Regular Customer

A Tuesday afternoon at your favorite chain restaurant. The doorbell alerts me to the presence of a hungry patron. I shuffle up to the hand washing sink, greet the customer, wash hands, wrestle with fingers of my food preparation gloves.
I stand at the appointed place, with the knife and paper in front of me.
An ordinary middle-aged individual of below average looks.
He stretches his neck out and squints at the menu above my head.
A signal to show he has not decided-- more effort than necessary.
Seconds pass, he looks in my general direction.

He asks, "Can I get a..."

--"AYE AYE AYE!", interrupted Ozzy Osbourne.

A ring tone.
The man clumsily grabs for his cell; his doughy arms shifting to left pocket and right.

"Hullo?"

His poorly drawn tattoos were covered in a haze of ginger colored hair.

(Some people think a t-shirt with torn off sleeves and a camouflage trucker hat is a good look.)

I wait quietly, patiently.

"Just gettin' some subs, ya want anything?"

I wait patiently.