“What can I bring you to drink?” asked our waiter, Roberto.
“Coffee,” Jerry said without looking up from the menu.
As Roberto sped away, I said to Jerry, “You sound kind of grumpy.”
He said, “My back hurts. I didn’t mean to sound grumpy. I’ll feel better when I have coffee.”
We scooped the warm complimentary tortilla chips into the bean dip and munched as we waited. Roberto returned to our table empty-handed.
“I’m sorry, but we don’t have regular coffee. We have decaf. Would you like decaf?”
Sometimes I take mental vacations when a gynecologist pokes and prods to the point of pain. I often go to Hawaii. If bears in coconut bras greet me there, all the better.
His silver streaked hair exploded in different directions like he hadn’t combed it in months. I’m sure a few birds nested in it. He had a wild-eyed look about him like a hunted animal seeking refuge. Perhaps he’d delivered several babies during the night and hadn’t yet had a chance to relax and tee off at the country club. He didn’t seem too interested in knowing me. He didn’t offer a smile or a handshake, just an abrupt “I’m Dr. Badhair.” Of course his name isn’t really Badhair but I’m not using his real name to protect me.
