Me and my wife

Last weekend, my Mom tagged along as we went to a gig in Hills. It was a bike ride in memory of a young man who died of cancer, raising funds for said disease.

This has nothing to do with the picture on the left, which I just like. It's Walker trying to win something at the Fair. He only threw 55 m.p.h., not enough for a cool prize. Throwing money at the carneys is part of the Fair ritual. I'm sure there's a metaphor in there somewhere.

Mom's always a little hungry, which is good because she lost a lot of weight when she was sick and is fattening up well now. I got her a subway on the way to Hills and she watched as BWR played a couple hours. When we got back to Cedar Rapids, she was hungry again and offered to buy lunch. So I took her to the Flying Weenie.

For those of you who are not familiar with Cedar Rapids culture (and yes, there is such a thing), the Flying Weenie is a converted 40's gas station with a yellow airplane on the roof. I don't mean a sign that looks like an airplane. I mean a real airplane, probably an old Cessna, painted yellow, and attached to the roof. They have great Chicago hot dogs, polish sausage, gyros, and a peculiar, dusty ambiance punctuated by airplane parts, airplane manuals, airplane pictures, and a couple vintage Pac Man machines from the 70's. Because of it's location at the crossroads between Czech Villiage, downtown, the Police Station and Wellington Heights, you never know who will turn up. I've seen the mayor in there lined up for dogs.

Mom was a little skeptical about the Weenie. First of all, there was no beer. We ordered and sat down, while I attempted to explain the charm. In the dining area were a couple young women, one plump and blonde with a bandage affixed to her right upper shoulder and her foot in a temporary cast. The young women were eating and talking quietly.

Two young men walked in, well dressed, African American, but perhaps a little disheveled. They sat down and and spotted the two young women. The taller of the two young men went over and introduced himself. He asked about the bandage and the blonde revealed a brand new, weepy tattoo. It became evident that the tall fellow was significantly inebriated at two in the afternoon. He succeeded in getting the tattooed woman to put his number into her phone. She was obviously flustered, although the young man was obviously harmless. He was muttering something like "If you have a boyfriend, that's cool, I can respect that, but I'm a man who goes for what he wants, so you can give me a call . . ." et cetera, et cetera.

In the meantime the other gentleman let me know that he and his friend had been partying all night. This was breakfast. He was the designated driver. This made me wonder what the other guy had to do to qualify as passenger.

"How long have you and your wife been married?" the designated driver asked, looking at Mom and me.

I laughed and said "This is my mother."

"I lost my mother," he said, "not missing a beat." Mom was dying by this point.

About this time the grumpy guy behind the counter called one of the young men's names and they went to check on their order. The blonde took advantage of this to get her stuff, and urge her friend to run out the door. The friend was non-plussed and wanted to finish her fries, but the blonde hot footed it out the door, as if running from Mandingo, or somebody equally potent and scary. "I'm getting out of here, OH MY GOD!"

The young men collected their order and got back into their car. Mom said "Romeo's leaving."

We got our food and finished an uneventful meal. The young men drove off to finish their food at home and go to sleep. More people came in with children, round and drab, and there was no more drama at the Weenie.

I dropped Mom off at "the place," as she calls it. We had a pretty good time, she and I. I don't think she'll remember it, but hanging with Mom is a lesson in living in the moment. We spend time and enjoy it and then it passes out of memory as fast as we encounter it, just like the money we throw at carneys.

See, I knew I could work that simile in somehow.