New essay EYE

THE METRO

It's Sunday morning, which means i'm going to breakfast with my parents. We debate for a few moments on where to go, and as it ends every single time, we choose the Metro upon my insistence. Although its the furthest of all the restaurants in our preferred radius, the decision remains the same. The metro is a classic American style diner that serves breakfast all day but is closed in Mondays. At the entrance is a man made pond full of obese coy fish and a sign in the window that says 'rest rooms for customers only. No soliciting. '

As we enter, the hostess greets us with familiarity as we are regulars. By now they know my parents prefer a booth. And we are seated in our usual section. we pick up our menus for what has to be the 300th time, even though both my parents know exactly what they're going to order. The waitress greets us and starts a familiar conversation with my mother about her knitting group who meets at the metro on Wednesday mornings. She's a young, married hispanic woman with a 7 year old boy. I stare at the menu, still indecisive, as my mother announces that we are ready to order, regardless of the fact that i am clearly unprepared.

She orders the blintzes, my father, the healthy choice omelette as he is borderline diabetic. My turn has come and still I find myself immersed in the menu, trapped in limbo between breakfast and lunch. One look at the time, 11:00, and i commit to the lunch section. my eyes meet a generic picture of a steak sammich under which it says' product may differ from image provided. ' but I'm swayed by the glistening juiciness of the sliced steak and my decision is made.

Customarily, my mother strikes up a conversation about the girl that waitresses on Wednesday's that is my age.

"I think she's so cute. She's taking night classes at Rutgers. You should ask her out." I roll my eyes as i brush off the suggestion and continue my business of listening to other tables' conversations.

The waitresses do well to earn their tips, bringing up their children or tuition, or their children's tuition organically in conversation, as the customers prepare to order. One, a former stay at home mom, chimes in at our table about her son, as she and my mother are acquaintances and like to compare myself and her son as if it's a competition. I almost always win.

Our waitress arrives with our food and joins the conversation about children, bringing up how she's started a college fund for her own child.
The owner, a portly, well aged Sicilian, makes his daily stroll through the restaurant with usual accessories, his fedora and walking stick, greeting the regulars and schmoozing. The portrait on the wall reveals his younger days in the navy, before he became a little baked potato of a restaurant owner. His wife works the register, and their daughter, whom seated us is the hostess.

Piano music begins to play as the brunch hour begins during which live entertainment is provided my a local musician. This week it is a middle aged pianist with thick frame glasses, playing jazzed out versions of classics such as Frank Sinatra slowly progressing into Elton John and Billy Joel.

As the lunch hour grows closer, our conversation transitions from recent news to financial concerns such as car repairs, rent, and bills.. Mostly mine. But like all Sunday breakfasts, the conversation ends with my mothers concerns about my brother's well being, credit card debt, and her crack pot theory about how he hates her and never wants to come home.

The familiar feelings of fullness and jealousy of how my mother does everything for my brother arrive, and I suggest that it's time to depart. The final two traditions of Sunday breakfast include my mother ridiculing my father into leaving a bigger tip, and me grabbing a handful of peppermints before we exit.

The ride home is like a post game press conference as my parents and I exchange questions about what we discussed at breakfast. The final question is a two parter. Will I be home for dinner, and if so what would I like to eat? I have no comment. The ride home is quiet and calm as I think about the waitress that works Wednesdays.

Blog 3.1

As I turned the ignition I could hear the exhaust start to rattle. In the rear view mirror, the fumes began to cloud and rise until it disappeared. I took a deep breath and saw it rise and disappear like the exhaust. It was especially cold because my window was broken and permanently open a few inches. The auto body shop wanted $400 to fix it and I don't have that kind of money, as I am a broke college student.   I drive a chevy pickup full of books, shoes, empty bottles, and clothes.. My brother drives an SUV full of clothes and soccer balls.   Cars have always been a status symbol. When the first car was made available to the public only the rich could afford them. Now that cars are more affordable and there are so many, your status is dependant on what kind of car you drive. The spectrum ranges from 'mommy and daddy bought me an Audi for my sweet sixteen' to 'For my 16th birthday I got a job and bought this $500 piece of shit that barely runs.' I'm somewhere in the middle. I paid for my first car out of my own money, my family paid insurance. My brother never had the same luxury because he kept getting into accidents or getting speeding tickets. Driving with him used to make me sick to my stomach and I'd be halfway through making my peace with god by the time we got where we were going.   My father is a passive aggressive driver, if someone tries to pass him he speeds up just enough so they can't. There are a lot of circles in Flemington. He drives with one thumb on the horn ready to beep anyone who impedes him. He has 4 PBA stickers on his car, hopingto ward off tickets.My mother never leaves the right lane. She'll call the house and say she's on her way home from work and she'll be there in a half an hour. 45 minutes later the front door opens and in she comes.   Once again, I find myself somewhere in the middle, driving 85mph on route 78, but only ever having been ticketed once for not coming to a complete stop at a stop sign. I'm sure after writing this I'll jinx myself and get a fat speeding ticket and a couple points on my license.   My ex-girlfriend's driving style can be summed up in one short sentence. She recieved two speeding tickets in less than 24 hours on the same road.   Driving with someone for the first time can be quite an educational experience. My teammate, Mike, is from Bayonne, and I've never been  part of the breaking of so many traffic laws in my life. He passes cars where no man should ever pass cars, does illegal u-turns at the most innapropriate times, and I'm 90% sure he doesn't know there's a such thing as a speed limit.