Just when I thought I had attained success, safety, and comfort, I found myself in the patio section of a five star restaurant on the sixth floor, wearing a suit I hated, and surrounded by uppity shit-heads babbling on and on about the same shit I've heard again, and again from humans in lower classes, and all I could do as their idiotic words entered my ears was damn myself for even going out that evening. I mean, I had to admit, no matter where I found myself, no matter how much money I made, these fucking hypocrites, these opinionated hawks, these fucking sheep, these goddamn, flesh eating zombies...I can go on, and on folks with these damn figurative descriptions, but like these well dressed, overly educated morons are doing to me, I'd bore you, the reader, to death. So there I was - waiting for my supposedly exquisite meal (which, by the way, ain't worth two hundred a fucking plate, believe me) - wanting desperately to scream at the couples on either side of me to shut the fuck up. The rich husband and wife to my left were complaining about the lobster we had as a President, while the lesbians on my right were bitching how the loser didn't suck enough cock to win the election. I wanted - or needed, to keep my brain sane - to pick up my one hundred and fifty dollar red wine bottle, which was basically still full, smash it on the husband's head, then hold up the broken bottle to the two lesbos, and inform them, "Look, the Nazi won, but you're still able to be at this fancy restaurant, wasting your fucking money!" But I had to keep my cool. In my mind I wished I was back working at the docks, in the lunchroom, listening to my coworkers bitch about sports. Though I found the subject uninteresting, it was exceedingly more tolerable than hearing about political bullshit none of us truly had control of, other than the pathetic attempt at voting. My opinion: it don't fucking work. If anyone tells me otherwise, I tell them to FUCK OFF! I earned my way to that five star restaurant, and none of it had to do with politics. "Do as you please," is what I live by. "Good or ill, live with the consequences," is another. "Go with the flow, and roll with the punches," was another, just like that night. I was meant to be on a date, and my date had stood me up, and I ordered my food without the bitch. Then my cellphone rang, and it was her, telling me she was late due to the fact the freeway was blocked by lunatics who had chained themselves together across all the lanes, both ways. I said, "Oh. Well, I ordered food for myself. And I apologize for thinking some negative thoughts just before you called." Why should I lie to her? I liked her, and wanted our relationship to go further than this date. She said, "No need to apologize. I'm sorry. I could've been there sooner if I were more astute, I guess." I said, "How were you to know maniacs were going to block the freeway?" She said, "They're protesters, dude. They're just expressing themselves." I finally noticed the blabbers weren't at their tables beside me, but with everyone else at the railing, looking down at the large courtyard six floors below us. One fellow patron said, "Look at that. I can't believe his supporters would have a march at this hour of the day." One of the lesbians stretched out her arm and pointed, saying, "Look, it's their opposition." Her wife said, "How can you tell?" And her wife replied, "You can tell by how they dress." I said to my date on the phone, "Sounds like there's gonna be a dog fight down in the courtyard. Maybe we should postpone. Next week perhaps?" She said, "No." I closed my eyes, expecting she would never see me again. She then said, "I'll just wait until the pigs unlock the idiots, and I'll meet you somewhere else we can eat. I know a place open twenty-four hours. It's a diner. We can chill, and you can tell me how the dogfight went. You got a good view, right?" I went up to the railing with the other fools, and looked down at the courtyard. Hearing the distant cries and screams from those peasant idiots as they made their way toward each other for the showdown on the green grass and between trees, ready to pound each other bloody, I thought to myself how lucky I was to be among weak idiots, and how much I miss being with the grunts back when I worked on the docks. Those people were dumb, but not dumb enough to be like those I saw below me, or those beside me. I said to my date, "I'll preface my recollection of what is about to happen down there with this: it's about to go all Braveheart down in that shit." She replied, "Cool. I was told you weren't as boring as James Franco." I asked, "Who would say that about me? James Franco? You dated that old stoner?"
She said, "I'll tell you about it later, after you tell me about your life. Okay?" We ended the phone conversation. The fight in the courtyard had begun, and I started feeling sick at the sight of the chaos, not in my stomach, but in my mind. I turned around, went to my table, downed the rest of my glass of wine, then picked up the bottle before going back to the "show" down below. (I noticed my food still wasn't there on the table yet, but I immediately didn't fucking care) It was a fascinating sight, I must admit. It was like this: there was a large group in the middle, and only about three to four pockets of them were fighting. Those on the edges of the pockets were not staring at those fighting, but were staring at those not fighting, sizing each other up, stepping forward, then stepping back. All the while the people on the furthest edges of the fights were really doing nothing. Well, the supporter of the lobster President were drinking beer, then throwing their empty cans at the opposition, while the other side threw full cans of soda back at the drunks, some were smoking weed from a bong, or joints and blunts. It was strange, and all I could do was drink the rest of the one hundred fifty dollar red wine, and end up feeling dissatisfied. When I got back to my table, I found my food waiting for me. The portion of the meal was so small I still had an immense appetite when I paid the bill, leaving the robotic waiter a thirty percent tip, hoping he was working his way through college. On my way out of that hawk den of a restaurant my date text my phone the location of the diner. She ended the text with the words: Can't wait to hear about what happened over there. I thought to myself, "Maybe she won't end up being the one."
