I've already been here and done that, so it seems. I am reliving this moment from about five months ago. It's like part deux. My son finds security in the American flag. Don't we all? It's because of the picture of his mom hanging in the hallway. The photo shows her holding her college degree with the American flag in the background. I have noticed him gravitating to the picture in the days after her death. I believe the flag represents her; thus, it has become his "wobbie," his cape, shield, best friend, best bud, confidant, blanket, security, joy…well, you get the point. It is the one thing he has held dear for the last several months.
I decided to take a friend to a local ice cream establishment that I love to share with people when they are my guests. It's fun, exciting, and, well, oh-so-yummy. Yes, I wrote yummy. It's an institution in the area where I grew up, and everyone who visits me has to go there at least once.
I pulled the car into the parking lot, and all seemed right with the world at that moment. Good times seemed possible for all of us. I said to my friend, "Here we are! And as you can see by the line length, it's gotta be good."
The ice cream establishment has an old-time feel. A throwback to the 1950s with its old-fashioned lights on the marquee that blinks one after the other. The lights are made to chase themselves in a line dance. One would turn off, the other next to it would immediately turn on, then off, then the next one on, and so on. You get the point.
To entertain the masses in line waiting for their favorite flavor of choice, there were entertainers all about. One performer would walk up to you and make an annoying balloon animal, or a live one-man band who plays his harmonica to funky '80s and 90's music, clearly a salute to the 50s. The screeching of the harmonica would make anyone long for a drunken karaoke singer to put on a future show.
To make matters worse, the Florida heat and humidity were playing havoc on our patience. My sweat usually beads on top of my skin, then combines with the other droplets, where it gains weight, and gravity pulls it down, not in this weather, not tonight. The sweat would immediately begin to draw out of me, like wringing a sponge and pouring off my skin, as if my body decided to quench the thirst of the Serengeti Plain. It was almost miserable, but it made me crave their tasty, cool treat even more.
Everyone who was standing in line tried their best to ignore the live one-man-band and the clown, who obviously flunked out of Clown College, by diverting their attention to other areas of interest, whether it was their iPhones, smartphones, traffic, or the local police giving an escort to an arriving football team to play the Miami Dolphins. As they passed by, I wondered to myself- Why do they need a police escort?
However, my son decided to go against the grain and zero in on the two lifeless American flags that hung stagnate on the light pole in the stale air just out in front of the ice cream shop.
He wanted those flags like the cherry on top of a sundae. I let him scurry over there to marvel at the sight of old glory and give his respect to the red, white, and blue. He was so motivated by them he decided to scale the pole like an Army ranger. I approached him and guided him down, but that didn't make him happy. He wanted those damn flags. Through his unhappiness, we walked out of the parking lot and into the store to take our seats for some ice cream bliss.
We walked through the entrance, trying to catch up to our party, but the line formed at the register through attempt. This place has a line everywhere. I forgot how great the atmosphere is, though. Many families and friends were feasting on ice cream and soda shop snacks like popcorn, hot dogs, and fries.
License plates from different states are littered on the wall with funny sayings: FLORIDA- 2 Nuts; New YORK: IDOMAGIC; MICHIGAN -LATELY, etc. If ice cream's sweet flavors aren't enough, you can enjoy the candy shop to sweeten that tooth. It can be a good time in the right setting, but not this night.
As we walked to our seats, my son grabbed a little plastic American flag that was for display only, that was pushed in the little holes acting as slots to place the lollipop stems inside. He loved that flag and proudly displayed it as we sat down. Once our order was put in, Nico wanted to walk around the tables of the kid-friendly restaurant waving old glory.
While we waited for our eight-dollar milkshakes, the restaurant manager walked over to our table and notified us, "That flag is purely decorative and not for sale."
She pulled the flag out of my son's grasp and walked away. She left my son behind to cry as he watched his beloved flag disappear into the sea of patrons.
Well, let the floodgates open. Tears flowed from his eyes as he chased her down for the $0.60 item. It wasn't for sale; that was my assessment. I chased my son down as he followed the manager, begging for the flag. She ignored his cries and my pleas while returning it to its rightful place.
The manager looked tired. For a Thursday night, that establishment was busy. You could tell the night was wearing on her. Her hair was messy, her skin pale and clammy, and she looked done after a long day of dealing with customers and their kids. I begged her for the flag as my son carried on in front of everyone seated within that area. The manager looked at me, turned her back, walked out the front door, and stood among the masses trying to get inside for their ice cream, and shielded the manager from my pleas.
I stood next to my son as he carried on, wanting the flag, needing the flag. I felt terrible because I knew the restaurant wasn't responsible for giving me the flag, but I hoped they would. I continued to cry, and the restaurant tried to drown out his tears of sadness by playing a funny soundtrack to his sadness. I told the restaurant patrons, "Please forgive me and my son.
He may be on the spectrum of autism, and management took this little American flag from him." When the goofy soundtrack didn't work, the manager walked over to me and asked me, "Are you done putting on your show?"
"This isn't a show. My son possibly has autism, and he is obsessed with the flag. Can I buy it for ten dollars?" I asked, frustrated.
"No," she replied.
"I'll give you twenty dollars," I said in desperation as my son wailed for the plastic flag, handing her cash.
She looked at me angrily and removed the flag; handing it to me, she stormed off. I walked up to my waitress and asked for the milkshakes to go. After standing in the long line to pay the bill, I added a ten-dollar tip to the regular tip to the final bill. I told the cashier to inform the manager I provided extra cash for the flag.
It was a long night, but we were together as a family. It's sad that I have to explain to people who my son is and why he acts out the way he does when he does at times. You'd think the ice cream shop would be more understanding in such a kid environment, but that is too much to ask, or I was bad for not listening to her and was out of line for my actions by making my son a public spectacle. My kids aren't their responsibility. We both learned a valuable lesson that day. It's only ice cream; no reason to tread on me.
