Rebel Without a Clue (featruing Veronica)

Dear Lucky Readers,

Today we are in for a special treat! For none other than the fiery, liberal, enigmatic Veronica Puryear has graced us with her presence. In the following account, she chronicles the extraordinary events that take place 4 nights out of any given week when the two of us go to Jason’s Deli. While it might be true that we take more than our fair share of the salad bar and spotlight alike, our electric presence certainly drums up business. Jason is so generous-without him I haven't a clue how I'd survive. Indeed, without Jason I'm a flightless bird marching my way to extinction. I’d like to thank her for the gracious and flattering article. So, gather around the campfire boys and girls, this ones a scorcher!



Many of you are probably already familiar with the close relationship between Mr. Rice and Jason. For several years Michael has been a “customer” of the deli and sharing this dining experience with loved ones and republican cousins alike. It’s practically a tradition, and someday there may even be a special holiday honoring Jason and his deli. It is my humble duty to inform everyone of a typical visit. I would like to apologize in advance. Stick with me, there will be cupcakes at the end.

I don’t think I can start this properly without first mentioning the phone message (some of you may be aware of Michael’s never ending mesages). The hilarious and usually dreaded eight minute message. I never really know what to expect in these. Today it was an acoustic rendition of a Beck song (Where It’s At), and before that a new strategy to cheat Jason out of some money. More money, that is. However, one thing can be for sure: the message will never be without an invitation to the deli and at least one other activity in which I have absolutely no desire to participate. Invariably, he talks me into the wild goose chase everytime.

The entire calling, planning, picking up, driving, process is quite an ordeal.
This next part is where it gets tricky. It’s the final call. Clocks synchronized, outfits matching, and code names assigned. It’s Michael, stating simply that he will be there in seven minutes. This means I have approximately one hour to get dressed, feed the cat, and pay the electric bill. Michael lives in a parallel universe when it comes to time (7 minutes equals exactly one hour). When he has finally managed to make it all the way across the complex (.2 miles) he is swelling with pride and gets completely lost in the moment. The only logical thing to do next would be to announce his arrival and allow the rest of the Zone inhabitants to share in his triumph. By sharing I mean incessantly honking the horn until ten minutes later this liberated woman stumbles out the door, and I make my running leap into the jeep. Not to worry, he never exceeds two miles per hour. Chivalry is not dead.

I often find myself wondering if I were to bring someone else to the deli if they would question my loyalty, although it has been made clear that we couldn’t be anymore separate. It is also more than possible that the management would arrange a parade to celebrate the absence of the ruggedly handsome young man in glasses who is constantly assaulting the parking signs and harassing the staff (asking them on dates, stealing food, bragging about his "unparalleled aim" and throwing things only to miss horribly, pretending to be a model, cat calls, insisting he isn't bothered when talking on his "cell phone" which is obviously his home phone-see picture, pretending to run through a flock of birds, snooping around the salad bar, changing the TV channel, claiming to look like James Dean, claiming he is the ghost of James Dean, claiming he is the ghost of a very hungry James Dean, claiming he is better loooking than James Dean... you get the idea). Speaking of staff, poor, misguided Gene (cashier who we’ve taken under our wing). I feel partly responsible for contributing to her delinquency. Always eating on the job, and taking “three hour” breaks to sit with us. Sure popping a muffin or two when The Man has his back turned doesn’t sound too bad, but what next, naps in the refrigerator or stealing from the register?



I guess at this point you’re thinking, “Do you actually eat?” We have soup, yes, but there is so much more to it than that. Eventually we have our soup and settle down, but not for long. “Michael Michael” gets a twinkle in his eye and napkin in hand heads for the salad bar. I can’t imagine greater stealth and expertise. It’s a risky venture, but for boiled eggs it all seems worth it.

We usually spend a good deal of time reflecting on life and discussing the future Mrs. Rice of the week. What’s her name again? Brianna? Ann? Kim? You loose track. On Tuesday nights, though, it’s a different story; Kid’s Night. All kids eat free, but only if under the supervision (to use the term loosely) of an angry middle-aged adult in sweatpants and accompanied by at least 18 other children. Mnkeys every last one of them. I feel my womb closing up and see the sweat drip from delicate Michael’s forehead as he reminds me of the late Jane Goodall (he claims dinner on kids night is tantamount to her work with those beloved chimps. Sigh.). This is our cue to head for Hastings.

Ah Hastings, The Final Frontier…sort of. This is where the night ends. It’s often necessary after such exhilarating times to slow it all down with a classic novel or the latest issue of Men’s Health. There’s no shame in having irresistible abs. Michael obstinately reminds me you can always be in better shape. There’s not much I can say about Hastings, I mean you have been to a bookstore.

Pretty normal stuff, reading, studying, Pilates demonstrations on the floor, and hysterical laughter. You know, the usual. All things must come to an end unfortunately. At the very least we get a song to signal that it’s all over. Here it comes, “Happy Trails” pours out over the speaker system immediately followed by Michael shouting, “Why!? The humanity!” I’m telling you this kid loves to read. I just follow the sound until I find him and we shuffle out the door.

We then return to our respective apartments preparing already what to say to one another the next day. It’s a wild and exciting, or not so exciting tale. For those of you who made it this far, call me and we’ll see if we can dig up some cupcakes (would you settle for muffins?) You deserve it, kiddos. For now this has been your Guest Blogger signing off, have a nice life, and always wear warm socks.

Veronica P.

Note From Michael: Here is a newer picture of me at Jason's Deli. Just as most people, I look better in black and white.