Breakfast with a Vampire

This morning at breakfast, I saw a woman, probably in her mid-fifties, who looked like she had washed her face in lemon juice. Her voice matched her sour expression, dripping venom on anyone unfortunate enough to cross her path. She addressed the hostess and the servers with a tone of authority and disdain, while making her food order with such exact detail and pickiness that all of us within earshot knew that she could never be satisfied. As the server walked away, the woman rolled her eyes and puckered her lips as if to say she hated the unpleasant necessity of speaking to the “common folk.”

I don’t like making snap judgments of people I do not know, despite the fact that I’m very good at it, and there is the slim possibility that she might just be having a really bad day, but I honestly do not think so. The bitterness burdening her soul seeped out of her like the stench from a garbage truck that passes on a hot summer day. It clings to every part of her and pollutes the atmosphere.

Her husband didn’t look any happier, and I can certainly understand why. He is married to a vampire, a vicious beast who sucks the positive energy out of anyone in the room. His pale skin and weak eyes made it apparent that he was her most convenient and consistent victim. Any sympathy I had for him was easily balanced by the fact that by continuing to accept her behavior he was also an accomplice. I’m not sure if the fight had been drained out of him over the years or if he had ever even tried, but it was obvious that he was nothing more than an accessory to her now.

He ate what she ordered for him, an egg-white omelet and wheat toast. If he spoke at all it was so soft I could not hear him, and she only spoke to the server, which was any time the poor girl tried to pass their table to get to the rest of her customers.

Is this decaf coffee?

Yes, it definitely is.

It doesn’t taste like decaf. Did you get it from the right pot?

Yes, ma’am. It is definitely decaf.

The vampire waved her away and grumbled something to her husband, who obediently nodded in agreement. I wanted to ask how she knew the difference and how it didn’t taste like decaf. Was she suddenly more awake? I looked around for anything resembling holy water or a wooden stake.

Another table nearby was soon filled with a family of four; Dad, Mom, brother and sister. The girl looked to be about six and the boy maybe ten years old. They had their maps and travel guides ready for a fun-filled day of touring DC. I thought of our own trip to DC a few years back and the excitement I felt as I watched my girls experience the magnificent museums and humbling monuments that make this one of the great destinations in our country, if not the world.

As I slowly sipped my caffeinated coffee and tried to read the mornings USA Today (while keeping my eye on the vampire and her Igor-like husband), I couldn’t help but notice the particular habits of this young family. As they returned from the breakfast bar, the Dad was first, plate loaded with fruit. He didn’t look particularly happy with his healthy choices, and I have duplicated that expression many times. Passing up the sausage, bacon, biscuits and gravy that taunted from those round silver chafing dishes was a challenge, and as I looked at my own empty bowl of oatmeal, I could feel his pain.

The kids came back with small plates piled with crispy, curled bacon and a few scatters of hash browns. The Dad looked longingly at the bacon on his son’s plate, turning away quickly when his wife returned as if he had been ogling a pretty girl on the street. The mom was carrying a plate which was completely covered by a large round waffle. She set it down in front of the son and helped him slather it with butter and sink it under a tidal wave of sticky, sweet syrup.

The Mom left again and came back with a matching waffle for the daughter, whose eyes widened and lit up like it was Christmas morning. I couldn’t help but glance over at Dracula-woman, whose lips were permanently wrinkled from the constant sneer painted on her face, and wondered what it would take to make her smile like that little girl? Had she ever known happiness, even as a child? If so, what had so completely doused that spark for life that most of us try to cling to so desperately?

I was kind of sad for her, and her husband, but I understood that they themselves had made the choice to live that way. As much as the vampire had sucked the energy from the room, the laughter and smiles of those children had returned it. Light will always conquer darkness, and a smile is always more powerful than a frown.

I folded my paper and paid for my oatmeal, making a point of smiling at the beleaguered server and wishing her a good day on my way out. I wanted to say something witty or enlightening to the older couple as I passed their table, but I decided against it. Instead I exited the hotel and stood in the bright sunshine of this fine, Monday morning and thought, “this is going to be a very good day!”

But, of course, that could have been the caffeine talking.