Somewhere in Georgia. An old cafe. Vinyl booth seats. Duct tape on the cushions. Country music overhead. Reba is singing about Fancy.

The waitress is young. Maybe sixteen. She is wearing dental braces. She’s dressed in the local high-school colors. She is pregnant.

Far as I can tell, she’s the only waitress on duty.

She takes my order, and apologizes in advance for slow service.

“Ain’t got no other waitresses today,” she explains. “And I’m pregnant.”

“How far along?”

“Seven months.”

“Is the baby kicking a lot?”

“Hardly even moves. I asked my doctor when my baby would finally move. Doctor said, ‘With any luck, after he graduates college.’”

The waitress is in the weeds today. Her dining room is full. She tells all customers there is going to be a wait. But people don’t seem to mind. They don’t get worked up in small towns.

While I wait, I look around. The dining room features all types. Men in camo. Workers in neon vests. Muddy boots galore.

Young marrieds, nestled in booths, speaking animatedly with one another.

Old married couples, hardly speaking. You can always tell a couple who has been married a while. They barely speak.

Last week, for example, my cousin and I were on a golf course. We overheard an elderly couple having a sparse conversation. The old man said, “Honey, if I died, would you remarry again?”

“No sweetie,” she said.

“I’m sure you would.”

“Well,” she said. “Maybe I would.”

He said, “Would you let him sleep in our bed?”

“I guess so.”

“Would you let him drive my truck?”

“I suppose.”

“Would you let him use my clubs?”

She replied, “No, he’s left handed.”

Also in the dining room today are a bunch of high-schoolers. I don’t know why they aren’t in school. They seem to be friends with the waitress.

They’re laughing with her. Being loud. Playfully giving her a hard time. To some customers, they are annoying. But not to me. Let us not forget that although youth is a blessing, true immaturity is a gift from God.

My food finally comes. The eggs are sunny. The bacon is crisp. The toast is buttered. The coffee sucks. It’s a win-win.

When I finish eating, I visit the little columnist’s room. The dining room is emptying now. People are paying bills and leaving.

After exiting the restroom, I weave through a vacated dining room of empty plates and crumpled napkins. And I see tips left on the tables in the form of cash.

Lots of tips.

At the first table I pass, tucked beneath a plate, I see two twenties and a ten.

On the next table, where the workmen sat, there are three twenties.

The table where the old couple was sitting has a hundred-dollar bill beneath the saltshaker. I had to make sure I was seeing things right.

But the table of high-schoolers is the one that gets me. There are so many Washingtons, Lincolns, Hamiltons, and Jacksons peppering the surface, it looks like a ticker tape parade of cash. I didn’t think kids even carried cash anymore.

The cook rings me up at the register. I ask why people are leaving so much cash on the tables. He seems to know what I’m talking about.

He gives a little grin and a shrug.

“Small town,” was all he said.

And it was enough.