The Diner Incident

The sizzle of bacon smoking in a frying pan greeted me with open arms as I pushed open the diner door. Bacon. I wanted bacon. I was four years old, with all the single-minded determination that entailed. My grandpa, or Papa to me and my baby brother, was on babysitting duty that morning, so he took me to the diner for a late breakfast. Little did he know what we has in for. We had no sooner sat down at the checkered table against the wall than I was already reaching for the ketchup bottle by the windowsill. My grandpa gently swatted my hand away, preventing a timeline where I accidentally splashed ketchup all over the tablecloth while fidgeting with the bottle. He seemed amused by my antics more than anything else, but still, babysitters must babysit.

Eventually, our waiter came over to the table. His frosty attitude clashed with the welcoming environment of the diner, and he asked in the most ambivalent voice possible, "What can I get for you today?" This was it. The moment I had been waiting for. With all my (admittedly little) might, I banged my ketchup-bottle-free fists against the table and shouted

"I.

WANT.

BACON!"

My grandpa stared ahead, mortified. Then after a brief second, he started to chuckle at the sheer awkwardness of the situation.

We never went back to that diner.