Staring into the Abyss

He's been down this road before; he's sat in this exact spot, his experience tells him he should have seen this coming. Yet somehow, even after this many visits, it still caught him off-guard. "You know what they're going to say," he thinks to himself, "They always say the same thing. It doesn't matter if you're early or late, if you're alone or with your staff..the answer to your questions is always the same." This didn't sit well with the coach.

Disappointment clouding his thoughts, Charlie Weis pondered his next move. Should he object? Should he plead his case? Should he quietly accept it? No. NO. There was a contract between the two parties, an agreement that both sides should honor. Charlie kept up his end of the bargain - or so he thought - it's only right that they hold up their end of this treatise. You can't promise something and not deliver.

This thought angered Charlie, ratcheting up the pressure in his own head. "They PROMISED", he muttered as the increasing annoyance began to accelerate his heart rate. He wiped the burgeoning sweat off his brow with a spare Benjamin Franklin languishing in his pocket, tossing it onto the ground while anger rose in the back of his throat.  They PROMISED.

Maybe a change of scenery would provide clarity, he considered. Charlie detached himself from his seat, slowly ambling to the restroom. Entering the restroom, the cold air blowing on his face provided momentary relief from the smog of frustration in the other room. As he entered the handicapped stall, loosened the drawstring on his sweats, and placed himself on the reinforced porcelain throne, he couldn't help but be drawn back into thoughts of this quandary. "Was there something I missed in the language of the deal?" he asked himself between heaving grunts of exertion. "Could I have read it wrong?" he pondered amongst labored wheezing, "Have I misunderstood this the whole time?"  Charlie finished his duties, grabbed three more Benjamins, and wadded them up on the end of his carbon fiber wiping stick. He cleaned himself rigorously while lost in thought, finally working himself back onto his feet as this conundrum continued to increase his annoyance to the point of anger. This isn't RIGHT; people should honor their word if they have ANY sense of HONOR. People should have a CODE" he growled to himself, glaring at his reflection in the restroom mirror while wiping his hands on his tattered hoodie. It's settled in Charlie's mind; when he gets back to the table, he's demanding satisfaction.

Charlie came back to an empty table and astonishment immediately exploded into anger. They cleaned him out while he was on the shitter?! They knew he was still here. They had to know, his belabored evening constitutionals are as loud as they are prodigious. This was intentional, they're exploiting a loophole to get him out of there. This passive-aggressive behavior sent him over the edge. Charlie has had enough; his eyes darted around, looking for the nearest person to blame for this travesty. But there was no one; the place was empty this late at night. Anger melted into acceptance, acceptance into depression. Utterly defeated, Charlie wobbled to the front door for his journey home. At the door, he finally spotted a hostess. Unable to arouse the venom that filled his mouth moments earlier, Charlie meekly grabbed a peppermint, glanced at the teenager, and mumbled "Endless sopapillas, my ass" as he exited the buffet.