The Roti Were Ready

The drive down to Newark Airport isn’t so bad.  I’ve done this at rush hour a few times now and it is almost never clogged up.  People must be heading to the City, not back into Jersey.  I’d told my wife that it would take ninety-minutes.  We were there in ninety-five.  This is, alas, becoming my new “local” airport.  If you fly United to China, you leave out of Newark and if you fly AirChina you’re flying in and out of JFK.  And I not only know the airport well I know where the bathroom is, if you are dropping someone off and want to relieve yourself before mounting the ninety-five-minute drive back home.  Up there at the far-front end of the Premier check in, curbside parking.  “Honey, you watch the car.” 

They’d suggested it was going to be a terrible day.  United had even sent an email which I’ve never seen before, suggesting that heavy rains might mean delays.  Change your flight if you can.  “Oh, really?”  But it didn’t rain on the way down and it didn’t rain on the way back up either.  I was driving through some Waze-directed side roads of Paterson, New Jersey and it occurred to me that my brother lives in New Jersey.  He even works in New Jersey.  Maybe I could navigate to him.  Still adjusting to this level of automation, I pressed the button and called out my brother’s name and was soon ringing his mobile.  I caught his voice mail and left him a message.  I did the same with my sister.  It was too early to start bothering people on the west coast.  This Google Fi phone doesn’t care if I dial China and in China its 8:00PM, so I dialed my buddy in Dongcheng.  Strauss “Blue Danube” started to play out, as the China Mobile tried to ring my chum.  But he didn’t pick up either.

I had to get some food for my daughter and I for dinner.  I began to imagine a shop we’d do together where she could get all the comfort food she wanted while her mother was away.  And then we can go home and cook it . . . No.  She’d be hungry coming home.  She wouldn’t be overly enthused about a shop at the end of her day.   I needed to get something mailed to my pals at the IRS and went to the post office to do that. Driving in I spied the Jamaican restaurant at the far end of the parking lot.  Twice now I’ve tried to get roti and twice they haven’t had them. 

There’s a young fella behind the counter.  One gets the strong impression that he doesn’t want to be here.  “Do you guys have roti?”  “Yes.”  How long do they need?  It’s not, like an hour is it?"  The last time this same gentleman had suggested an hour’s time would be needed.  “It won’t be an hour.” “I see.  And how long will it be . . . then?”  “It won’t be an hour.”  “Something like twenty-minutes?”  “Yeah.” Resisting the urge to embrace this buoyant service-orientation by walking out the door I suggested I’d take two lamb roti.  He put the order in and puttered about minding his business.  “Let me pay for them now, if you don’t mind.”  He didn’t mind.

I bought some wine and some simple groceries at the market up the road and when I returned my young friend had made himself scarce but the roti were ready and a pleasant young lady didn’t mind when I pointed out I’d already paid as she attempted to ring me up.  Back home I really wasn’t sure how these would be received.  But my daughter liked them.  I liked them.  They weren’t as good as the ones we used to order back in Brownsville for lunch during my teaching days.  Those had juicy plantains. But I’ll go back for more post-office parking lot Roti.  One is more than enough for a dinner.

Thursday 10/17/19