Tomorrow I begin prep for a colonoscopy. I’m not excited about it. I don’t so much mind the procedure as I mind the prep for the procedure. I do not like being hungry. I don’t tolerate it well. I always enjoy a big breakfast and without it, I get cranky. I am reminded of an unfortunate incident that occured at a breakfast bar at a Marriott Hotel in Washington, DC a few years ago.
Landi and I spent a couple of nights Washington, DC to celebrate a friend’s birthday. We spent an amazing Saturday visiting museums and memorials. At dinner we had a wonderful experience at an exceptional venue. After dinner we retired to the bar at the hotel for cocktails.
Unbeknownst to us, our hotel was also hosting a LGBYOB conference of some kind that weekend. The bar was full of very interesting, fun people of all persuasions in all manner of dress. We had a hell of a good time for several hours abusing alcohol with the folks attending the event. You can say what you might about these folks, but I will tell you they know how to party. This may have been the highlight of the weekend. After a couple hours of laughter and good times, we all retired for the night.
The next morning, I woke as usual at 5:0AM I got my computer and went down to the lobby for coffee. Mornings in hotel lobbies are pretty causal places. I have never been one to parade around in pajamas, so I was attired in flip flops, an old pair of sweatpants and a T-Shirt from Roy’s First Chance/Last Chance in Paragould, Arkansas. As I set out to read the morning news and have a cup of coffee, my attention was abruptly hijacked when my nose was seduced by the arrival of certain aromas in the room. I watched carefully as a group of gentlemen began set up a huge breakfast buffet.
The buffet began with fruits of all kinds. For some reason, tropical and summer fruits always entice me more in December than in August. I looked out the window of the hotel. In the predawn light, I could see that it was cold and grey. It was spitting snow. The Honeydew melons looked very good. My mouth watered.
The oatmeal station featured a large container of perfectly prepared oatmeal. Nearby sat brown sugar, raisins, and anything else that you could possibly add to oatmeal. On the same station, the selections of yogurt were carefully displayed. There were yogurts for several regions along with tasty traditional complements for them.
Next the breads came out. There were bagels, of course, and cream cheese. There were lox, and all other manner of condiments for the bagels. Naturally, there was an almost infinite variety of bagels. I could smell the sesame seed bagels as well as the cinnamon bagels. Is there anything the smells better than an onion bagel? My stomach growled, and I experienced a Pavlovian response. Just beyond the bagels were the other breads. There was every kind of bread I had ever heard of. Is there anything that smells better than freshly baked bread? There were several toasters. Nearby were cool little butter pats all shaped like swans along with a multitude of jellies and jams.
Next they brought out breakfast meats. I smelled bacon. Real bacon! Bacon from a pig and not from a turkey. I was getting light headed. I smelled sausage, and not that crappy restaurant sausage that has no flavor. I smelled Tennessee Pride sausage. This is the sausage that God intended for us when he made pigs. This sausage walks into the room like Liberace and announces, ‘I am here!’. They brought out a beef tenderloin that shouted ‘Me, too!’ and sent up fireworks. I love it when the meats call to me. I was getting a little aroused.
Did I mention that there was sausage gravy and biscuits, or grits? Did I mention grits? There were plain, old grits. There were cheese grits made with a white cheddar cheese. There were jalapeno cheese grits made Jalapenos, Mexican cheese and a little magic. Hash-browns were real hash-browns with the carefully browned crunchy bits in abundance.
Finally, the eggs were brought out. Tremendous chafers of scrambled eggs were set on the tables. Near by, sous chef of sorts readied the omelet station. I could tell this was going to be good. He had dozens of eggs, a pitcher of cream, and well over a dozen different items he could add to your omelet.
I watched all this from across the lobby. I read zero news that morning as I was transfixed on the preparations taking place. The whole lobby was filled with amazing breakfast sights and smells. I watched the clock. The sign said breakfast would begin at 6:30AM. It is amazing how slowly time can go when you are carefully watching the assemblage of a majestic breakfast buffet while suffering under the spell of bacon aroma. Time creeps by in halting bursts like a cat stalking a meandering mouse.
Finally, it was six thirty. I rose from my chair and walked swiftly across the room. Though to lobby was empty except for me, I was taking no chances. I wanted to be first through the buffet. I am a professional at breakfast buffets. In a quick, and efficient manner I took a white china plate and my silverware from the table. I approached the fruits like a hawk descending on a field mouse. My choices were already made as I had already given serious thought to them. I passed the bagels entirely. This was no time for bagels, there were meats ahead. Three pieces of bacon were placed beside two pieces of Tennessee Pride sausage. I was bearing down on the Jalapeno grits when I was abruptly stopped by a small, constipated man with a bad attitude.
“The buffet is for guests of the LGBYOB Conference only”, the man said with measured disdain that dripped from his words like warm syrup drooling off the edge of a Belgian waffle.
I looked at him, then I looked at my plate. I had Honeydew melon and a strawberry sitting beside my bacon and sausage. I had a ladle of Jalapeno grits in my hand. I looked back at the man. He was looking over his glasses and down his nose at me. My entire body could sense the presence of scrambled eggs mere inches away. There was cheese. Did I mention that there was finely shredded cheese for the scrambled eggs?
I was in shock. “I’ll take that plate, sir”, he said again with enough condescension to get your ass beat in most civilized places. This little runt was revelling in his ability to exercise despotic authority over the breakfast buffet. He imperiously held out his little hand as if to take my plate. Without thinking, I shielded my plate from him as I said “What? What are you talking about?”
“Sir, this buffet is reserved for guests of the LGBYOB Conference only. You will surrender that plate.”
I was overcome, nay, strengthened, I was strengthened by the power of the multitude of aromas danced about the room. They were so strong that it seemed they were on the verge of bringing the artificial plants to life.
“What makes you think that I am not a guest of the LGBYOB Conference?”, I asked in my most confident and assertive voice. I put an entire piece of bacon in my mouth as I locked eyes with and towered over the miniature nazi.
The man looked me up and down very slowly and very deliberately as if doing an inspection. I was wearing flip flops, old sweat pants and a T-shirt from a beer joint in rural Arkansas. I had neither shaved nor combed my hair. I may have had doggie breath.
Adjusting his posture so as to be as tall as he could possibly be, the evil little bastard abruptly straightened his crisply starched Marriott apron. With the most formal diction he could muster and in a voice and cadence that reeked of social and moral superiority, this catty little bastard calmly and deliberately said “The way you are ….um….dressed……. Sir”. The words seemed to almost slither out of his mouth.
I was shocked. That’s profiling. I was a victim of profiling, and profiling is wrong.
I took a piece of sausage off my plate. I slid the sausage in its entirety into my mouth as handed my plate the repulsive little skunk before me. I knew that one day, after I recovered from the psychic trauma of being denied breakfast after having smelled it for so long, I would immortalize the vindictive little tyrant, Andrew, who runs the buffet at Marriott in downtown Washington DC. with a blistering post describing this horrid event.
I want to mention, for the record, that I didn’t tell him to kiss my ass and I didn’t put him in a trash can. I wanted to, but I didn’t want to have to explain to my wife how I got arrested at a breakfast bar at an LGBYOB Conference.
In my old age, it seems I have matured.
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