It’s raining. It shouldn’t rain before December.
I order my regular 6” turkey sandwich, baked Lay’s and a fountain drink. I take a seat in the farthest corner of the restaurant. This is my regular spot and I get a little perturbed if someone is sitting there. There’s one guy - like me – who also prefers the farthest booth in the restaurant. He’s my nemesis.
Looking up from my book, 4 people enter, wiping off the rain from their clothes. Two are social workers and the other two are clients. It’s an outing. The social workers are dressed in liberal, non-profit, non-descript clothing and the clients a lot more colorful. Client one is dressed in a robe and flip-flops – a dirty t-shirt peeking out from behind her robe. Her feet noticeably calloused and dry, splaying over her flip-flops. Client two is in a full-length nightgown -- It obscures her feet and anybody she might have. For all, wearing this type of clothing in public is a sure sign that you gave up, but these two get a pass, obviously.
Client two orders first, without fanfare. Client one is a different story. Bending down to see under the sneeze guard, client one addressed every addition to her sandwich:
“Mayonnaise and mustard?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
“Lettuce?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
“Peppers?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
Her eyes were completely focused on every addition to her sandwich. Once the addition was completed, it got a “yeah, yeah, yeah.” Instead of three separate words, “yeah, yeah, yeah” was blended into one long word, with an occasional emphasis on the first letter of the string yeahs.
Staring at what was transpiring in front of me, I gave up any clandestine approach at disguising my outright intrigue. I was fully in. She was fully in.
Two two-seater booths were open in front of me. I was in the last booth, facing the entrance. Next to me was a door that opened into the kitchen. Many patrons mistook it as the bathroom, so I was prone to saying, “No Bathroom.” Most didn’t question my authority.
Client one sat in front of me and client two sat behind one -- both social workers sat opposite of them in the booth. According to their body language, it appeared there would be no conversation except small talk.
The social worker for client one opened with a small talk staple: “How’s your sandwich?” Like a whistle to a well-trained dog, client one stood and walked around the small ordering area, spinning ovals and circle eights on the linoleum floor. Her 6” sandwich firmly pressed against her lips, I craned to see teeth. It appeared she was all gums, sucking on the sandwich like a pacifier.
She returned to the booth, the end of her sandwich limp with saliva. Before a second question could be asked, she was up again, disappearing behind a wall that obscured the cash register. I kept vigil on the wall, waiting for her return.
Reappearing with a small ketchup cup filled with pepper and an opened bag of Lay’s chips, client one walked to client two’s booth and placed the cup in front her. Not sure what to think, client two stared at one, saying nothing. Client One stared back, pushing single chips into her mouth. Finally, number one broke the silence: “Lay’s is a good, thin chip. It’s easy to chew.” Spoken from an expert.
