Sunday morning is always a special ditch for me. It’s typically the best meal of the week, and I always pull it at a restaurant that I’ve ran out on at least two or three times before. Sometimes I see that recognition in the eyes of the manager, and it’s like the standoff in a spaghetti western. They always serve me, even when they know I’m going to run. It’s just bad form not to serve an old man his Sunday brunch.

There’s always this look of fear in the manager’s eyes when they see me. What can they do, call the cops. Is the fat sweaty man in the short-sleeved dress shirt going to confront me in front of all these people? I think not. As he crumbles over the pressure, I sit relaxed, enjoying my eggs and bacon. At the age of sixty-eight this about the only excitement left in my life

The waitress is oblivious to the power struggle going on right in front of her as she fills my coffee cup for the fourth time. This time I slide a couple of fives across the table at her. My gesture is only met by a blank stare.

“Are you ready for your bill?”

“You can bring it whenever, but I wanted to make sure you got your tip now.”

A mass exodus of blue haired women provided the opening I was looking for. I snapped to my feet, and darted to the door. With my jacket in one hand, and the door in the other I appeared to be the attentive senior citizen husband that taxis his wife and her knitting group to brunch. As I let go of the heavy door to make my break I heard the crack of metal striking old bones. Behind me, the door I had just hastily released now trapped an especially small and frail knitter. She squirmed and wiggled like a mouse, snapped in half by one of those spring-loaded traps people used to use to catch rodents. I felt bad, but not bad enough to go back, or pay for my meal. It’s just like that in combat sometimes. In Vietnam that choice to leave a man behind for the survival of the platoon could be made several times a week, and I never looked back then either.

All the commotion from the knitter stuck in the door had drawn the attention of that fat sweaty manager. My escape needed to be accelerated, but demanding more from my body these days took an enormous effort. Even with a complete knee replacement on the right side, and a stomach full of hash browns I legged it out to the Ranchero. In my rearview I could already see that the fat man had managed to dislodge the knitter from the sprung mousetrap the door had become, and was now approaching. He was waving a piece of paper in one hand that I assumed was my bill. At the command of my key eight cylinders roared to life, and I slammed the stick into reverse with the clutch only half engaged. There was a loud grinding as I did this, and then I felt a clunk throughout the whole frame. For an instant I thought I was dead in the water, and it seemed like that fat man might finally have his day. And it seemed like I might actually have to pay for my Sunday feast, and a tow truck. That’s what it seemed like, but when my left foot slid off the clutch the rear tires smoked and I was immediately doing thirty miles an hour in reverse. Out of an instinctual need to escape I cranked the wheel, and muscled the shifter into first without the assistance of the clutch. The Rancheroresponded by spinning one hundred and eighty degrees, then I took it over the nearest curb to get out of the parking lot. The fat bastard stood there, out of breath, staring at me. Defeated, the bill now just dangled at the end of a limp arm like a flag of surrender.

Third Sunday in a row I’ve got that fat bastard at the IHOP. He’s thirty-five years younger than me, and he can’t get across the parking lot without getting winded. What a disappointment that fucker is. I’m going back next week, got to teach him a lesson.

When I pull up to the apartment building that Wurlitzer kid is sitting on the steps outside. Talk about a fat bastard, this little criminal is as wide as he is tall.

“Ha, old man, nice El Camino”

“It’s a 68’ Ford Ranchero, Chevy makes El Caminos.”

“You got a smoke old timer?”

“Yeah, I got a whole pack. Do you have any?”

“What? No, I don’t have any.”

“Well, good luck getting some.”

That kid is as stupid as he looks.

When I walked into the apartment the light on the message machine was flashing. I had the feeling I knew who it was, so I didn’t bother to check it. Instead I sat on the couch and screamed at the television set while the Seahawks lost to the Raiders. Six cans of Budweiser into the game the phone rang. The voice on the other end was the reason I’d chosen not to check my message machine, but the early afternoon buzz short-circuited my natural reaction to ignore the phone and I picked up.

“Jerry?” A woman’s voice spoke.

“Jerry, are you there?”

“Of course I’m here, I picked up the phone didn’t I.”

“Did you see Adam today? He said you never showed up.”

"Look Susan, I don’t think that kid is mine. I don’t hear from you for three decades, then you just give me a call and tell me I have this grown son.”

“Well you do, and I’m sorry about how it happened but he wants to know who his father is. If you want to be upset at someone, be upset at me. Don’t take it out on your son. Will you call him?”

“No. I’ll go see him.”

“Are you going to show up this time?”

“I said I’d go see him. I’ll go by there next Sunday.”

“A whole week!”

“You’re lucky I’m going at all after what you did. Just tell him, I’ll see him next Sunday. Bye.”

The television clicker wouldn’t make the volume on the game go back up. The demise of the remote’s life force came as no shock. Those batteries had been on their way out for weeks. Going to the store was out of the question, and fishing some living ones out of another device seemed too labor intensive. After dusting off Bud number seven, getting number eight out of the refrigerator seemed too labor intensive as well. Even without sound it was clear the Seahawks were still losing. Instead of turning the volume back up I just closed my eyes.

When I woke up my arm was asleep, or maybe that pins and needles sensation is why I woke up. The clock fell off the wall a couple of months ago, and the white circle where it used to be is the only indication of the apartment’s original color. The current color of nicotine yellow covered the remainder of the wall. Lending no useful information, the VCR just flashed twelve o’clock over and over again. When I found my watch in the bathroom I caught a glance of myself in the mirror. The lines the couch had left on my face blended well with the ones that old age had left on my face, and I flashed myself a smile that exposed my wall shaded dentures. My watch confirmed what I already suspected. After nine o’clock, and well past my bedtime. After lighting a smoke I sprawled out on my couch again, but this time I stripped to my skivvies and pulled the blanket over me.

When I woke up the following Sunday morning I was already thinking about how I was going to stiff that fat bastard at the IHOP again. Going down there on Sunday had become the highlight of my week, and I decided right then and there that I would rip off that place every Sunday until that manager guy caught me. That fucker was yellow, and I was going to make him grow a backbone if it killed him.

The best thing about being retired is that you never have anywhere to be, and if you do it’s because you were stupid enough to take on some bullshit charity commitment somewhere because you thought you’d be bored without a job to go to. Who’s stupid enough to go work somewhere for free after they’d already worked a lifetime. Well I’ll tell you what; I’m no sucker. After the clock fell off the wall I just chucked it into the garbage. The compulsion to look and see what time it is hasn’t been so easy to dispose of.

The light on the message machine was flashing again, but I didn’t bother to check the tape. I already knew who it was, and she was the reason I’d turned the ringer off the night before. Yesterday’s paper was sitting on the coffee table in front of the couch when I woke up, so I lit a smoke and browsed the articles. The Sunday paper on the doorstep would have been more interesting, but Saturday’s is sitting right in front of me. Sunday’s news will have to wait for Monday morning.

That growling and slight nausea growing in my stomach was telling me that it was time for the IHOP. I pulled up yesterday’s trousers, put on a fresh shirt, and maneuvered my suspenders into place. The circle on the wall didn’t know what time it was, neither did the VCR, and my watch was misplaced again. Time was a minor detail anyway, so I pulled on my tweed derby cap and headed out.

After cruising the block a couple times I confirmed that the quarry was indeed in his normal setting. Today I wouldn’t make it so easy for him. I pulled the Ranchero into a spot on the North side of the building. It was still relatively close to the exit, but was also completely obscured by bushes.

After heading in it didn’t take long for the sweaty, fat man to take notice of me. This neither shocked nor frightened me. As always he was wearing his short-sleeved dress shirt with a polyester Searstie. Nobody dresses in this manner except restaurant managers, and Mormon missionaries. If either ever show up on your doorstep, punch first and ask questions later.

“You’re not getting away this week old man.” His nametag threatened to blind me with all the flare and shiny buttons. Nobody else here had as many shiny buttons on their nametag. They were like war medals, for losers. It was like he was the General of some kind of pathetic and sad food army.

“Well I’d like to see you stop me, Adam.”

“Enjoy your pancakes and hash browns. Really enjoy them, because you’re going to be paying for them this time.”

That fat kid had fire in his gut today, and I was starting to think getting over on him was going to be more difficult than I’d anticipated. Up until this moment I’d had my doubts about him, but I still wasn’t sure. It was going to take more than an idle threat to convince me, but it was a good start.

“More coffee? That generic, bubbly tone in the voice was the hallmark of all successful waitresses.

“Of course.”

“Rise and Shine Senior special today?”

“Yeah, three of them.”

“Are people joining you?”

“No. Make sure to charge me full price too.”

“You got it.”

In the background I could hear her calling out the order to the line cook. This caught the attention of Adam the manager, and it prompted another visit to my booth.

“What do you think you’re doing Jerry?”

“Trying to get my breakfast, but the service around this shit hole leaves something to be desired.”

It took me a little by surprise when he called me by name, and he seemed a little disappointed that I didn’t react. That was obviously his trump card, but my poker face never cracks. He must have talked to his mother and put two and two together, but if that’s all he’s got I’ll beat him like I do every other week. Fuck him. I’ll fake a heart attack, and leave in an ambulance if that’s what it takes.

My three Rise and Shine’s soon arrived. I made sure to eat off every plate, but finished none of them. The three meals were just a smokescreen, something to confuse old Adam, mess up his game plan, fuck with his head. The real plan was the same as always; I’d wait for another diversion to happen in the restaurant, and slip out while he tended to it.

As I glanced toward the bushes that the Ranchero hid safely behind my doubt about the fat manager, and his origins returned. My pondering was interrupted by voices in the distance. Dozens of conversations took place in the dining area, but I singled out two distinct voices in the crowd. It’s a skill I’ve always had, and today it was going to pay off in a big way.

“We’re out of ones.” My waitress’s voice called out to the fat man.

“Again! There’s none in the safe. It’s Sunday I can’t go to the bank.”

“Well we’re out Adam.”

“I’ll go to the 7-11, and see if they’ll sell me a bundle.”

Poor Adam, this wasn’t even fair. I almost felt bad for ditching while he was off the premises, but I take opportunities where they’re given. Maybe another day kid, but today belonged to the old man. I pulled my derby on, and removed a couple of fives from my wallet. With my shirt-pocket pen I scribbled, “tip for waitress” on a napkin, and slid the fives under it. Right then my bill appeared in front of me, and since I already had my pen out I wrote, “better luck next Sunday, Adam” on the back of the bill.

With my escape all but assured, I moved toward the exit without even bothering to look over my shoulder. Adam walked out the front door three minutes ago, and handed me the easiest meal I ever stole. As I started up the walkway toward the parking lot the voice that haunts my message machine called out:

“Did you see Adam?”

“You checking up on me Susan.”

“I just wanted to make sure you two got together. How’d it go?”

“Great, he’s good, I’m full. I got to go, call me later.”

Wild cards were just popping out of the woodwork, but I’d been in plenty of tight situations before. It was starting to seem like getting me to pay for my meal was not the fat boy’s primary objective. Susan’s presence was no coincidence, but I couldn’t figure it out at this moment.

There was no turning back now. The faster I walked the more my fake knee throbbed, and I held it as I fled. The knee would recover, just an acceptable strategic loss. Sun Tzu would concur. To avoid further eye contact I dropped my head and stared at my loafers as I limped along. I kept waiting to hear Adam’s winded voice behind me, yelling about the bill or something, but it never came. The noise that now caught my attention was the unmistakable noise of a tow truck’s hydraulic lift. When I looked up from my loafers my worst fear was confirmed.

Adam stood with a huge grin on his face as the tow truck pulled out of the IHOP parking lot.

“Well played.”

“Thanks, old man.”

“You want that money for the bill now?”

“Nah, this one’s on me. Besides you’re going to need save your Social Security check to get your car back.”

“It’s not a car, it’s a Ford Ranchero. Any kid of mine would know that.”

“1968 Ranchero with a stock 428. I had a peek under the hood before I called the tow guy.”

“I’ll take you for a ride sometime if you want.”

“Sure, anytime. I got to get back to work, alright.”

“Hey son, do you know if your mom is still here?”

“I think she’s inside.”

“Do you think she’ll give me a ride home?”