He often sat there, observing his surroundings and hoping for a catastrophic event of any proportion. Frank wasn’t a bad guy. He never did any time or anything.
But he needed some event to define his terribly banal life. Why couldn’t he ever see a car accident developing before it happened, so he could jump in front and rescue some child? Or, how come nobody ever choked on a liberal-portioned piece of steak in his presence? Frank had been itching to try out the Heimlich ever since he taught himself the maneuver from old encyclopedias the previous tenant had left behind in his storage locker. Certainly, the Heimlich hadn’t changed much since the 1964 publishing.
But nothing substantial ever presented itself to Frank.
Frank’s married friends told him to cherish this.
“You know what exciting is?” asked Mike. “It’s waking up, finding your kid on all fours, eating out of the dog’s food bowl.”
“Mike’s right,” said another. “Excitement’s overrated. And usually expensive.”
Frank wrestled with his bag of chips. The perpetual battle between his oily fingers and the cellophane never failed to present an element of Jack In The Box surprise. Finally, the bag exploded open and salty chips covered the card table.
Frank blinked slowly and turned his attention to the kids in the crosswalk.