Posts
Many years ago, I was working as the
manager of a fine dining establishment known as Hardee's. We had a
loyal clientele, some of whom would wait at the door before we opened
to procure biscuits and gravy in a Styrofoam container or a
bottomless cup of coffee for a nickle. I know what you're thinking,
but that doesn't actually make me a hundred years old, our coffee was
just really cheap and worth every penny of the five cents we charged
(if only because the cup in came in was worth at least 4 cents).
Our regulars consisted primarily of
retirees who would sit talking about the Great War and once in a
while scare us into thinking they'd had a heart attack. We were
afraid not only because we didn't want them to die, but because we
knew that our contribution to their diet was certain to play major
factor in any ventricular blockages and the resulting
cardiovascular failure they might cause. Aside from the elderly, we
had a rather large contingent of homeless and mentally ill people.
You've probably pieced together that forward thinking people would
not spent significant time eating in this sort of place. Yes, they
did come in from time to time, but did not form the staple of our
regular visitors.
One day, well after the lunch rush
while perhaps a half a dozen people were dining leisurely, I was
summoned to the front of the store. I inquired what could be so
important as to interrupt my paperwork (and more importantly take me
from my relaxing seat in the office). The kid sent to retrieve me
simply shrugged and told me, “Some guy, he said he'd only talk to
you.”
I headed to the front lobby where a
large, green army jacket garbed man with a clean cut beard and
serious blue eyes waited. He looked the age to have been a Vietnam
veteran, so I wondered if those serious blue eyes were contemplating
the murder of the man who perhaps he believed tried to poison him
with food wrapped in paper served up with a slice of processed
cheese.
Perhaps this rather irrational fear of
mine was loosely linked to another customer who'd developed two
interesting phobias when he'd been a POW in World War II. One phobia
was mops. He would cower in the entryway when a mop appeared,
entering the store only when the floor was completely dry. More
frightening, and relevant, was his fear of cheese. If ever he
received a Cheeseburger, he would return to the counter,
ranting maniacally about how he hadn't eaten a slice of cheese since
1942 and demand someone remove the offending tray, sanitize the area
within twenty square feet (without using a mop) then replace his
burger with a cheese free one.
So this in mind, I asked the man, “What
can I help you with?” I was, of course, hoping that he didn't read
between the lines and realize that I was really begging, “Please
don't pull out your KA-BAR tactical combat knife and stab me in the
neck because we put cheese on your sandwich by mistake.”
He took me by the shoulder, not in a
gruff fashion suggesting a disgruntled killer angered over misplaced
dairy products, but that of a friend. I didn't realize that he was
about to address one of the great debates of our society or that he'd
momentarily let me know without a doubt on what side of this volatile
debate he firmly stood. Nor until that moment, did I realize that a
restaurant could reside in the center of this debate.
He pulled me close and whispered,
“Sorry for making you come up here. I don't want to embarrass any
of your employees. But there's something going on that I'm pretty
sure you'd want to know about. I know if it were my restaurant I
would want to know.”
He smelled of laundry detergent and was
well groomed. He clearly wasn't homeless. I nodded, feeling less fear
for my life. “Sure, I always appreciate any input from customers.”
“I was just in the restroom. There's
a pretty big problem there.”
We'd had issues with the toilet in the
past. I wondered if it was backing up again.
He finished, “Your toilet paper rolls
are on the wrong way.”
