CEREAL KILLER

Life has its boundaries, and so do I.

Some people are blessed to eat anything they wish, and some, like myself can’t, but do anyway.

As a child, growing up in Brooklyn, Mom sent me to Catholic school in the hopes I would have turned out a little better than I did. As a poor working class family, we didn’t have a lot but we did have polished shoes and clean clothes every school day, with a bagged lunch.  Lunch, along with the 3:00 pm dismissal bell were my favorite parts of the school day.

The school day mornings were particularly brutal for me. It was when Mom was her giddiest, getting us off to school for a good portion of her day, and nothing was going to get in her way of making sure we went to school.

A typical morning went something like this:

“Ma, I don’t feel well!”

“What’s wrong?”

“My leg fell off!”

“Take an aspirin you’ll be fine. Eat your cereal it’s getting late.”

The cereal was either farina or oatmeal in the winter, and rice crispies or cheerios in the warmer months. I hated cereal. I wanted eggs with beacon or pancakes, not cereal. It became so that I never ate breakfast any more until I married.

When I married my attitude and hunger changed, so I started to try cereals of all kinds, especially the ones that had nuts or cinnamon or dried fruits and discovered I‘d rather eat the plain old cereals instead! One problem, gas! Cold cereal kills me, all morning long. I’d be on the train going to work, and suddenly this surge came upon me, and some little old lady would be sitting next to me trying to read a book, or some business man deep into his Times article, or a construction worker deep in sleep. Suddenly, like Mt. Etna, the rumblings and surge, threatening to blow out my brains if something didn’t happen soon. A cold sweat would arise and cramps started in. It was then that I rally got close to God. I made some pretty big promises if only I could hold out until I could find a place to devastate.

The train would arrive at Hunterspoint Avenue and I would then climb the long staircase to the street, hardly able to move, one step at a time. Slowly, with each step up, a little gas was expelled, then as I got to the landing, I let it ride and raced to the subway feeling relieved. Standing on the subway platform, waiting for the Flushing #7 to take me to Times Square I felt good. Te train would arrive, I would enter the car with 40 million others and the gas came back, along with the sweats and prayers. 

I’d be at a conference table at work, trying to deliver a point, or acting like I wanted to be there, when suddenly the gas!

“What’s the matter Joe, you look like you just saw a ghost! You OK?”

“Sure, never felt better.”