The state of Indiana charges an additional fee if you decide to pay your child support online. So I, being someone who is obligated to pay said support, choose to write a check every two weeks and mail it the old fashioned way to the Indiana State Central Collection Unit. After writing the check one lovely spring day, I walked over to my local post office to deposit the envelope in the big blue mailbox. Passing the Tavern on the way, I saw a couple of regulars standing outside and talking to the bartender who I knew would be taking over in just a couple of hours. I briefly considered going into the Tavern, that home away from home for me, for some lunch. I wanted to tell Dustin, the aforementioned (and hockey loving) bartender about how I had recently been to my very first hockey game and how the crowd had screamed at me for ignorantly getting up to fetch beers while the puck was in play. Apparently, this is a grave no-no. You could be killed by the puck or something. Never before had so much belligerence been directed toward me by so many people at once.
They roared at me to sit down. Some of their faces were stern. Some of them were angry. Others were in disbelief. But most of the faces were blurry due to the several beers, multiple daiquiris (mixed with 151), and the bottle of vodka that my buddy Steve and I had been consuming before we arrived at the arena. As I obediently began returning to my seat, I yelled back at them all. "I know, I know. 'Act like you've been here before!' Well, I've never been here before! I've never been to a hockey game!" The tone of my voice was that of aggression with a wink. The sternness and anger of the crowd became smiles and laughter. They forgave this drunken sojourner in a foreign land and began advising me when it was okay to leave my seat. But I digress...
Back home in Broad Ripple, I dropped my envelope into the mailbox and began heading in the direction of the nearby Belgian brewpub. No Tavern for me this time. But as I rounded the corner and began walking down Broad Ripple Avenue, I changed my mind. I decided to head into the Cuban sandwich shop. It was much closer and their food is delicious. I walked in and ordered the Regular Cuban Sandwich from the large Cuban man with the large Cuban mustache who is the proprietor of the establishment. (The man is the proprietor, not the mustache). As I awaited my food, another man walked in and said he had never been there before. "In that case", said the friendly proprietor with a smile "I advise you to get one of everything on the menu." The patron laughed and then said that his friend had recommended that he get a Cuban sandwich. "It's an authentic Cuban sandwich", the proprietor explained. "But they don't even make them this way in Cuba anymore." The patron naturally inquired why this should be so. "Because they can't get the ingredients. That's what socialism will do for you."
The patron nodded and said, "We really don't understand what socialism is like."
"Oh, I know what it's like", said the proprietor.
"I know you know what it's like", clarified the patron. "We Americans don't really understand it. And we don't really understand poverty."
"No, you don't. You say you're poor and you have big screen TVs and video games..."
"And $600 phones", the patron interrupted while holding up his own device as an example.
"Right", rejoined the proprietor. "You have all these things but you think you're poor because you don't have a Bill Gates house?" He shook his head in disbelief.
"We have floors! I adopted a kid from Ethiopia. He lived in a hut with dirt floors", said the patron.
"My ex was from Honduras", said the proprietor.
"I've been to Honduras", I chimed in. "The people there lived in little cinder block houses with no floors."
"Right", said the proprietor. "With corrugated metal roofs. And that gets hot!"
"Sometimes the walls are corrugated metal too", added the patron. "I've seen it."
The patron then, realizing that he had not yet ordered anything, began reading the menu board and finally chose a sandwich. Then he jumped right back into the conversation which he was clearly enjoying.
"So, I'm sure you loved Fidel Castro", he said with a wry smile.
"I loved it when he died!" said the proprietor. "I don't know if you heard this", he continued. "But when he died, when they were transporting his casket, the wheel fell off!" He laughed at the poetic justice. "And he spent his whole life hating capitalism. Then he died on Black Friday!" He continued laughing at the expense of the deceased dictator. "I bet he really died the day before, on Thanksgiving. But they probably didn't release the news until the next day so people wouldn't give thanks for Castro's death! Hahaha!"
The patron and the proprietor then began talking about Cuba's future and whether or not there was reason for optimism. I looked up at the big American flag pinned to the ceiling. I was going to mention that I liked how Obama had opened up relations with Cuba and that that should bode well for the future of the island nation, but I didn't know how that would be received and decided to remain quiet. Right about then my sandwich was finished and I took the bag and headed out the door toward home. Passing the Tavern again, I saw another regular standing outside smoking. He is a white man a little younger than I and he was talking to three black girls. He waved and I threw up the peace sign. "What's up, man? You doin' alright?" he asked. "Doin' great", I replied as I kept walking. He eyed my sandwich bag and smiled. "That don't look like a pint in that bag", he quipped. The girls giggled. "Nope", I said with a smile. "It's a sammich!"
I crossed Broad Ripple Avenue and then crossed College and began walking north over the canal. An older black man apologized to me as he ran around me. He was trying to beat the fast approaching bus to the bus stop. His clothes were filthy and he had a giant hole in his shoe. I walked on home.
