[dropcap]W[/dropcap]e were sitting in the restaurant – which shall remain nameless.
“Welcome to Pompano Joe’s, are you ready to order?” asked the purple-haired waitress.
“No,” my wife Jamie adjusted her glasses. “I’m still reading the menu.”
“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.”