Tales From Exit 22 by Al Batt

The college student was broke.

He ate bologna sandwiches often.

He didn’t like bologna that much, especially cheap bologna on white bread. And he ate no other kind. He put ketchup on it. It didn’t help.

The student regularly carried his sandwich wrapped in wax paper to a seat on the sidewalk outside an elegant restaurant near the campus.

He listened to the conversation, the laughter, and the sounds of food being served and eaten. He smelled the food. It was intoxicating. Sometimes, the scents became so powerful that he couldn’t help himself. Aflame in a field of appetizing aromas, he’d walk into the restaurant. Avoiding the host or hostess, he’d inhale deeply of foods that he couldn’t afford to eat.

He’d hang out in the eatery for as long as he dared or until guilt kicked in. Then he’d venture back outside and finish his sandwich. Instead of diminishing the taste of his sandwich, his visit to the restaurant enhanced its flavor. Perhaps his brain or his taste buds were fooled into thinking that he was consuming the foods with the delectable smells.

This went on for months.

Everyone liked the young college student.

Everyone except the restaurant’s manager. He thought that everyone was trying to get the better of him, that people lived only to cheat him, and that it was his job to be disagreeable.

One day, he noticed the student holding a half-eaten sandwich while standing in the restaurant. A good rule is to never take a bologna sandwich to a banquet. The manager watched as the young man closed his eyes and breathed deeply. A hint of a smile formed on the young man’s lips.

That, as did most things, rubbed the manager the wrong way. There would be no smiling without paying in his place.

He asked the student what he was doing.

The student replied that he was smelling the food.

This increased the manager’s ire. “You cannot come in here and shoplift our odors with your nose. You are a thief. I demand that you pay for the smells you have stolen.”

“I’m not eating. I’m sniffing the air,” the young man responded. “I can smell what I wish. I don’t owe you anything.”

The manager went into a rage. He not only barred the student from being within sniffing distance of the restaurant, he filed a claim against the student in small claims court. Life can be complicated.

The judge was one of the few judges of his type who didn’t have his own TV show. The judge believed that all people are entitled to their say in court. He knew that the manager declared he had a legal right to ownership of the smells of his food. If the manager felt strongly enough to file a claim, the case needed to be heard.

The judge listened carefully to the testimony. He deliberated. He made his decision. There was no doubt that the student was guilty. That was clear. Taking another person’s property is theft. The smells were the restaurant’s property.

The manager was delighted with the judge’s decision.

The student was dejected. He was poor. He’d have to borrow the money. But from whom? He couldn’t call his parents. They were barely scraping by. He owed the restaurant for months of smelling food. He feared that jail would be his new home.

“How much money do you have?” the judge asked the student.

“I have only a bit of change on me, Your Honor,” the young man answered. “I just paid my rent and bought some textbooks.”

“Show me your money,” said the judge.

The young man held out his hand. The judge told him to drop the coins from one hand to the other. The judge listened to the pleasant clink of the coins as they moved from hand to hand.

The judge told the manager, “You have been paid. If you have any other complaints in the future, please bring them to this court. It’s my wish to be fair.”

“Your Honor,” the manager protested, holding up his empty hands. “This is unfair! I didn’t get the money! The thief dropped it from one hand to the other before returning it to his pocket. I got nothing.”

The judge looked at the manager and said, “This court believes that punishment should fit the crime. I have decided that the price of the smell of food is the sound of money. Therefore, you have been paid. Justice has been served.”

Breathe deeply, dear reader.

The law is on your side.

 

Hartland resident Al Batt’s columns appear every Wednesday and Sunday.