“Ma’am, if you wanna read, go to the library.”

“What?” Jamie shot back, removing her glasses for effect – I wish I wore glasses so I could do that.

“Sorry ma’am, I’m in the weeds right now.”

“Okay, Jeezus, we’ll both have the seafood platter.”

I marveled at the ill-mannered demeanor of our post-pubescent waitress. After all, being a good server requires more than just purple hair and a pissy temperament.

Long ago, before Pompano Joe’s ruled the world, I spent the summers working on that very beach. I waltzed along the sand wearing a pair of tight-fitting, God-awful, county issue, red swim trunks that made me look like a sleazeball P.E. teacher.

My coveted duties were to provide supplementary public service to beach-goers. At times, I served as an unofficial judge for geriatric volleyball tournaments, opened stubborn bottles of gin, rescued foul-mouthed children from fake-drownings in knee-deep water, and assisted elderly ladies by smearing sunscreen on the backs of their thighs. And I did it all with a sunny attitude, unlike our waitress.

When Purple Hair returned, her hand was on my seafood platter, pressing down on the fried food.

“Your hand’s on my seafood,” I pointed out.

“Listen,” she said. “It’s either that, or this food will fall all over the floor again.”