All Apologies

ILLUSTRATION by BOB AUL

You were the two emo kids having a coffee klatch at my favorite LB hangout. You were talking loudly about music and friends, and using references to intercourse, genitalia, feces and out-of-wedlock births to punctuate what was an otherwise normal conversation. But you were apparently unaware of your surroundings, and so you didn’t take notice of the effect of your stories on the two little kids and their dad sitting at the next table. Seriously: These kids looked shell-shocked, like those pie-eyed kids in a Margaret Keane painting. And I might be projecting here (I’m not), but dad was staring blankly into the faces of his little cherubs and contemplating on how he might handle the awkwardness; I’ll never forget how he had paused for a full minute while unwrapping a yogurt pop or something. So I stepped in, addressed myself to you guys, pointed out the kids at the next table and asked you politely to mind the language. You looked at the kids . . . and this is where the story gets really weird: You apologized—to me and to them—and then proceeded talking animatedly, but without the rough stuff. A barista offered me a free-drink coupon for my next visit as a result (“Thanks for handling that,” he said). I’m ashamed to say I didn’t do what I ought to have: Bought you two guys a drink. Your kindness, sensitivity and just, well, fuck, your goodness, I guess, have stayed with me for weeks. Thanks for the gift.

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