"Oops," I said, unnecessarily.

Please picture the following:

I, Mike, and Danfriend are at Chick-fil-A about half an hour before closing.  I order a kid's meal (6 piece nuggets, if you must know) and Mike gets a chocolate shake.  I wait with the tray for Dan, while Mike goes and sits down in a booth with some bud-buds.  When Dan is ready, I pick up the tray and attempt to walk to the booth, but the way is blocked by "Caution: Wet Floor" signs. There is a woman mopping the floor.

I attempt to walk around the signs, and she says: "This section is closed!"

Okay, I think, and I attempt to go the long way around, only to find that my way is blocked on that side by a row of chairs.  As I try and squeeze through them, the woman says again, "This section is closed!  I've already cleaned it... I don't want to have to clean it again."

"No problem," I say.  "I'm just going through to sit with my friends."  I gesture to where Mike and the buds are sitting, in a section still populated by diners.  Exasperated, she agrees, and I continue through the closed section, heading toward the booth of friendly faces.

Halfway through the clean section, I swivel to maneuver around a table and feel an odd weight shift on the tray I carry.  I look down just in time to see Mike's untouched chocolate milkshake topple off the tray and explode on the freshly-mopped floor, splattering the tables, chairs, and walls of the area that, if it's not too much trouble, the cleaning lady would really rather I avoid.

There is a painful silence as every head turns toward the explosion.  The woman hasn't figured out yet what's happened, being on the other side of a partition mopping another area.  She knows something is up, but she's not yet sure what, as I stand helpless in the middle of the restaurant, milkshake dripping from my jeans onto the floor. 

Silence, and then a precocious young lad rushes to the scene from his family's booth to stand, hands on hips, and shout: "Clean up on aisle seven!!"

It was one of the most perfectly constructed moments of my life, and I thought I would share it with you.

further thoughts on that which is important

a few weeks ago, i sang for Frank Manaka's 100th birthday party. i called him a few days before to go over last-minute details and, not surprisingly, the conversation wasn't the smoothest. i was driving in traffic and he didn't have his hearing aid in. it took me a good minute of shouting into the phone for him to realize who i was. he told me that, what he really wanted, was a sing-along. he wanted me to lead his friends and family in singing songs that meant something to him. and he especially wanted me to learn "Let Me Call You Sweetheart," which had been the song he and his wife used to sing to one another. when we sang it at the party, he was smiling behind his harmonica, with tears in his eyes.

here's a story i wrote:

He left the funeral quietly. Her friends were huddled in clumps, chatting darkly and laughing brightly. A widow caught his eye and smiled sadly, sweetly. He nodded and slipped away. His right side was cold as he stepped out of the church and, as the street zipped by the little parking lot, as good folks with important things to take care of marched past in loud pairs and trios, he missed her. He walked to his deep blue sedan and sank into the driver's seat, struck with the sudden desire to go somewhere, to do anything but live the life he'd lived for the past forty years, only with a little coldness on his right side. But then he was pulling into his driveway and walking up the front steps. He was turning the key in the door and walking in to his living-room. He saw two chairs at the table and an extra phone handset for when their grandson called. There were unopened videos stacked next to the television console and a CD leaning against the stereo: gifts from family who remembered the things they had enjoyed over the decades and had forgotten that what they really loved to do now, now that they had time and before they lost the energy, was sit on the couch and chat mindlessly with one another. He went into his bedroom and took out his hearing aid.