The Bump Snob

The hot summer sun's rays bounced off the pavement, creating a sauna-like effect as Garret and Suki sauntered down 3rd Street, toward Market. Garret spaced out as Suki reminded him which of her friends they'd be meeting later that evening, and their conversation was about the same as any other they might've had when all of a sudden Suki startled him with a loud shriek.

"Woah, what?" Garret turned and saw Suki picking herself up off the ground, a small wheeled, high seated, uniformly sky blue painted bicycle on its side beside her. A youngish, unshaven man with long, wavy brown hair stood above her, apologizing profusely.

"What just happened?" Garret asked.

"Are you blind?" Suki barked at Garret. "Did you not just see this guy barrel into me on his bike?"

Garret looked at the apologizer, who stood with his hands up, palms out, shaking his head, now turning toward Garret, saying, "Bro, I'm so sorry, didn't even see you guys coming, the sun's so bright and I looked away for a moment-"

"Listen man," Garret said, cutting him short, "first of all, don't call me 'bro.' I don't even know you. Second of all, what's the matter with you?"

"Oh, man, nothing. I mean, I'm just really sorry."

Garret helped Suki to her feet. "You okay?" he asked.

"Sure, yes, I'm fine."

The biker emitted an audible sigh of relief, prompting Suki to turn toward him and glare. His look changed instantly to one of fear, clearly afraid of what she might say next.

She looked like she might explode. "What I want to know from you, Mr. Blind Biker Dude, is why in the world are you riding on the sidewalk? Especially up a small street like Church without a single car on it?"

Biker Dude shrugged. "Well, you know…."

Garret and Suki waited for him to continue, but he just stood there.

"No, we don't know!" Suki shouted. "Know what? Answer the question!"

"Well, the street's just so … bumpy." The guy looked down at Church Street's old stone and mortar surface.

"Bumpy? Are you kidding me? Dude, come on! Deal with it! It's a quiet street and a small one at that. Are you telling me you ride on the sidewalk right here because you don't like the uneven surface? What are you, some kind of bump snob or something?"

He shrugged again.

Garret shook his head, part of him wanting to berate the guy and part of him wanting to laugh. He decided to just get his girlfriend out of there. "Suki, forget this guy. The main thing is you're alright. Let's just go."

She shot Garret a disapproving look, but then began walking again toward Market, leaving the two men behind.

"Be more careful, man," Garret said as he went off to catch up with Suki.

"Sorry again, bro."

Garret looked back at the guy, over his shoulder. "Don't call me bro, bump snob!"

Pacing Inside the Milwaukee Airport

Pacing - it's all I can do right now. Luckily, I had a filling lunch, so I won't need to eat here.

A baby crawls in the opposite direction of my pacing, past a cute girl seated at my gate. The baby laughs as her father tries to keep up. It must make him sick that his not-yet-walking daughter's little hands are mopping up the heavily trodden, matted airport carpet, but he's laughing too. Maybe he's just happy because his baby's happy.

I used to enjoy pacing by people on payphones, wondering about the content of their conversations. Now everyone's on cell phones and I could care less what any of them are saying. On payphones, people always seemed to speak in muffled tones, not wanting others to overhear. But on cell phones everyone talks too loud.

I'm getting hungry in spite of myself. Since I had that big lunch, I should seek out something light, something healthy, like fruit salad or one of those little yogurts with the crunchy stuff in a plastic container on top - is it granola?

I order a Polish sausage on a pretzel roll from Usinger's. With potato chips. No sooner than I finish the last delicious bite do I see the cute girl from my gate buy a fruit salad cup from the coffee shop. That's what I should've done.

The tv at the gate shows President Obama complaining that Congress voted down his bill without anyone making any coherent arguments against it. I suppose nobody told him that people don't have to make coherent arguments anymore to get what they want.

Aha! The cute girl didn't get just a fruit salad after all - I see her eating a wrap at the gate. No idea what kind of wrap it is, but watching her eat it makes me feel better about myself. Besides, I think I worked off at least a couple bites of that Polish sausage doing all of this pacing. Flight's about to board, but I think I have time for one more lap.

Johnson

The hotel barroom sang a muffled song of jilts and laughs and confident exertions. A bandbox of a space with a lone billiards table and an L shaped bar, a few worn leather chairs and sofas rounding it out, businessmen and a country club crowd filled its seats and standing room.

"Come on now, Johnson, you can't possibly have bet against the Phillies last night. And who bets on baseball, anyway?" asked Robeson.

"I only bet it when I get the urge," replied Johnson, "and last night I had precisely that."

A third man sat and listened to this exchange, unamused. A business associate of Johnson's, visiting unexpectedly from China, Johnson felt his disapproval and knew its root.

"Oh, Wang, don't be such a curmudgeon. You've traveled all this way, may as well relax and let yourself go a little."

Wang boiled. "Mr. Johnson, you are correct. I've come a long way indeed. And all day today you avoid discuss with me the reason I am here. We go to ballgame, get massage, have long dinner with your friend-" Robeson nodded "-but not once we discuss business. You know why I am here."

Johnson, slightly drunk, laughed. "Sure, of course, you're here to bust my balls."

Now Robeson laughed too. "Mr. Johnson you owe my company hundreds of thousands of dollars! We are reaching the high credit limit we can extend to you. If this balance not cleared up soon, we will stop the relationship."

Robeson cringed as he listened to Wang threaten his friend. "Excuse me," he said, and walked to the other side of the bar, where he seamlessly fell into conversation with a well coiffed acquaintance.

"You can't cut us off, Wang! Don't be ridiculous, we own the market here, your customer base. We'll work something out tomorrow. Have another drink, wouldja?" Johnson slurred a little bit. He finished his Scotch and signaled for the bartender. "Wang, whaddaya wanna drink?"

"Nothing, Mr. Johnson. I'll retire now to my room. We talk first thing in the morning. 8:00. See you then in the lobby." He bowed to Johnson and left in a brisk strut.

"Darn Chinese," muttered Johnson to himself. He hid his stress level with a forced smile – a frequent, false expression of self-satisfaction. He thought of everyone to whom he owed money: Wang's company, various other enterprises in China and some in Europe, and multiple individuals, some more demanding than others. Lacking for a solution, he ordered another Scotch and resigned that he'd find a way to appease Wang the next day. He'd come up with something, he thought, he'd always come up with something.