"Norm!"

         We love eating out. Our weekly budget allocates one eat out per week unless we do an extraordinarily thrifty grocery run. Then we can manage another visit to one of our favorite places.

         Over the years, we’ve two places that we’ll visit weekly. Alternating between Greek food at Papouli’s Greek Grill and Mexican food at La Fiesta Patio Café. Our frequent visits mean we earn free meals from both places, allowing us to indulge even more.

         At one point, the owner of Papouli’s would try new menu items with my son and husband offering feedback. He’s helped us celebrate birthdays and anniversaries. We’ve even catered Christmas dinner because, you know, not everyone likes turkey!

         Last night, upon entering La Fiesta Patio Café (Patio Café in our house), the entire staff cheered and waved. All three of us broke into laughter and simultaneously chimed, “Norm!” as we approached our table for three. The waitress carried over our drinks, chips and salsa but didn’t bother with a menu. She knew we’ve memorized everything on their list. Sometimes, all three of us crave their veggie chalupas and will order the same meal. Today found us yearning for different things.

         Many evenings, the staff will amble over to chat with us about movies or their weekend plans if the place isn’t too busy. We’ve slipped into the habit of looking forward to the company as well as the food.

        

 Copyright 2018 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

        

  

"His Betrayal"

        I thought he was my friend. We did Midnight Yells, ball games, and concerts together. We memorized Rocky Horror Picture Show and danced with lighters held high. We cried at Silver Taps.
         He came into my home. I trusted him because he became family.
         A lifetime later, I still feel the heaviness of his body as he pinned me to my bed. His invading tongue and beer breath made me gag. His fingers, shoving brutally up and into me, wounded. His laughter as he pushed away and ran upstairs warned me that he already had excuses. I was drunk. It’s just a joke. She didn’t even scream or fight.  
         I buried his betrayal so deeply that it became a wisp of nightmare. Something pushed down and away for so many years that I convinced myself that it never happened. Every time my gut recoiled because he entered the room, I repressed the repulsion and never looked for a reason. I told myself that he’d become selfish and cruel. That was enough reason for me to avoid him whenever possible.
         Then I began reading my journals. All of the spirals, and notebooks, and bound volumes of my life. The words, my own handwriting, sharply focused that blurred trauma, making my own denial impossible.
         I understand why women conceal, sometimes even to themselves, the harassment, molestation and assaults they’ve endured because these men have different roles than simply attacker. They are bosses or co-workers. They are husbands or lovers. They are fathers or brothers. They are friends.

Copyright 2018 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman     
        
        
        

"Parking Lot Woes"

Today’s grocery run took an unexpected turn when our car wouldn’t start. It didn’t make the usual click-click-click associated with a dead battery. Turning the key resulted in nothing at all. Tempers rose, bubbling quickly to the surface within the scorching heat that sweltered around us. Each of us focused upon a different problem. My husband tried a few more ignition starts and puzzled over the soundless response while my son dug out the owner’s manual. Worried more about the groceries that sat in the trunk than determining the source of the problem, I grabbed a cart and reloaded everything. Once in the store, I started to explain our predicament when the clerk interrupted, “Give me your name, and I’ll take your cart back to the cooler.”

         By the time I sprinted back to the car (we always park in the furthest slot to add to daily steps), sweat soaked my hairline. My husband and son hoped that a dead battery caused the problem and sent me back inside for distilled water as the levels looked low. I rushed back into the store, dashed over to the water section, lunged for the last jug, and zigzagged to a self-checkout register. Darting around traffic and fellow shoppers, I breathlessly arrived at the car to find it running. A fellow shopper had a wonderful little jumper box that started our car immediately.

         I spun around and headed back into the store one more time to fetch our food. 

       On our drive home, we discussed how this car gave no prior warnings of the battery dying: no slow engine crank, no dashboard warning light, no rapid clicking sound. No advanced indication that we’d find ourselves stranded in an H.E.B. parking lot.

         Our adventure brought home a realization that we didn’t have anyone to call for help. I’d left my phone charging and with it the number of our neighbor and sister-in-law, two people who would’ve dropped everything to rescue us. We have a nephew who lives close by the store, but none of us have his current number. Tomorrow, I’ll make certain each of our phones carries the numbers of all of those neighbors and friends instead of it being in one phone.

         I find myself thankful for the man who helped us in the parking lot, and for the personnel in the store who cheerfully stashed our groceries away and kept an eye out for my return. I didn’t even have to ask for the cart! These little acts of kindness have restarted my faith in the goodness of others.

Copyright 2018 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman