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Yasmin and I took the kids to the Shopping Mall on Saturday after our workout. We promised Adam to buy him the latest Blox constructible. It was still morning; the food court scuffled with cuckoos and stirred with the stale stench of the dying; but my gut moaned and the family agreed; lunch must come early.

We sat at a small circular table with the double stroller parked in place of the fourth seat, with Yasmin, Adam, and I in the other three, laughing, and playing our way through lunch. Even little Mikey had awakened to nibble the husk of his corn dog and join in some of the festivities. Sissy, on the other hand, would have none of our tomfoolery and slept through yet another meal.

All consumed, not only were the wife and I dressed in gym rags and sweating pyramids down our backs; we were splotched in bright mustard and ketchup stains; whole globs of fried beans rested on my left shoulder, a bit of blueberry pie smiled across my chest. She missed the worst of it, but still wore a dainty crown of noodles, à la me, paired with designer bean-cuffs.

“All right you little monkeys,” said Yasmin with a sigh, standing and brushing dry beans and chip flakes from her lap, “let’s get you cleaned up.” I grinned involuntarily as I watched Yasmin gather up the kids, including the sleeping Sissy, and cart them off to the restrooms. My heart filled with pride and I relaxed into my chair. I watched until Yasmin’s back was about to turn behind the tiled corridor of Guest Services, when in swung a huge black figure, blocking my wife and the rest of the food court from view.

This person stood so close, I had to slide my chair back several feet just to give my knees a chance enough to stand up, but can you believe this man, this beast? When I did slide my chair back almost three feet; the brute stepped the three feet with me! So I slid the chair back again. And he follow me again! I slid again, he followed again! I slid agai—but my chair had reached a cemented pillar and would slide no further.

The figure’s heated stench gripped me in on all sides; I couldn’t move.

Slowly, I looked up to see my attacker’s face, to know what death looked like; but was surprised to find the portrait of serenity and kindliness there instead. He was a broad, thick-necked gentleman, with a full-deck underbite, dark-red skin and a long pear-shaped nose. His hair was short and well trimmed; laid smooth against his tiny skull and shone pleasant, white stripes against the fluorescent food court lighting.

When I saw the man’s face I was able to speak and I said in a shaking voice, “You’re in my way.” It was ruder than I meant, but not ruder than I thought my wife would have liked, so I didn’t retract it.

The hulking man just smiled on; invading my knees and my nose and not saying a word for several minutes. Then, he suddenly pushed out his rear, stooped to push his swollen nose to my nose, looked me eye to eye with his foggy, jade-colored eyes, tickled my chin with his fore-finger or thumb, and said, “You know my secret.” Then, quick as he had stooped, he snapped up straight, then returned to the small circular table where we had met, pulled up a chair, and sat looking in my direction; lips pursed and wrinkles at the corners of each eye.

I’d like to mention here, that it was now that I noticed that every time I looked around for help; looked around at the faces of the couples, the elderly or young, or any of the new shoppers that filed in by the dozen now; they all acted completely oblivious—not just to my existence, but seemingly to the existence of the entire dimension that held not only me and this insane gorilla man, but also this small area that we somehow dislocated from the rest of the food court. But that is neither here nor there.

I looked in vain towards the empty restroom corridor for my wife, then crossed the court to the table, and took my place across from the strange man. “You know my secret,” repeated the man, grinning to one side with his great coconut mandible. I told him I didn’t know what he was talking about, and I surely didn’t know his secret. I glanced toward the restrooms. The man laughed. The sound warmed my skin from the toes up. He reached out a greasy hand and covered mine on the table. I could not remove it. “Love,” he whispered.

“Love?” I asked in a whisper. Why was I whispering? I withdrew my hand. “Love? That’s it? I actually thought you might have something to say.”

“Love is something to say,” said the man, rubbing his hands and raising his shoulders.

“Yeah,” I said, “when you’re tired of taking her on dates!” I laughed and took a drink of my liqueur.

The man watched me through a furrowed brow. “What is that you’re drinking?”

“Musakkar,” I said.

“Is it good?” asked the man.

I checked the man’s eyes and lips to see if he was playing at something. “It’s good,” I said. “Haven’t you ever had liqueur before?”

“No,” said the man.

The man and I talked while I finished the last few drinks of my liqueur. I learned his name was Noor. He was an out of work immigrant living with his mother in Sijin. I asked about his oddities, but he was quick to avoid them. I found him checking over his shoulder more often than I. The next minute I found out why. The most incorrigible woman I’ve ever met in my life approached our table and touched us both on the shoulder.

“Excuse me sirs,” said the incorrigible woman. “Are you two ready to go then? Twelve o’clock okay then? Time to round up okay then? Oh my goodness, you haven’t been drinking then, have you? Sir? Oh my goodness, Noor, have you been drinking then, Sir? Where are you supposed to be, Sir? Sir, who are you sir, you are a mess you really must come with me,” at which point she produced a small black brick that she began requesting backup from, “where did you get the liqueur sir? Which establishment served you this liqueur—”

I waved my hand in front of her face, but using only two fingers, she took my hand, removed it from her face—without giving it so much as a look—and continued her line of questioning. “Just a second now!” I said.

“Sir!” Said the incorrigible woman. “We are going to have to find a place for you immediately.” I told her I would find a place for her, but she would not hear me. Besides, she then realized Noor was no longer next to her. “Noor?” she called. Apparently Noor had not appreciated the incorrigible woman’s interruption to our secret meeting on love and disappeared into the thickening crowd of the food court. “Noor!” She called again. “You stay here sir,” she said, pointing to me. I held my hands up and nodded, and the woman was off to find the strange beast, Noor.

When the she was gone, I laughed to my self at the thought of such a ridiculous conversation, and the idiocy of that mall woman mistaking me for a loose cuckoo, just because of—well… The gym clothes didn’t help. The food stains, the sweat, the hair, the grease; where the heck were Yasmin and the kids?

I suddenly felt chilled with sweat, like I had a fever, and I looked to the people sitting at the tables nearby—in the other dimension—who were so blind to my food court just minutes before. But now I see a young couple staring directly at me from the next table over. They look away and start chatting when I see them. And the table beyond them; the grandpa holding his two grandkids, looking over his glasses at me; he meets my look and his eyes are full of bold indifference… And the table beyond him; the best generation of high school boys, too scared to stare directly, but still too cool not to smirk a little and nod my way; and beyond and beyond—and oh! I felt such isolation then. Such penetration from just those few seconds passing. I gripped my ears and my stomach ached and I tasted acid in my mouth and I—

“You ready dad?!” This was Adam’s voice beside me. I looked up to see my family smiling to see me. “Blox store dad! Come’on! You ready?”

I look back to the food court; not a face, not an eye, everyone is minding their food and their families, and their friends, and their phones.

I twist in my seat in time to see a group of drunken adults stumbling out the glass doors. At the back, the black shirt and slick hair of Noor. He turns and his underbite is full and real against the sunlight. I took a deep breath, tickled my boy and stretched my back. “Yup,” I said. “Let’s go buddy. I’m ready.”

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Hello you! I hope you enjoyed this quick scene sketch. I put this together for you this morning, I apologize in advance for any errors, I write and post these in the same morning, but I try to do my best with advanced editing software, my own eye, and family! Thank you all for reading; I am working hard on bringing you full length professional grade projects for next year!

The diner was a long, yellow train car, permanently set into a cement slab, with a little caboose at the back where the cooks worked and white smoke rose from a tin-hatted vent on its roof, perfumed with grease, salty warm breads, and rich sauces. The middle-aged mother and teenage son tilted their heads to read the crooked railroad sign out front that read, ‘Velma’s — Home of the world’s heaviest chili dog!’

“I’m dieting mom,” said Sudama, “what am I supposed to get here?”

“Maybe they will have salad?” his mother said, clomping up the metal steps to the diner. “I want to sit down for a while, I’m beat. Come on, it looks sweet.”

The walls were lined in faded wallpaper, columns of flowers in alternating powder-blues, mustard-yellows, and dirty-reds; torn and peeling in the corners and above the tables where kids had clawed and scraped at it for years. At each booth hung a photograph or caricature of a different celebrity that had graced Velma’s with their presence: Jay Leno, William Shatner, Wayne Brady, Someone Sudama Didn’t Know.

The host greeted the mother and son with a dimpled smile. “Just the two?” she asked. She led them to a booth under a large, signed portrait of Lucille Ball, across from an old man with a yellowing-white mustache and thinning-white hair held with a rubber band at the base of his neck. Sudama eyed the old man as he settled onto the stiff cushions. The old man removed his sunglasses. He wasn’t watching at the son—he was watching his mother. “Hello there,” he said.

Sudama’s mother did not hear because she was busy digging through her purse. Sudama frowned at the old man, but either the old man did not see Sudama, or he was acting tough. He just smiled that mossy, crooked smile and returned to his food, taking a deep bite out of his Chili-Onion Dog Special. Sudama attempted to choose something from the menu, but he couldn’t concentrate through the slosh pumping past his ears. He slid closer to his mother and said in a low voice, “You see this jerk?” he said.

She swished her hair to the opposite shoulder and sat up straight, like his grandmother always nagged her about; she glanced up—expertly, and in an instant had evaluated the old man. She read her menu and grinned. “He looks like a happy guy,” she said, “what’s wrong with that? What’s wrong with you today?”

Sudama leaned back into the cushions and sighed aloud as the cold sweat on the back of his shirt chilled his spine. “Just—uncomfortable,” he said. “Sweating. I’m hungry, feel like I can’t eat anything.”

“Are you eating enough calories?” his mother asked. “A salad isn’t enough, son, you need real food. Why don’t you have a chili dog? Don’t laugh. Why not?”

“I just can’t,” he said.

“Does this have to do with that girl—what’s her name? That little hugger-muffin of yours?”

“What are you talking about?” Sudama covered his face, leaning on his elbows. “Please, just stop talking.”

“You know what I mean,” she said. “The girl you went to SeaWorld with, who you yelled at me on the phone over.”

“I can’t let myself slip,” Sudama said. “Everything has changed since I lost the weight. Everything is new now, and I don’t want to mess that up.”

“You’ve gone through a big change,” his mother said. “It will be very different. But remember that different is not always better. Sometimes it’s just different.”

“Wow, thanks ma . . . but it’s easy to be different; best to be new. No one cares about bringing back the old stuff, the new stuff is always the best—you know?”

“Sure son. Your mother isn’t just a crazy old lady. You could learn a thing or two from your elders.”

“Excuse me, sweet heart.” It was the old man again, this time speaking more forcefully. He had to have been eighty—at least, and deeply browned from scalp to sandaled toe from too much time exposed. His shirt hung unbuttoned and the reflected light of a swinging dog-tag danced on his knotted chest. Sudama wondered who that old man thought he was fooling. His mother had heard the old man already and was smiling politely. “I just had to say,” the old man went on, “you are loveliest looking young lady I’ve seen in years and years.”

His mother giggled and covered her mouth. ”Well,” she said, “that is extremely sweet of you, sir. What is your name?”

“I love your beautiful hair,” said the old man.

“What’s that?” she said.

“I love your hair,” he said.

His mother flipped her hair and patted the cushion next to her, “How sweet! Would you like to scootch on over here and talk with us for a while?”

“Yes, yes, I very much would,” said the old man, standing with a groan from his booth and hobbling over to slip into theirs. He glanced at Sudama, “Oh, how are you son?”

Sudama just raised his eyebrows; he had enough to worry about without someone trying to pick up on his mother. The old man blinked and offered a half-nod, then he put his elbow on the back of the bench, his right hand just close enough to brush her shoulder if he extended his fingers, which he did first thing; he said, “You know what it is?”, pointing to the picture on the wall, “You remind me of Lucille Ball. That’s it!”

You’ve got to be kidding, thought Sudama. This old schmoozer. Maybe his mother wasn’t as unique as he figured, she idolized Lucy, even had a few dusty tin plates with colored paintings on them in the garage somewhere. But no, this old guy knew it somehow, he said, “I’ve never met a woman with such decency. Kindest woman a man could know. And, I would know, I’ve met the best and seen every secret these continents have to offer!”

“Have you?” she said, “Were you in the military?”

“Navy,” said the old man, “yes ma’am.”

The server passed by, noticing the man at the table. Concern twisted her brow and she made eye contact with Sudama. She mouthed: ‘Is he bothering you?’ Sudama rolled his eyes; he hadn’t thought about it. He looked at his mother, then at the man, then his mother. The server finished with her other tables and came for their order. Sudama was so busy with the old man, he did not choose a meal. “Ma,” he said. “What are you getting?”

He nudged her shin with his sandal; his mother turned with widened eyes, “Um, I don’t know right now hun, hold on okay? Go ahead and order what you want.” Then she looked him straight in the eyes and he saw tears in them.

Sudama’s breath felt expanded in his chest as he looked to the old man, still molesting his mother with his eyes and grinning—grinning. “Hey!” he growled; the old man did not notice. It was his mother’s turn to kick him in the shin, She didn’t want to make a scene about it, she didn’t know if it was dangerous. Sudama knew. He looked back up to the server with a pleading look and she understood.

“We’ll take care of it,” she said, “do you know what you want yet?”

He snatched up his menu and started scanning for the healthiest plate he could find. There was Chili burgers, hotdogs, burgers without chili, polish dogs, French fries, cheese fries, chili cheese fries, tuna melts, quesadillas, chocolate, strawberry, and vanilla shakes, ice cream bars, chocolate monkey tails and—

”I’ll have the small green salad,” he said, “please. With balsamic?”

The server frowned, pouting her lip. “We don’t have balsamic,” she said.

“Of course you don’t have balsamic,” Sudama said. “Just bring whatever your lightest dressing is.”

The old man talked with wide hand gestures. He gestured slowly and controlled; a man who didn’t care whose time he wasted. The old man became so engaged in the conversation, that he slid his hips a cushion seat closer to Sudama’s mother. So close that she blushed and had to move away.

That’s when Sudama saw it; his mother’s fear, until then he was not sure, but now he knew. She looked at him and blinked slowly, not a regular blink, a slow signaling blink like this—the lids contracting smoothly. But it wasn’t just the blink; when she turned to look at Sudama, she struck him hard with one knee; a clear signal of distress! Sudama’s adrenaline leaked into his nerves from his shoulders and he involuntarily shook his head like a dog.

He couldn’t hear what they were saying anymore, all he could see was his flapping lips and his smooth glances at him that made sure to keep him quiet and in his place. Then he did it, he slipped one of his gestures into an approach and rubbed his mother’s golden locks through greasy, gnarled fingers, then laughed too hard when she was just too afraid to move away, breathing onion in her cool face—the young man smacked the table, rattling silverware; nearby tables gasped.

“Get your old hands away from my mom dude!” said Sam.

His mother shrieked, “Sudama Jujhar!”

The old man uncrossed his legs and folded his hands over his lap, shaking his head, mouth groping for defense, absolute surprise in his eyes. “Oh, my goodness, I’m sorry, I—I wasn’t. I just thought—,” he tried to say, but then he was being tapped on the shoulder by another server, this time a tall, well built man with dark features saying, “Hey George, let’s leave these nice people alone, okay?”

His blood surged; Sudama was ready for anything . . .

“She reminds me of my daughter. I didn’t mean for . . .”

“Sir,” said the tall server, “Sir, now, we’re going to have to ask you to go please, now.”

The old man sputtered. “I’m sorry, I was just—”

Suddenly, like she just then could manage the breath, his mother stood up and cried, “No, please stay!”

“Mom.”

“Shush Sudama Jujhar, you—Ugh!” she said, then to the old man, “Please. What’s your name sir? I do want to talk with you, my son is just,” waves a hand at him, “he didn’t mean it.” But he is nearly out the door in the server’s guiding hands.

The old man looks confused and feeble and can only say he is sorry before being ushered out the door.

Their server set down a limp salad, smothered in a thick white unguent, in front of Sudama. “Sorry about that,” she said. “He’s just an old regular, been coming here since they opened, I guess. How does that dressing work for you?”

The young man imagined the look on the old man’s face; his shame; his embarrassment. He wished his mother said something, but she sat still; tight lips and real tears on her cheeks. And Sudama wanted to cry, he wanted to eat. “What is it?”he asked the server.

“House dressing,” she said, “it’s the lightest we have.”

“Ranch?” Sudama said. The server nodded then returned to her other duties. That’s around six hundred calories, Sudama thought. He poked at his salad three times, then laid the fork in the dressing, pushed the plate away, and said, “I’m not hungry.”

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This has been a practice scene I wrote yesterday into today. It was taking too long to finish and I had to cut editing short, so please excuse any errors. As always, thanks for reading, I write for you!