At Firehouse Subs

By Fred
Berkeley and I went to the bank and then to have lunch Thursday even though I had a meeting scheduled for 1 pm and wasn't prepared. Traffic piled up for no reason at all after we left the bank, giving me a chance to instruct Berkeley in the art of traffic talking, which supposes that I can make other cars go faster by using mind control and harsh language. Only the traffic did not obey, so I pulled into a fast-food place that happened to be nearby.

The place was very busy, and with a full staff of sandwich-maker employees, at least of 8 of them, young and fresh out of grad school, and several of them looked at Berkeley and me in a panic--that look you get from employees who have never seen a service animal before and are wondering what sort of weirdo dresses his dog in a blue coat and takes her to a restaurant.

I ordered a sandwich to go, gave them my name, sat down, and watched. One of the workers would yell out a name, and a customer would walk to the counter and get the order. One after another. Then I noticed the employees all got into a huddle. I was pretty sure it was my turn. What could they be doing, I wondered.

Finally, one the girls walked all the way around the counter, slowly approached me, and gently placed the bag into my hands.

The sandwich was just OK, but I definitely recommend the restaurant. (Cheryl wanted me to add the Berkeley kids would have at least recognized HRH.)