This morning I shuffled downstairs from my room to the free buffet breakfast promised by my hotel. And, indeed, there was a free buffet breakfast. One that looked pretty solid. Eggs, bacon, biscuits, cereal, oatmeal. If you get what you pay for, the $108 I’m spending per night appears to be money well offered.
Yet just when I was about to take a sip from my cool glass of cranberry juice, I glanced down to see the above scene unfolding.
His name was Bob. He liked jet skiing, the movies of Ron Howard, political documentaries and, apparently, swimming in my cranberry juice. As I watched Bob swirl around, take his final breaths then move on to that giant cranberry field in the sky, I had these thoughts:
• 1. Isn’t it ironic?
• 2. Do I still tip $4, or drop it to $3?
• 3. Can I ever safely drink cranberry juice again at this hotel?
• 4. Should I feel badly for Bob?
No. 4 is the biggie. Because—oddly, strangely, uncomfortably—I actually do hurt for bugs. Hell, ask my wife. In our household I’m often called to get rid of a spider or cricket or fly, and I rarely (if ever) just crush them into paste. No, I’m the weirdo who actually finds a tissue, gently grabs the visitor and sets him loose in the back of the house.
Again, this is super weird. I know.
But as I think of Bob, and the life no longer lived, I hope he knows he made a difference in this enormous world.
He ruined my drink.
