Last week I waited on a group of six ignorant white teens from some Kentucky town of 200 where Caveman Speak was still the preferred language, spoken by both animals and humans alike.
The girl on the far right closest to me could have been an extra in any zombie film. It would appear that learning the alphabet in Mother's Day Out was enough to max her brain, and her facial expressions were limited to either "I'm bored" or "Where's the kitty?"
When it came time to take her order, I said in a very slow, understanding voice,"What would you like...to EAT?"
She gave me a patently blank look, held her hand to her mouth, spit out her gum, and casually placed the gum in my open hand. I was stunned. Her friends had been too busy chasing their tails to see what transpired. This was a moment that zombie girl and I shared.
I looked at her, and she looked back at me like a Cocker Spaniel who's indifferent to the pile of shit on the kitchen floor.
I tossed the gum into her open dinner napkin, said "Oh thank you," and ran off to tell every co-worker on the clock. I did not return to the table until the barbarians used both smoke signals and cave drawings to indicate that they were ready to return to their underground city.
They seemed confused when I said, "I'll be your cashier when you're ready to pay," as if there had been some previously discussed trade of one of the table's virgins in exchange for food and drink. They figured out the math, even adding an 18% tip, and left.
Zombie girl and I locked eyes one last time. I glared at her with the hatred of a hundred savages. She stared blankly at me, then stared blankly at one of the rotating ceiling fans (no doubt frightened by the voodoo magic).
As she left, she popped in a new stick of chewing gum, which undoubtedly found its way into the hand of an unsuspecting gas station worker or passerby on the street.