Three Strikes.

Best Friend and I went out for a quick supper the other night, at a place we haven’t had even good service.  But their food is good, and it’s close by.

When we were done eating, we headed for the cashier.  Best Friend got caught up taking to people at another table, so I walked to the cashier and waited.  No one was there, and given the service at this restaurant, it wasn’t surprising.  So I waited.

“Can I help you?”

I turned around to see who was posing this question to me.

There, about twenty feet from me, was a young blonde girl, with her hair tied up in white gym shoes and Bobby socks, shorts so short I could see her butt cheeks, a white crop top that was so high I could see her belly button, her hair done up in two side ponytails – and she was holding a doll.

For a moment, I was speechless.

“Do you work here?” I asked, as I looked away.

“Yes” she answered.

“No thank you.  I’m waiting for someone.” And I slowly walked back to where Best Friend was still talking to the other diners.

When I told Best Friend later about this, he knew who I was talking about.  He was astounded when I told him that she was holding a doll.

“A doll?”

“Yeah.  A doll!  She looked like some hussy looking for a little action or something – like she was dressed as a little girl—ugh!  I’m not going there!”

Between The Clown Waiter and we were at Two Strikes with this restaurant, add that to this experience – that’s it.  We are done with them.

©2022 Colcannon Metropolis, excerpt from “Dining at Chez Ersatz”

3 thoughts on “Three Strikes.

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