My wife, Sugar, and I entered the old-fashioned 24-hour truck stop greasy spoon diner eager for a good old-fashioned dinner.
As is the case in many of the elite restaurants, the overhead television was on a channel showing a program about life in prison. One of the patrons inquired about changing the station, but our server objected. She explained that this week’s prison show features the Canon City prison in Colorado, which is where her fiance is residing. She was hoping to catch a glimpse of him. And, let us all agree, the television debut of a loved one is exciting indeed.
Before I could empathize with this young waitress by telling her that my own former fiance/now wife appeared on the TV show Dallas in her younger years (and likely get kicked under the table by sweet Sugar), our waitress provided more unsolicited information about her personal life. She recently had a baby. (That was a surprise to me because i thought she still looked pregnant but, of course, I did not say that as I got couth).
Guess who is the father. Right. The guy in prison. In addition, we learned that there is a three year old child who is also a product of the relationship, also conceived and born during this extended period of engagement, either prior to the fiance’s conviction and imprisonment or, perhaps, as a result of conjugal visits. I did not ask any questions. I was a good listener.
Sugar ruined our intriguing conversation by insisting on ordering food just as we were really getting to know the waitress. By the way, the parents of the waitress are watching the three year old and the baby while she works. I was ready to offer to help out too, but Sugar kept changing the subject to the menu. How rude! She is normally a lovely woman, classy even, a Southern belle and beauty pageant winner, but her knowledge of prisons and the challenge of repeated pregnancies with an incarcerated partner is abysmal. She could not relate. I, on the other hand, was willing to listen. I was about to mention that I am a lawyer and offer to help with the appeal pro bono when Sugar lost her appetite.
The family next to us had already been served. One of their party, a young boy about eight years of age, suddenly, without warning, yet with impressive force, threw up on their table. Spaghetti.
Sugar is soooo ladylike that she won’t even eat her own meal just because there is vomit on the next table. I could smell it, sure, but it is not like any of the used spaghetti actually got on Sugar’s clothing, or even mine.
It’s not like it was on our table. That would be where I would draw the line.