Chapter9
"I'll have the Lumberjack Slam, please." Mac informed the waitress.
Making his way home that Sunday, Mac was in no hurry and decided to stop in at Denny's for some chow. Why the hell not? He could always catch the next bus, and Denny's, immediately off of Sixth Avenue and Union Boulevard, was almost always a happening place.
A place he enjoyed going to with Jeanette, but, secretly, especially by himself. Not that Jeanette was bad company, she never was. Mac would like to go by himself, find a vacant stool at the long counter and strike up a conversation with whoever may be sitting by him. This was very much different than going to a homey bar by himself, the purpose of which was to be alone, to think alone, to observe. Denny's served the purpose to actually mingle a little, to hear the opinions exactly why a person hated this and disagreed with that, and getting in his own two cents worth.
The normalcy of this counter was to be seated with men; it wasn't the nature of females with something to say to be at this counter. Seated next to Mac today was a man obviously of dour mood. His head hung crooked, staring deeply into an abysmal cup of coffee. Cautiously, Mac asked this man to kindly hand Mac a newspaper section situated on the man's far side. The man graciously obliged informing Mac it was pretty much the same old, same old.
The subject of the opening question being either sports or politics related, Mac was taken somewhat aback being asked if he was married. Not ready to divulge that he had been dumped by the woman of his dreams because he decided to go on a nasty bender rather than meet expectations, Mac kept it simple by answering no. Where this conversation may be going, Mac had no idea, but figuring he had nothing better to do, indulged his newest Denny's buddy.
"Any children?" asked the man. "No, no children either," Mac detested hackneyed blather and omitted the 'not that I know of' crap.
"I realize that we're complete strangers and I will be heard as lecturing parent, but believe me, believe me if you ever do have a child, do not ever assume that your child is happy inside."
The man having now exposed his apparent sadness with these words stared longingly at Mac as if to elicit any consoling response. Sensing this man's palpable and unmistakable pain, Mac did not answer with "I'm sure it was not your fault" but by asking him if everything was all right.
"I can't believe how blind we were. My wife has an M.B.A. and I earned a doctorate from MIT. All that higher education and we still didn't have the smarts to know how bad my son was feeling inside. It was all our fault."
"The Massachusetts Institute of Technology?" "Yes."
Detecting no signs to think this man was lying-he looked smart, definitely wasn't drunk, well kempt-Mac asked, "What wasn't your fault, sir?"
"My son's, Luke's, weight problem. I got so wrapped up in my career and my wife in the kitchen, Luke came along, the years flew by, the next thing we know we're being lectured to by Luke's doctor warning us if Luke didn't adopt a healthier diet he would more than likely become diabetic. When we were first married living in Boston my wife worked full time and I was working toward my doctorate. That's when my wife started to seriously dabble in the kitchen. Every weekend she would spend hours in there perfecting recipes and creating her own; I mean she discovered a she had a true passion for cooking, and goddamn, she got damn good at it, all of it. The weekends feasts couldn't come fast enough for me."
The waitress placed Mac's meal, refilled his and Frank's coffee, and Mac's grumbling stomach having coaxed him that some kid's weight problem-some kid he never knew and most likely never will, wasn't his fault or problem-eagerly attacked his