than I receive a text from my friend Jim.
I sometimes feel like I can see The Almighty's puppeteering hand
"Just saw Brendan," he writes. "He was getting out of a Lincoln Town Car. Must be nice."
Brendan, no last name necessary since Jim and I talk about him so often, was an assistant manager at the telemarketing office we used to work at. Jim and I hated Brendan.
As someone in constant fear for his free will, perhaps due to control issues — possibly dating back to a childhood toilet training incident — I will call this a suggestive confluence of events and not evidence of the universe choosing this moment to conspire against me.
"I sometimes feel like I can see The Almighty's puppeteering hand," I say looking at my lap.
"God has better things to do than toy with Jonathan Goldstein," Emily says. She flags a waiter over and orders club soda for my stained pants. She tells me that God is a God of miracles, too, and I assure her that I believe in miracles.
"In fact," I say, "one of the greatest miracles of all is that whenever you think you've been completely crushed, there's always a little something left to get creamed."
Of which, I receive another text from Jim.
It reads, just in case the subtext was lost on me, "Brendan is richer than us."
One of my favourite things is when two subway trains run parallel. For a little while, through the tunnel's darkness, you can make eye contact with some random commuter illuminated in the train beside you just before you diverge paths, each of you off to your unique fate. You can pretend that person you've locked eyes with is a friend you once knew, or a brother never born. You can smile and blow them a kiss. Or, you can pretend that person is on their way back from robbing your apartment. And, with impunity, you can give them the finger. One can project whatever one likes. The choice is one's own. In this way, riding a subway is a lot like living a life.
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"Good for Brendan," I text back.
The waiter appears at our table and, probably, because his English isn't great, instead of bringing us a club soda, brings us a cherry soda. Emily and I share it. We both haven't had one in years. I'd forgotten how good they are, how sweet they taste.
Source: https://nationalpost.com/life/jonathan-goldstein-funny-how-life-can-be-a-spilling-taco-one-minute-and-a-cherry-soda-the-next
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