I‘M WRITING THIS the day after Thanksgiving. I knew I was going to write something today, but I didn’t plan for it to be about the holiday itself. In fact, nothing could’ve been further from my mind. I had several other terrific ideas, I didn’t feel like it anyway, and, just incidentally, the editor here specifically told me not to. I think “warned me” would be more accurate, but why split hairs? It’s hard to remember that far back–Tuesday–but I think his exact words were, “Under no circumstances. I have many reasons. Just don’t.”
But something happened yesterday, Thanksgiving Day, when I was out buying the last few items, and it was so singular an event that the first thing my wife said when I told her about it was, “Oh, you have to write that for the next column.” So you can fire me, Mr. Perry White, but I’m going to take my wife’s suggestion. I take all my wife’s order-, uh, suggestions, and I have plenty of reasons myself, one of which is that I sleep with her, not you, at least not so far.
One last preface. The story itself has nothing to do with the actual meal, about which little of depth can be added to the existing body of American satire. In this regard, Thanksgiving has always seemed to me to be much like Einstein’s Theory of Relativity, which, as you know, says that time seems to go more slowly when you’re with your relatives. And we may leave it at that. Ergo: A Thanksgiving Memory, 2002.
Just before our guests arrived, The Divine Mrs. M. sent me out to get dessert: two pies–one pumpkin, one apple. She had ordered them days before from a great place around here, and I guess she figured it was a chore even I could accomplish without too much trouble. So I grabbed one of our boys for window dressing and set off on a mundane pilgrimage none of us would ever imagine could possibly take more than ten minutes.
We left the house exactly at 12:45 and returned precisely at 2:30. Our guests were on their third drink, including the kids, and my wife looked at me with a splendid impression of a Klingon. In response, I swooned like a nineteenth century spinster, and a gullible guest helped me to a chair, while another fanned me, and a third pressed a restorative into my hand. And as the chumps breathlessly recounted later over coffee, all they could make out were my hoarse whispers, over and over, of the last lines of that tragic, epic ballad: “A Three Hour Tour. A Three Hour Tour . . .”
The Purveyor of the Pies (sounds like a minor Corneille, doesn’t it?) was a restaurant I’d rather not name. It has to be fifty times we’ve had dinner there over the years, they’re a successful national chain, family-friendly, great food, and even though at this writing I wouldn’t eat there again if they threw in a sin-free chance at Jennifer Aniston, I’d rather not embarrass them. That would be unnecessary and petty. I’ll just tell you that the first name is a beheaded Queen of France, and the second name is a thing that tells you what month it is. And you’re not getting any more out of me, so let’s just leave it at that.
We arrived and got on line at the counter, and the place was crowded. And that’s fine with me, because lines don’t bother me. Ever. At all. Traffic doesn’t bother me, the Post Office doesn’t bother me, supermarkets at five don’t bother me.
The calmest moments in my life may be when I’m waiting on a line. Something like, “This is the only thing in the day over which I have no control. There’s nothing to figure out, nothing to act on, the line will take exactly as long as it’ll take regardless of what I do, so the heck with it.” I think we Americans are loony about getting things done quickly, anyway. If you’re late, leave earlier next time.
The line at the counter took fifteen minutes. Easy as, well, pie. Our turn came, I asked for the order, and the clerk said, “Oh, pie pickup is out back.” What? Since when? “Today.” I looked at him more closely: a kid, and a nice one at that. Polite, too.
Time slowed. Ambient sound diminished to a low, pulsing hum. I smiled, he smiled; I nodded, he nodded; I shrugged, he shrugged. We were one move away from the Lucy-and-Harpo sketch. Inside my head several thoughts waved their hands like first-graders; I chose one, and time sped back up. “You know, it might have been nice to know that before waiting. I mean, I can see it’s a busy day for you, but every five minutes or so, maybe you could’ve shouted, ‘Pie pickup out back, folks.'”
“There’s a sign in the window,” he said sweetly. My eyes narrowed, and not so sweetly. I looked back through the crowd to the door, decided to take his word for it (nice kid working on a holiday, I kept thinking), smiled again, and walked my son outside. Sure enough, there was a sign. “Pie Pickup In Back.” Well, what do you know. Not the first time I’ve been a bonehead, and it won’t be the last. All righty-dighty.
Now, on the other hand, the “sign” was a foot-square piece of green construction paper with magic marker, and it was lost among the Little League announcements and the ads to help you move. In fact, it was hard enough to pick out that an active contest to find it would yield only two winners in ten, and, incidentally, why should someone be looking for it in the first place?
But it was a sign for all that. “Pie Pickup In Back.” No harm, no foul.
Then we walked around the side headed for the back and saw the next line, which was longer than the line at a Parisian theater playing “I Hate Americans.” It was daunting, and gave one pause, but still no biggy. Lines are my meat. We took our place, and it quickly grew behind us, which is always comforting. You know how it is, there may be a hundred people in front of you, but you don’t feel nearly as bad as soon as a hundred people are behind you. All snug in our consumerism. I even kibbitzed with the woman behind me, a lady in her sixties. “This was a much better idea when we ordered the pies over the phone, wasn’t it?” I said. She laughed, and I turned back around.
Twenty minutes later we had moved as far as the allies in World War I. It was also getting difficult to breathe, because the place they picked for the line was right next to their huge, open, jammed dumpsters, which smelled like, well, huge, open, jammed dumpsters. The kind of odors that sew themselves onto your clothes and make you gag like a cat. The kind of things Saddam is working on.
It was then, thank goodness, that a pretty employee, another nice kid, stepped out in front of us. She took a deep breath and smiled, and made a long announcement in a perfectly impenetrable accent. Granite. The entire line was instantly silent. She repeated the message. Nothing. Everyone looked at each other. She said it one more time. Zero. Someone (not me) said, “I’m sorry, what?” She tried again to no avail. Something with a word like “kesh” in it.
Why do so many companies these days insist on putting their worst speakers in positions of communication? Who are we trying to make feel better? It certainly doesn’t help the poor thing doing it. She tried again, reddening slightly. This time I thought the secret word was “kish” or “quiche,” which puzzled me. Kitsch? Was she offering us lava lamps?
Then a Samaritan walked over and spoke to her quietly. When she smiled broadly, he turned to us and said, “Cash. She said cash. People with cash can form another line over here.”
We all cheered and shook hands at this triumph of translation in a complex world, feeling very much like the founders of the U.N. (The United Nations, by the way, may be limp and inept, but it started out quite well, and it was, let’s be honest, a great idea. Then again, so were the Crusades.)
Then, with a jolt, everyone remembered the text of her announcement and lunged off to form a second line, which, in just a few moments, looked like the fall of Saigon. Including me and my son. Another twenty minutes with no movement, and the first line had bulged again to its initial size. Even I, calm as a cup of tea, was beginning to fray a little. The pretty waitress amended her announcement, and the scuttlebutt came down that the second line was also for those without reservations. More top-level consultation revealed that she meant those who had not pre-ordered their pies. Wait a minute, but we had pre-ordered. She had a box of index cards with the orders. Do I need one of those? She smiled a yes. So should I get back on her line? Yes. Tick . . . tick . . . tick . . . tick . . .
We got back on the first line (third line?) at the beginning, and when I finally got up to her, she said she could only take credit cards. Fine. But wait a minute. Wait just a darn minute. After I pay and get my index card, does this mean I have to get back on the second line (fourth line?) again? Yes. Breathe in, breathe out. At the back? A shrug. Tick . . . tick . . . tick . . . tick . . .
Now another 18-year-old came out, the manager (or “Person In Charge,” in the current fashion). She saw my forehead throbbing like “Scanners” and asked if anything was wrong. “Certainly not,” I said gently, “But I’m just curious. Are you telling me that the restaurant staff here got together a few days ago for a skull-session, and this was the idea you came up with? Or did you just get a copy of the Motor Vehicle Bureau playbook and pick one of theirs?”
Hearing this, a chubby, bald guy from the other line laughed and said, “Hey, is this going to be in one of your comedy routines?” (That’s my demographic: chubby, bald guys.) “Maybe some day,” I said, “But it’s not funny now.” He smiled back, and then the manager said, “Oh, hi, Mr. Miller. Come with me. I’ll get your pies for you.”
Now, don’t get me wrong, folks, in my business it’s certainly nice to get recognized a little more here and there, but I hope my ethics will always be better than to take advantage of it in public. I said to her, “You mean cut in front of everyone?” “Just come with me,” she said. “Let me get you out of here.”
Then a soccer-mom behind me said, “Come on, just do it. I want to get my pies and get out of here.” I looked at her and said, “Is that the only important thing here? Just take it like lambs to eat some pie and let it all pass?” Then I turned back to the manager. “I can’t go with you like this.” I shook my head and said, “Thank you, but I should’ve done this an hour ago. I don’t think I need your pies today.” And I took my son and my index card and left the line.
Then another guy shouted, “What’s wrong with you? She’ll take you up front. If you leave you won’t have your stuff.” “That’s right,” I said, “But I’ll sleep better tonight, because I didn’t cut a line.”
And here’s the thing: They thought I was nuts. Maybe not some, but I think most of them would’ve jumped at the chance to cut the line and get their pies, and to hell with everyone else. Not because it was Thanksgiving and they were rushed, mind you. Anytime, any day, anywhere. That’s what too many of us think these days. “Take care of yourself, and if that gives you an unfair advantage, so what? Never mind the others. Not my problem.” Both lines were silent as we left.
In the car my son was upset. He wanted pie, and they make great ones. And I told him as best I could he just had to trust me. We had done the right thing.
On the way home, I took a chance and stopped off at Ralphs, and they had plenty of frozen Sara Lee pies, and I grabbed three of them (a cherry one, too, just for spite). And I saw a lot of the employees I know there from ten years of shopping, middle-aged folks working on their own holidays to make some extra money, and we exchanged some nice, sincere wishes to each other. And just like a “Peanuts” holiday special, that was, with no exaggeration, the best Thanksgiving gift of all.
By the way, those pies were terrific. Sara Lee makes great stuff, too. And the most delicious bite of all, as you know, was the one at 11:30 that night, long after everyone was gone and everything was clean. Barefoot, refrigerator light spilling into dark kitchen, tin foil turned up over bent pan. Leaning over, cheeks full, a few crumbs spill onto the floor. Where’s the dog? Come here, boy. That’s it.
I hope you had a good Thanksgiving, folks. God willing, we’ll all be here for the next one.
Larry Miller is a contributing humorist to The Daily Standard and a writer, actor, and comedian living in Los Angeles.
