He fills up the hallway, "MULE" in natty red patchwork letters appliqued across his navy hoodie. Four of my long lost identical siblings could fit in his hoodie. I'm eye level with his sternum. His lower sternum, brushed by a frizzy gray beard. Way up in the stratosphere, little eyeholes peek out from behind gin-rosy cheeks.
In the flash between 'oh shit there's a tree in the hallway!' and 'it's human!' lizard brain took over: 'he would hardly notice passing you in a juicy fart; flight. Deffily FLIGHT!'
I dodged around at bolting-waiter velocity and dove into the kitchen before he turned around.
Of course, Paul Bunyan was in my section.
Terror: scrawny little ponytailed hippy kid whose income depends on tips faces a mountain of lumberjack in Northern Idaho; Idaho lumberjacks do not take well to my kind, nor are they literary enough to feel my wrath and shudder under utter defeat.
Heh. Go me.
"Whuzzup, Bra?" he bellowed.
My eyes, if not my entire body, must've flinched.
"Hey, I need a beer, dude, whatcha got dark on draft?
"Coool, bring me one of them. Keep it full, 'kay dude?"
Every time I came to the table, he chuckled out a rumbling "coool, more food!" paid cash, and left a 30% tip.
Exceptionally relieving to feel bad about misreading someone.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment