Is there anything better than a diner table about to collapse under the weight of a small greasy banquet? Kim and I sat facing each other across rolling plains of eggs, potatoes, French fries, a cheeseburger, cole slaw, and corned beef hash. I scooped up a wobbly bite of omelet and opened my mouth for a late-night culinary delight.
“Cause, motherfucker, I asked her!”
The bit of omelet slid off and hit the plate with a little splat. Kim and I looked at one another and then glanced, only peripherally, a few tables over.
“So? Why didn’t you ask me? No, you already know! You ain’t askin’ me, you comin’ at me like I’m guilty!”
Now I’m no relationship expert but it seemed to me like the man and woman glaring at one another were in a bit of a rough patch.
“Yeah you dumb motherfucker cause everyone I talked to said the same thing! That you was grabbin’ on her and bein’ up on her. That shit is your M.O.”
Uh oh. This greasy-spoon Columbo had unearthed his modus operandi. I added some salt and pepper to my home fries,
“You’re an asshole”
“You’re a dumb motherfucker. I don’t know why I even put up with your shit. I’m leaving.”
“Go. Bye.”
“Bye.”
“Bye.”
At this point the two are standing chest to chest about six inches apart and neither one is moving. I sip my milk. They glare at one another a bit longer and then sit back down and pretend to read their menus again. The ceasefire lasts all of two seconds.
“So why did you buy her a drink?”
“Cause she asked me to get her a drink!”
“Did you get anyone else a drink?”
“Did anyone ask?”
Nice move. I shovel a bit of hash into my mouth. See, she doesn’t know! Then I feel bad that I took his side for a second. It’s like cheering for the green knight at Medieval Times… you know, that asshole bad guy one? Full of remorse, I put butter and jelly on my toast.
“So why were you hangin’ on her all night?”
“All night? Shit we’re at the club and Flush is like ‘Yo the music downstairs is poppin!’ so we go down. It’s me and Trey and Flush and Flush’s man and she follows us!”
“Mm hmm”
I drop some of my toast on the floor. It’s not a reaction to their conversation but it sours my mood. That toast was God damn delicious.
“See? You takin’ everyone else’s story as true! You gotta come at it objective! You ain’t being objective!”
I consider that maybe, just maybe, he’s right on that point. She should at least hear him out. Then, as I watch Kim dip a fry in some gravy I realize he is objectively waving a butter knife in her face. So maybe his say isn’t worth all that much.
We finish up our wonderful meal and prepare to settle up at the register. It would be rude to sit and eavesdrop. That’s not why we don’t; I just have to get on the road. But as we walked outside I took one final glance at the two people screaming across their menus.
Nancy Grace is a hero and a national treasure. There. I said it. No eloquent pre-amble, no slow buildup to a crescendo of praise, just the honest truth right there in the first sentence.
Nancy is a strong independent woman who has a show on CNN. She is a former prosecutor who uses her time slot to cover a wide range of intriguing and multi-faceted cases. For the past five months, all of those cases have been Casey Anthony’s comings and goings.
Nancy Grace is all about getting to the bottom of things. She is not afraid to ask the hard-hitting questions. Casey Anthony is in prison! I know this because Nancy told me. Like, a lot. Nancy makes sure I am well informed. Do you know what she’s been doing in prison? Sitting around! Nancy told me so! Corpus Christi, can you believe the nerve?! Police are investigating her daughter’s death, her parents are a wreck and she’s just locked in a prison not doing anything? What, so now just because you’re in prison you can’t do anything but sit around and stare at things and sometimes talk to people when they come see you through those panes of glass? What a lazy bitch! Damn it Nancy, give her what for!
Nancy! You are a guiding force of what is right in the world! I was of the opinion that “Casey Anthony” was too much of a mouthful. Five syllables? Screw that. Nancy Grace coined the term “tot mom.” Two. Syllables. Brilliant! Okay, so, it sounds a little weird. Halfway between an adorable little rag doll and a “baby momma” but it’s still shorter. Nancy Grace is all about efficiency!
Nancy Grace you are a beacon of light in these dark times. Remember when the defense was all like “we want our own expert to do an autopsy?” Haha those whiney bastards! You gave them the hell they deserved! Fair trial? Due process? Whatever, right? Like, okay, the law is there for a reason and stuff but sometimes you can just skip it if you know the person is guilty. That ability to really see what we should do instead of what we’re supposed to do is rare these days. Luckily, one former prosecutor knows what’s right. Even when it’s just a matter of being louder than everyone else.
Author’s note: What happened to Caylee Anthony is sickening and the harshest penalties should be brought down upon any and all guilty parties. This praise of Nancy Grace (totally sincere, not sarcastic or ironic or anything) does not reflect on the crime itself, merely its sterling coverage.
I tap my fingers on the steering wheel of my ’99 Cherokee as it idles on the RFK (nee Tribourough) Bridge. What is ordinarily an hour or so drive into Queens has taken a solid two and a half and I’m not even there yet. A gold Taurus tries to merge into my lane. It’s a futile attempt, since no lanes of traffic are moving, but that doesn’t prevent the driver from flipping me off. I moan, punch through the presets on my radio and stare forlornly at my now dead iPod. I close my eyes and make the same wish everyone makes in traffic.
I wish my car could fly.
Suddenly there’s a tremor and I open my eyes. Traffic is sinking all around me. My car wavers back and forth in a light breeze. It’s happening! My car can fly! I tap the accelerator and my Jeep shoots a few yards forward ahead the traffic. The gold Taurus takes my spot. With a triumphant shout I turn the wheel and slam on the gas. I’m flying! I’m really flying!
After the initial thrill wears off I come to a conclusion. Your average automobile is not really equipped with the controls one needs to maneuver in three dimensions. How do you control the pitch? The yaw? Should I have opted for a later model car with a rudder option? After a period of trial and error (which include scraping the paint off the passenger side on the edge of a high rise and one nauseating barrel roll) I manage to get my flying Jeep under control. I’m off!
As I swoop and soar over Queens, I come to another realization. I’m not sure how to navigate from up here. I’m not even sure this is Queens. I know the vague direction I was headed, but that’s it. My Garmin informs me in her curt British accent that I need to make a left in a half mile, but I’m going so fast that I’ve shot over the intersection before she finishes the sentence. Alright, I’m going to have to circle back.
What the hell? Water? Is that the Hudson? Where the hell am I?
As I try and figure just where I’m supposed to be going my car is rocked by a rush of air and an ear shattering scream. I look to see two jet fighters start a sub-sonic U-turn. I slam my car into reverse and slam my foot down. Reverse lights gleaming I shoot backwards over the city. The jets catch up and pace me. All I can think of is every jet fighter versus bogey scene I’ve ever seen. “You are flying in restricted airspace,” I imagine the radio transmitting, if I got more than AM and FM. “Follow us to the nearest airstrip or we will open fire.” Sure enough, the one of the pilots looks over at me and points down at the ground. I gesture that while I would love to I’m a bit lost at the moment and I’m really not sure how to land a Cherokee. Since I don’t know the proper Air Force sign language it comes across as a lot of frantic waving and a bit of crying. The jets peel off to get a lock on my car and I pull a hasty mid-air K-turn.
As I fly full-tilt over some wide street, buildings screaming past on both sides, I catch a glimpse of one of the jets drop into line behind me. A sudden chime and orange flash on my dashboard inform me that I am just about out of gas. I make it another block or two when I see the yellow blaze of a missile being fired in my driver-side mirror. Just then I burn off the rest of my gas and my car shuts off with a sputter. As the missilecloses in on my bumper and my car starts to drop out of the sky I realize that, just maybe, I’d be better off stuck in traffic.
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