It was a weekend or so ago that I completed my week’s work and emerged from my office late at night. Beaten down by the week’s activities I proceeded to summon up what was left of my energy and ventured forth to my favorite beach resort about three hours away, where I had made reservations. Oh to get away from it all and not be bothered with the normal everyday matters which plague us all—not to mention the obnoxious people we have to deal with all week.

I arrived late in the evening at my favorite hotel and got a good night’s sleep before rising and going down for the hotel’s continental breakfast. Ah yes, the continental breakfast, a simple, non-fanciful nutritious breakfast. It’s called the continental breakfast because it’s the breakfast of choice over there on the other continent—Europe that is—where the local citizenry pause for a light breakfast and some socializing with their fellow citizens before moving on to the day’s activities.

Well dudes and dudettes, we ain’t over on the other continent. Over here, at least in my beachfront hotel, the continental breakfast has a different connotation. It’s not light and there’s not too much socializing. There the continental breakfast means all the breakfast goodies are usually crammed onto a counter in a small cove, maybe 4 by 10, in the corner of the lobby. All the guests have to get at it before the 10′ o clock hour rings out and one of the court cleaning Cinderellas sweeps it all away into her cart and dashes away, not even leaving a strap from her sandal in the wake.

Obtaining one’s rightful bounty before proceeding to the beach is becoming a ritual to endure at my beachfront hotel. Not unlike shuffling around like chiclets in a plastic puzzle, the guests move from one position to another, scooping, hunting, gathering and toasting when necessary. More like cave people if you know what I mean.

I surveyed the cove from the landing above and moved swiftly down the stairs to penetrate any opening I spotted before it closed like soft jello around a spoon after it has been withdrawn. With stealth maneuvers I was able to penetrate the amoeba-like assembly of humanity and reach one of the coffee machines.

Let’s be blunt here: I am a coffee man–period–that’s breakfast for me. I don’t know how people can scarf down all that stuff like chocolate crunchies cereal, blueberry muffins, bagels waffles, eggs, etc., etc. and then not feel and look like bloated pigs. Well anyway, coffee is enough for me as long as it has enough caffeine in it. But I do like a little sugar with it. I also think it’s a good idea to have a cup to put the precious liquid into. Well in the continental breakfast cove, reaching the coffee maker is a major achievement.

Getting a cup out of the metal tube nearby is another great accomplishment to be relished, but putting sugar in it, is stretching your luck a bit. Snagging a coffee stirrer out of a tray in the back as you’re being swept away from it by the food gathering mass around you is reaching the upper limits of human capabilities in the continental breakfast cove.

The squadron of guests with arms, legs, hands and other human parts moving in every direction to gather their share of the goodies makes a simple task as hard as trying to learn solid geometry from a teacher who talks like Gomer Pyle (I had one).

Well I managed to accomplish all of the above tasks, almost without incident except for the overweight woman who stabbed me in the back with her plastic fork. You would think that a plastic fork wouldn’t be painful, but don’t count on it. I don’t know what she was aiming for but she definitely missed, unless she was nearsighted and thought I was a large muffin.

I shook off the injury quickly and charged for daylight–easier said than done. I was sort of ejected by the food gathering squadron back into the lobby area like a pinball bouncing off a bumper post.

In order to get over the ordeal I headed for the patio area just outside the lobby where a dozen or so small tables with sun umbrellas attached are available for the guests where they can relax and scoff down their goodies before walking out to the boardwalk and beach about 50 feet away.

Unfortunately these delightful pieces of furniture and chairs are made out of wrought iron shaped with intricate designs quite un-complementary to the human figure. The designer must have previously been employed in the waffle iron department of an appliance company before moving on to furniture.

Anyway I parked myself into one of the chairs and set my cup down on the table. Needless to say, it doesn’t take long for your butt to be imprinted with the same intricate design that the chair seat has.

Nevertheless I was out in the open and very close to the beach. That’s when I spotted him–a member of one of the most irritating species you can find at the beach–Mr Businessman at the beach (BATB). Mr. BATB had no doubt traveled several hours to sit near the beach so he could be close to his work through the electronic devices surrounding him.

I mean, why even bother to go to the beach if you’re mentally still at the office? Well there he was with an earpiece screwed into his ear attached to his Blackberry with both hands anxiously perched above a Dell laptop displaying a spreadsheet as confusing looking as the intricate wrought iron design imprinted in my butt. All this while conducting a conversation with someone named Martin.

I don’t know what Martin was saying but it couldn’t have been much because this clown sitting there in a white T-shirt and shorts was doing all the talking. I assumed Martin was an assistant from the way the clown was talking down to him.

I don’t know what this fellow Martin was thinking but I could guess he was probably wishing that a large flock of seagulls would sweep down and grab this guy to take him offshore somewhere and drop him into a black hole. Anyway, that’s sort of what I was thinking. After all, seagulls are known to attack coots.

Well the seagulls did not appear but no quicker than I had made the same wish myself, you might say a buzzard showed up real quick–actually it was the overweight woman who had stabbed me with the plastic fork in the continental breakfast cove. Turns out she’s this guy’s wife no less.

Well big Hilda–she looked like a Hilda to me–didn’t even bother sitting down. This woman was big enough to pass for a linebacker with hands to match, each firmly grasping a breakfast tray piled high with super high cholesterol goodies.

I can definitely say that she was not thrilled that hubby was plugged into the business world with his electronic devices. This was quite apparent by the way she slammed both trays down and swatted at his ear sending the earpiece on a dizzying journey wrapping itself around the umbrella post. The other hand was also pressed into action as she slammed down the cover of the Dell.

Mr. BATB cringed and tried to lower his head lest she swat again but his head wasn’t her next target. I watched in disbelief as she snatched up a plastic knife off a tray and jammed it under his armpit and upward. For a moment I thought I was hearing the call of a wild coyote in mating season but it was only Mr. BATB realizing that both his deodorant and armpit had broken down simultaneously.

He leaped from his chair holding his armpit, deciding to choose life over death by angry housewife, and bounded off in the direction of the water. He had seen the light so to speak–a good shot in a man’s armpit will always help enlighten him. Meanwhile Hilda shoveled all his electronic communication devices into her large orange beach bag and sat down to enjoy her harvest.

As I sat there I tried to put it all into neat perspective–the continental breakfast cove and Mr. BATB’s sudden enlightenment. Well, I couldn’t–except people can do some strange things in the name of fun or relaxation.

Mr. BATB represented all I was trying to get away from and his mere presence had been intruding on my down time. He was the enemy and he had been vanquished right in front of me my his own man-battering wife–and I sure had enjoyed it. And those people back in the breakfast cove running around trying to stuff as much fat and cholesterol into their bodies as fast as they could–they were just strange beings whose priorities needed re-ordering.

I decided they weren’t important and took my coffee and wandered out to the beach to watch the seagulls.

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About the Author:
Frank Arcilesi is the author of: Every Day a Bird Learns How to Fly, a 5 star romance/drama novel set in the nostalgic 1950′s (www.abirdlearnshowtofly.com) available in ebook format on Amazon Kindle, www.smashwords.com, and in printed version on Amazon.com and other fine online book sellers. He has also authored several short stories also available on Amazon Kindle.
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