SHE THINKS I’M REAL
You probably read in the newspaper of an incident which puts it as neatly and succinctly as anything I’ve ever heard. A waitress was taking orders from a couple at the table and their young son; she was one of the class of veteran waitresses who never show outright disrespect to their customers, but who frequently make it quietly evident by their unhurried pace and their level stare that they fear no mortal, not even parents. She jotted on her order pad deliberately and silently as the father and mother gave their luncheon selection and gratuitous instructions as to what was to be substituted for what, and which dressing changed to what sauce. When she finally turned to the boy, he began his order with a kind of fearful desperation. “I want a hot dog-” he started. And both parents barked at once, “No hot dog!” The mother went on. “Bring him the lyonnaise potatoes and the beef, both vegetables,…
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