Breakfast at the diner was a little quieter than usual. Big John Hudson had not yet burst through the front door, tossed his ball cap on the table, and made some outlandish statement about the world as he sees it.

Coffee had been poured — several times. Biscuits and gravy, pancakes and waffles with bacon and sausage, eggs over-easy with toast dripping in butter — but, absolutely no fruit — had been served and were well on its way to being consumed (or more appropriately described: inhaled like a shop-vac).

Essentially, breakfast banter within the Circular Congregation Breakfast Club had yet to rise above comments about the weather and the body aches associated with changes in the weather.

Arnold Tobin was about to change all that. He put down his fork, pushed back from the circular table in the middle of the diner, and dabbed the corners of his mouth with a paper napkin (followed-up by wiping his recently toast holding, butter tinged, fingers on the legs of his work jeans). “I’m thinking about forming an exploratory committee to gauge the will and wants of the American people and review the feasibility of how I can best serve those very deserving people.”

Prior to Arnold’s pronouncement, the breakfast table chitchat had been restricted to one word questions, followed by one word answers:

“Busy?”

“Yep.”

“Coffee?”

“Sure.”

But, now, even the sound of knives chafing against forks ceased.

“Are you having a flash-back to the ‘60s? That sounded like some kinda’ hallucination,” Harrison Winkle broke the silence by asking the only question that could be asked. “What does that whole danged thing mean?”

“I watched the news last night, and someone asked ‘What’s-Her-Name’ if she was going to run for president, and that is just what she said”

“President of what?” Mort asked, unsure if he really wanted to know the answer.

“Of us. The People. The United States of America.” Arnold snorted. “Her answer had something to do with forming an exploratory something or other. I don’t know what they are, but a bunch of folks are doing it. That billionaire guy, some preacher, a fired computer company boss —  lots of folks are doing it. I figure I’ll do it, too, and run for president.”

“Didn’t you lose in the last election?” chuckled Tommy, recalling Arnold’s ill-fated write-in campaign for whatever office anyone thought he was best suited.

“Politician’s don’t lose elections. By rule, half of them just don’t win. If you don’t win the first election, you just run for another office on your record of being an experienced campaigner. If you don’t win the next election, you become a commentator on MSNBC. Nobody loses in politics.”

Out of habit, Jimmy started to argue the point, but stopped short because Arnold seemed to be right on this one. “What else do you have going for you besides having never won an election?”

“I’m a job creator.” Not waiting for the easy to anticipate snorts and guffaws from his compatriots, Arnold jumped mouth-first into his explanation. “Harry and Jimmy just retired. There’s two jobs right there that need filling. My campaign is going to need a campaign manager and a bunch of other people that run around all day and night, gulping Maalox and looking real busy.” Arnold paused to mix a little cream and sugar into his newly refilled coffee cup. “Those people will leave their current jobs, opening up new positions. I’ve just created maybe a hundred jobs, and I haven’t even left this diner. Multiply that hundred jobs by the number of diners in every town in this state, and then multiply that by 50 states, Washington D.C., Puerto Rico and Guam and I’ve created more than a million jobs.”

Jimmy, once more, opened his mouth to debate the issue, but again stopped short (because he was pretty sure that is exactly how the math works in our nation’s capitol).

“And, if that Hank What’s-His Name, down in Georgia — you know the guy; the one that thinks Guam is gonna get too many people, tip over, and capsize into the ocean — can get elected to Congress, there’s no reason why I can’t get elected president.”

Jimmy kept trying to find an argument with Arnold’s logic, but couldn’t quite find the flaw.

At that moment, Big John Hudson burst through the front door and tossed his ball cap on the table with the enthusiasm of a college freshman on Spring Break. However, before he could get the first incredulous word to exit his mouth, Firewalker beat him to the punch.

“Arnold’s having exploratory surgery — on his brain.”

 

Larry Wilson is a mostly lifelong resident of Niles. His optimistic “glass full to overflowing” view of life shapes his writing. His essays stem from experiences, compilations and recollections from friends and family.  He can be reached at wflw@hotmail.com.