Humor by John Christmann
A New Jersey Nativity
You want fries with that?
The young woman, looking very much pregnant even through her thick winter coat, nodded in quiet affirmation to the man in the paper hat behind the counter.
My son and I were sitting in a crowded strip mall diner eating sloppy hamburgers and greasy french fries after a teeth-gnashing excursion shopping for presents. An incoming blizzard was hurling fresh snow frantically about the parking lot.
The restaurant was full of bleak faces taking shelter from the ravages of Christmas shopping and the harsh December nor’easter. There were no tired holiday songs piped in from overhead, no strings of colored lights reflecting off the snow outside, no wreaths in the picture windows. Just hamburgers.
Outside, muted headlights danced behind the dull veil of snow, horns honked, and determined shoppers leaned against the wind trying to make headway against pelting snow and the onset of six o’clock blackness.
Just minutes before a beat up truck had pulled in front of the restaurant. It let out the pregnant woman, and then plunged back into the darkness.
The woman waddled her way awkwardly to the counter, holding her belly as she moved. Three guys stood behind the cash registers wearing white aprons and red paper hats. The manager, whose pocket announced his presence to the world as Gabe, delivered orders to a flock of young kitchen shepherds slinging burgers.
My son and I offered the poor woman a seat at our table, so she could at least sit down as she waited for her order. Her name was Maria. Her husband, who was circling the treacherous parking lot in blinding snow looking for a parking spot, was a contractor. They had just arrived from Newark.
I looked at my son and he looked back at me, raising his eyebrow. Finally I ventured headlong into the Twilight Zone.
“Let me guess,” I said. “Your husband’s name is Joseph.”
The young woman looked startled. “No,” she said, “actually his name is Anthony; but his middle name is Joe." She bowed her head slightly, not looking us in the eye, and added: “I think if you eliminated the name Anthony the population of New Jersey would be reduced by half.”
Just then Maria grimaced and placed her hand on her belly and shifted her weight uncomfortably on the edge of her chair. Then she grimaced again. “I wish my husband were here,” she cried, glancing desperately at the bare clock on the wall. Then she grimaced again and let out a sharp gasp of pain.
I jumped up to support her back from behind and instructed her to start breathing rhythmically without pushing. “Are you a doctor?” She wanted to know.
“No, but I play one on TV,” I reassured her as I struggled to call 911 on my cell phone with my left thumb. On my first attempt I hit 822. On my second, I called 644.
Soon an ambulance pulled up and idled in a handicap zone beneath a lamppost. High overhead a bright halogen light illuminated the swirling snow, but not much else. Two paramedics forced their way through the pelting weather into the restaurant, then urgently placed the woman on a stretcher and escorted her outside just as her husband arrived.
The patrons, alarmed at the sudden clatter and the red and white lights pulsing ominously outside, abandoned their half-eaten meals and rushed to the window to see what was the matter. Over the loud speaker Gabe reassured the customers that there was no cause for alarm and that soft drinks were available free with the order of any king size chili dog.
Then three guys in paper hats came to our table carrying the woman’s order: frankfurters, golden fries, and a chocolate milk shake. I pointed to the ambulance parked outside. “She’s out there, under the light.”
After the storm died my son and I slowly crunched our way home past festively lit front yards dotted occasionally with snow-laden crèche scenes depicting the story of Christmas.
My son, who had been teenage quiet up to this point, spoke:
Dad, doesn’t this happen everyday? Even in Five Guys Burgers and Fries? Even when only three guys are at the counter?
Aren’t we all God’s children no matter what we celebrate? Aren’t we all born miracles? Don’t we all spend the rest of our lives, each in our own way, trying to remain worthy of that miracle?
. . . and don’t we all want fries with that?
Anthony burst in from the harsh weather laughing. He could barely contain himself. “I bring you tidings of great joy!” he announced to everyone and no one. “It’s a girl! Her name is Julie, but we shall call her JLo!”
Over the loud speaker Gabe called an order:JLo . . . Glory to God in the highest.
© 2010 Dadinthebox.com