Last Friday I took my lunch
at The 100 Mile Rib & Chop House in Fowler, Indiana. The 100 Miles is from Chicago, I believe. It's where I usually eat when I'm in Fowler - a bar on one side of the wall, a small restaurant on the other side. Good food.
Comfort food. The special was smoked sausage with scalloped potatoes and green beans, and I had a cup of their coffee.
A few tables away, Gramma and Grandson were having lunch together. Grandson was perhaps 19 years old, laconic, long-limbed and slow-voweled. Gramma was white-headed. Grandson finished his meal, said, "I gotta go up to the Courthouse and pay my bullshit ticket." Gramma wanted to know what the ticket was for.
"The cop said I didn't stop for a stop sign."
Gramma said, "I got a ticket like that. I stopped for the stop sign and he said I didn't, and I didn't have anybody with me to prove any different. I was by myself."
Waitress asked Grandson if he wanted another Coke. I know misunderstanding when I see it. When she brought him the soda, he said, "I didn't want any more." Maybe he didn't, but he didn't make it very clear. He's blond, slight, tall, laconic, slow-voweled, and not very verbally adept, you think. And the cops think he rolls through stop signs; apparently it runs in the family.