“Where does it hurt?” I ask the young woman lying in the street. “My leg,” she groans. “Anywhere else?” “My side,” the girl says, wincing. She’s having trouble talking. “Can you breathe?” I ask. “Not much,” she gasps. “It hurts when…..” “Lie still,” I say,
It’s Sunday afternoon and I’m walking through the neighborhood where I used to work. When I pass by The Bistro’s front window I take a peek inside. A waiter I don’t know is standing in my old section and talking to customers I don’t recognize.
Waiter, I have a question for you. While it’s not in regards to the restaurant industry, it has to do with the bar business. And, you guessed it, tipping. Within the last two years, I’ve developed some severe medical problems, mainly claustrophobia and agoraphobia, and
I’m feeling a little stiff so I roll my shoulders to dispel the tension bunching my trapezius muscles. Then I take a deep breath, insert a magazine full of nine millimeter bullets into the butt of a Sig Sauer semi-automatic pistol, rack the slide to