Big Business
I wish that I had a bigger company. The company I have
is just so small and (some might say) underdeveloped.
Yesterday Titus invited me downtown for lunch
“Come meet me, and we’ll do some big business,” he said.
Titus has an enormous company, and he shows it. He carries
that company around on his thrown-back shoulders
grinning from ear-to-ear flashing his big company in
everyone’s face when they walk by. And I say why not?
I would wave my big company around too if I had a big
company, but I have a small company, and everyone knows it.
When I walk into the big-shot-steakhouse the maître de
makes me wait and mispronounces my name. He seats me
facing the bathroom doors, and I don’t ask him why,
but when Titus comes in—late as usual—TWO waiters greet him
at the door and escort him to our table. One of them fills his
water glass with so much water, that there is none left for
my water glass—not one drop—what did I expect?
The other waiter spreads—TWO—white linen napkins
across Titus’ big company lap, and then asks him if he is
having his usual ginormous company lunch of oysters, lobsters,
medium rare filet mignon, and an oozing souffle for dessert,
and of course, he is, then, he flicks out his big company credit
card that is twice the size of anyone else’s in the whole place
“This one’s on me,” he says, then slaps me on the back with his
big corporate paws, and for a moment I feel so grateful to Titus
it was so nice of him to ask me here and pay for lunch.
“Yes sir, Mr. Titus, right away Mr. Titus, we’ll take good care
of your little business friend” and then Titus gives me a look
that says “think nothing of it, what are friends for?”
but when the waiter brings me a small salad with a single-shrimp
I remember who I am again, and although Titus is being
polite, he knows, the waiters know, and everyone in the restaurant
knows that I will never be able to have the same thing Titus has,
I don’t know what I am thinking sometimes.
This poem first appeared in “Laurel Review” Issue 57.1.