Lost Biscuit and other stories of Woe

First of all, I should state that I LOVE my Monday nights at the ninth avenue salon.
It's my walks home from my Monday nights that I often dread.

Tonight was different, tonight had potential. Magic potential.

After some persuasion from my friends "Rum and Coke" and "tequila shot" I finally gave in and stopped at the local Fried Food store for what they call the "Snack Pack"; Two pieces of fried chicken, "mashed potatoes", and...wait for it...a biscuit. Now any fellow fried chicken lover knows that, no matter the caliber of chicken, the meal is not complete without the biscuit. I pass the man my four dollars and gladly take my "thank you" bag of deep fried treasures. I nearly skipped home with my loot.

You've been introduced to the biscuit. Now, enters the antagonist.

He comes in the form of a hunched, probably diseased homeless man on my street. Oh I know what you're thinking: how dare I use such a helpless figure as my nemesis in tonight's retelling. Just you wait, doubtful reader.

I had passed by this man three times that day. Each time I delivered different reactions to his supplicatory calls. (one: ignore, two: smile and nod, three: pat pockets, swearing it's in there somewhere all while continuing to walk). So at this point in my journey home I'm faced with a dilemma. I am on my way home with a non recyclable bag filled with a glorified heart attack and I can either reignore this poor soul, or part with a member of my feast.

After long, hard consideration, foolishly I decide to offer him my biscuit. MY BISCUIT. The piece that not only ties together the late night meal, but I'd dare say completes it. It wouldn't be worth the artery clogging goodness without it, but I knew my duty and my task was clear.

I proffered my biscuit. I'm not saying I expected trumpets, medals. I maybe envisioned a parade, but the fantasy was fleeting. No I could have even made due with a nod. A nod that indicated some form of gratitude. Instead:

"Yeah, do you have fifty cents?" I was struck dumb. I stared at my golden brown biscuit in his haggard hands, a biscuit I would have treasured. A biscuit he easily brushed aside...My sacrifice of that carb filled puck, for any chicken enthusiast, indicated my dedication to this charity. And all I got for thanks was inquiries of more. If I had given him that fifty cents, would he have asked for my blood? Probably, ladies and gentlemen. Probably.

I walked away, defeated and beside myself. I had lost my biscuit.

The heartburn is worse when the meal is incomplete.

I'm not sure if there is such a thing as blog karma. If there is, I'm sure this one is coming back to bite me in the ass. But chomp away, BK. I'm a man without a biscuit. All you'll get is a mouthful of crushed dreams.

Seldom yours,

Paul