A few more minutes.

The day was overwhelmingly casual.

The indifferent temperatures and sunbeams made you feel like a prisoner being allowed outside for 30 minutes of physical recreation.

You don't want it to end. But. You know it has to.

So why not? Why not study outside? Why not break out the guitar and play in the open campus forum.

As I sat Shamelessly Basking, my father, Big Snake, showed up to campus. We both indulged in the liberty of the moment. Dinner? I meal for two? Yes. So Why not?

We speed to the other side of town with the preconception of tastes touching our tongues. What a meal we should expect.

We arrive. We are told to wait 5 minutes, only to be called upon 2 minutes later.

This is looking savory.


Our hostess leads us to a dirty table.

"Excuse me. I apologize," as she shamefully cleans it.

We sit, but the angles of the benches cause problems for Big Snake's back. We have to move. He's like 50 years old, man.

Now situated at comfortable high chairs we're prepared to begin this gastronomic endeavor. We order. Drinks. Appetizers.

We chat for a moment, but we run out of words. Wow. It's been a while. Shouldn't there have been a waiter interlude? Fresh teas? Our appetizer?

But no. There wasn't. At least not for another few minutes, and even then it was just drinks. It took another few minutes for the appetizers to come, and that was only after our orders were taken.

Appetizer now all gone. My drink gone, long before that. Finishing appetizer without any beverage makes for dry mouth. No sign of waiter. Where's my refill?

A few minutes. A waiter. A few minutes more. A refill. A few minutes more. A removal of appetizer plate. Where is my food?

I'm forced to watch football and listen to Big Snake without the interlude of stuffing my face. The tension is rising.

The food arrives. I begin to eat. I must defecate.I ask Big Snake to order a refill for me while I take leave. I spend some time playing video games in the bathroom.

I return to find a glass gone, but no refill. A few minutes more. It arrives.

I want to leave.

"Check please, and could we get to-go boxes and teas?" says the Shameless One.

Now. I would imagine in a Utopian food industry that a waiter would bring all of the requests at once, or at least save the drinks for after we've paid. But this is no perfect industry.

Just know this. A few minutes more, times about four, maybe a little bit more, is how long we waited. It was a scattered combination one at a time, and I began to think he was doing it on purpose.

By the time we had it all done I didn't want anything any more. I didn't want the left overs or the to-go tea. I just wanted to leave this man's presence before I said something mean.

We leave.

As I walk quickly from the establishment I'm filled with anger. All I can think of are scenarios where I could have made a big scene. I would have started sternly in English, then at some point shifted into a mixture of Portuguese and Spanish gibberish. But then. I thought of another scenario.

This scenario takes place in a third world country. One were the delicacies of dining out are hardly an option. Perhaps the great hunt for wild meats are the only option, and even then the game is scarce. There is no modern agriculture, or the blistering sun has dried up the harvest. A feast of grubs. A handful of dirty water. If fortune is a factor of course. A good harvest? The dictator takes most of it. Leftovers? Thankfully, my life is leftover. Forget extra food. If I can.

I bet that person wouldn't mind a few minutes more.