the truck stops here.

5 Mar

Shockingly, Harry and I spent part of our day at The Cheesecake Factory. Because we’re really really famous, we usually run into people we know everyplace we go, and today was no exception. In fact, we hadn’t even gotten to the front door and Harry was already making a beeline towards a vehicle in the parking lot.

“That’s totally my guy!” He waved enthusiastically, dragging Riley behind him as he galloped towards the produce delivery truck parked at the service entrance. “Jose, what’s up, man?! Were you just sleeping? You better have dropped our delivery already if you’re taking a nap.” Jose explained that the truck had broken down and he was waiting for a replacement truck to switch the deliveries over and bring them to our place, which was the last stop on his route. He made baby faces at a giggling Riley and we went inside to have salads, iced tea and a temper tantrum (I’m not mentioning whether it was me, Harry or Riley).

In addition to the produce guy, the restaurant has allowed the following people have become Riley’s best friends over the past year and a half and a month: the dude who cleans the draft beer lines, a gaggle of regular customers, (or “our fans,” as Harry and I like to refer to them) the Bud salesman, the window washer, one of the managers at Home Depot, the Grey Goose rep, one thousand Jappy Snowbirds, (only May to October and over Passover) Ryan, Charlie, Nicole, our kitchen staff, (who hail from El Salvador, Guatamala, Honduras & Exit 64 on the LIE) and Mike the plumber.

My brother, who does things like fly business class, wear suits and go to happy hour, probably never approaches his Spanish-speaking truck driver acquaintances, because he doesn’t have any. Serves him right for ditching the restaurant business. But when he eventually decides to reproduce, how the fuck is his kid ever going to make friends?


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