They asked him, he didn't ask for us. Why would he? It's Sunday morning and you people don't even look like you know how to dress for church. As a matter of fact, most of you don't even look like you know how to dress for the Perkins you are lucky enough to be waiting to be seated in.
   His baby blue heather button down is neatly pressed and tucked into his Navy blue 50/50 poly-cotton blend trousers. Pin straight, not quite blonde, not quite brown, parted on the side neatly, so neatly any of Dick Van Dyke's characters would be proud. The brown belt doesn't do much for the ensemble, neither does the "Shift Manager" name tag, but, who are we to judge?
   The owners of Perkins have entrusted him with the waiting area public address system, not us. And why wouldn't they? He certainly knows how to "Ahem, Claire, party of four, Claire, party of four" to the fifteen waiting people, to use the term loosely, that have been waiting impatiently for a booth. A booth all to themselves, a booth to slurp coffee, a booth to choke down a "Just off the exit, easy off, easy on" breakfast,  a booth with impenetrable invisible walls, like a recording studio, nobody outside of your booth could possibly hear your conversation, nobody.
    He does though, the cat torturing, Sunday Morning Host with the Most, he hears your conversations. As you look through the pages of the laminated menu, trying to decide what bit of genetically modified grub you want to throw down your godless throat, mumbling about what you got up to last night, he's listening. He's heard it all before, too. He's not a fan of your t-shirt either, if he has to be white washed, why shouldn't you have to be? He doesn't care that you and your "shamrock-with-a-beer-mug-in-it" t-shirt drank the entire East Stroudsburg mile of shame in less than three hours.
   "Ahem, Ellie, party of three, Ellie, party of three, Melissa will show you to your booth". He still can't believe that he has to walk past the lady with the bleach blonde half beehive, half bear claw hair do that still wears that same polyester pant-suit that was slaughtered back in '84. Wait until the phone conversation with Mom later on.
   I think he knows I'm on to him. He must. He's seen people like me a million times before. I say "Hello." after he called my name, "Ahem, Larry, party of two, Ahe". I probably shouldn't have cut him off. How dare I interrupt the lines he had been given at Sunday Morning Shift Manager training, Perkins style? This is his stage, not mine. This is his starring role. He's the one in the spotlight. It's his turn. It's his turn every Sunday morning, except that one week he gets to visit Mom and Dad in Binghamton. They don't even have a Perkins in Binghamton anymore. Poor bastards.
   Glen, if I recall.
   It's time to pay now. The guy in front of us is picking up a strawberry pie, "fresh" from the "bakery", for some function where he and Gladys were asked to "Just bring a dessert!". Now, this is painful, the lady behind the register, her rhinestone brooch glistening in the compact fluorescent rays, is catching up with someone on the phone, explaining that "It's been waay too long" and "we need to get together soon". Inquiring about somebody's child, she places her hand over the microphone part of the phone, stretching the wall mounted slim line phone's cord almost to it's breaking point, and shouts into the kitchen "I NEED HELP OUT HERE!!". I can see why, the people waiting to pay for their pies or meals outnumber her, three to one, there may have been a riot. She knows the signs of a riot, too. Debit cards in hand, small talk, the small talk is deafening, the three of us waiting, looking around, hoping Glen comes to our rescue, but, before Glen had a chance to bend the rules and move from behind his lectern, aid had arrived. Payments were made. We all parted ways.