The disgruntled man had been waiting less than an hour for a table, but it had already been too long for his wife Wendy. He told me that I was lousy at my job; that I’d really misjudged how long the wait would take. I was sipping hot tea made from Rain Forest-harvested mate bark, staring a thousand miles into deep space, pondering that I’d made a good choice matching my shooting shirt with my new brown, quasi-paisley Converse sneakers.
Since the quilted shoulder patch is for shooting, for me it holds no function. But it does have a certain funky appeal. It messes with the brain-wires, disrupting the overall symmetry. Evidently, the universe itself had an unbalance from the very beginning, or else matter would have completely annihilated anti-matter in the Big Bang. Lucky for us, we all landed in Graceland. This shirt has been a serial clearance item at Marshall’s; no one wants it. The price I paid was $5.
There was no arguing with the disgruntled customer. He was right; the customer always is. I was to blame for keeping him and his wife from eating in a timely manner, and I knew it. I made mistakes, and believe it or not I lost seven or eight minutes of crucial sleep counting tables and in my mind, seating and re-seating the critical period. In an effort to do better next time, I may bring maths into play. I care about my job, and if its Saturday, I also care about what I’m wearing.
Thanks to Dave for the pics, and Tina for the crotch grab.
Hey Snorkstar-galatica, I suggest that you tell the hungry person next time they ask that if sheer calories are what they need, then there is a convenience store down the block they can grub into. Or an ice-cream tin next door. If on the other hand they are out for a dining experience that scrapes the oceans of their fruit, a celebration of all sea-life gone dead and limp is to _wait_for_. And then snork the person. What that means is context-dependent.
Snorker.