Restaurant Tour

    They’d arrived late the previous evening via Amtrak passenger train from Chicago, and that being the last leg of their rail journey from the hipster mecca of Omaha Nebraska*. When I received their greetings at the funeral ‘home’ I learned that they had no transportation of their own.

    As I’d already driven Gerald, another sibling, to the funeral Vicky decided that she–and her airman–would like to ride home with me to visit with my daughers, who were not in attendance.

    Gerald had grown weary and requested that he be left to his own devices at his home in Warren; this request was honored and we bade him farewell from the threshhold of his car shed an drove on without his company to my Utica home.

    Once home, my younger Whited girls amused the visiting couple for a period long enough to worry the hampster where he sat, deep in his lair upon Samantha’s vanity, but for a period short enough to leave room on the moon dial for a trip to my parents’ home.

    Sam tripped the Mazda with the tired and sleepy Leightons, requesting but not receiving repeated audio plays of the Ghostbusters theme song, which I originally aired following a lengthy discussion of the possible merits of mounting an electronic scrolling marquee sign in the back window of my car**.

    Mere minutes after my arrival I was overcome with a youthful energy. Running in small circles, hop-toading with Sam upon my back, singing poopular songs of the 80’s and performing unsolicited dramatic readings of random pieces of junk mail stolen from an unoccupied arm chair, I wore my welcome out quicker than usual.

    Heather indicate via cellular transmission that she’d like a hamburger. I wanted a Jimmy John’s #6*** and the daughters wanted chicken press-board chunks from Old McDonald. Off we went, into the night.

    At Jimmy Johns I chased Sam from the car into the sandwich shop, stopping suddenly within the door in order to assume a nonchalant demeanor which certainly wasn’t. Thus raising the suspicions of the hirelings, I ordered my #6.

    I noted, as the counter girl handed my my change, that she had the numbers ‘10′ and ‘6′ written on her palm. Lifting the laden sandwich bag I asked, “What do the numbers ten and six mean?”

    All activity behind the counter stopped. A fellow making a sandwich quietly set his knife down upon the cutting board and a man sweeping stopped mid-stroke to lean, propped, upon the shaft of his implement.

    ”What do you mean?” the girl responded, looking fertively over her shoulder at her mates.

    ”The numbers six and ten are written on your palm. What does that mean?” Samantha was tugging on my arm, eager to get to the empire of McD for her particle chicken.

    Quickly, she regarded her fist, flashing it open for a second or two to regard the mystery number before balling it back up. She finally said, “Oh, I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

    The sandwich production resumed with exaggerated gusto while the sweeper intoned “you are very observant” before returning to the job of sweepening. I resolved that this mystery would remain unsolved as I fled the scene with Samantha leading the way back to the rabidly cooling car.

    Out next stop, “5 Guys Burger and Fries,” was busy, comprised of an alarming quantity of red and white checkered patterns, and provided us with free roasted peanuts in the shell. I ate as many as I could, rubbing several handfuls into my scalp, all while waiting upon the production of Heather’s bacon cheese burger and fries.

    Samantha and I took turns repeating and reminding one another of our order number, 17, and bundled the resulting greasy sack under my arm and wandered back to the Mazda. Later I would wonder at the relationship between the 10, the 6 and the 17. I have no further information to add to that numerological puzzle.

    McDonalds proved a fortuitous expedition as we discovered to our chagrin that they were in between movie promotions and had planned to switch from Avatar to Alvin and the Chipmunks at midnight.

    ”Can we get an Alvin and the Chipmunks toy earlier?” I asked.
    ”No, they aren’t available until tomorrow.”
    ”Sam. Give her the moon eyes, ” I directed, “Now.” I didn’t have time to put on the protective goggles, so I averted my gaze as Samantha assembled and deployed her best sad puppy directly at the hapless cashier. Of course I was soon looking on approvingly as Samantha was provided the full compliment of Alvin castmembers to choose from.

    She chose Theodore.