Thanks for the Sundae
The Whippersnapper was a little hole-in-wall seafood restaurant located just down the road from the Biltmar Hotel on Treasure Island Beach. It was known for its famed rainforest mural depicting colorful toucans and lush greenery that covered the entire outside of the building. It served happy hour every day of the week starting at 5:00 p.m. sharp, hosted karaoke night on Saturdays and served a special "after church brunch" on Sundays. Alternating reggae music and Jimmy Buffet hits wailed from the restaurant’s speakers and could be heard by pedestrians as they passed.
The Whippersnapper was where Brooklyn waited tables. Brooklyn was a native Floridian, something that her parents regretted since the day she was born. Due to lay-offs at her father’s company, her parents were forced to leave New York and move to Florida when her mother was six months pregnant with Brooklyn. Florida (or anywhere else, for that matter) was a last resort; her father tried fervently to find work in another part of New York or in one of the bordering states with no luck. He did, however, get a job offer from a company in Florida, and, left with no other options, took the job. Three months after they moved, Brooklyn was born in St. Joseph’s Women’s Hospital in Tampa. As a tribute to the great state of New York, she was named after the city where her parents were born, raised and planned on dying.
It was at the Whippersnapper’s indoor wooden bar where Brooklyn sat on a stool, bored. It was 2:00 p.m., the period between lunch and dinner where business was the slowest. The only customers were an old man and woman who were hard of hearing and had to gum their food. The bartender leaned in a corner, cupping a hand-held radio with a miniature speaker that nestled in his ear. He was listening to game 5 of the World Series, the showdown between the Yankees and the Braves. Ceiling fans turned lazily; the breeze off the ocean came in through the open doors that led to the tiki bar outside and teased a few of Brooklyn’s stray hairs. "Margaritaville" was playing over the loudspeakers. Brooklyn yawned and again counted the hours until she could leave. Three left. She prayed they would go by quickly.
A woman walked in and seated herself in a booth at the very back of the restaurant, in a corner. At nights, this was the darkest part of the restaurant. She had a permanent frown on her face and nervously played with her napkin, tearing off little bits and dropping them in a little pile to the side. Her mind seemed to be elsewhere, looking at her napkin as she was playing with it but not really seeing it. Brooklyn walked over to her.
"Hi, welcome to the Whippersnapper! Can I get you something to drink?"
"I want the fried grouper with a side of coleslaw," the woman said absent-mindedly, still looking down at her napkin. The pile of paper bits was growing. Brooklyn fumbled around for her notepad and pen. "I also want a Caesar side salad and a bowl of clam chowder. And a Long Island Iced Tea."
Jesus, this woman eats a lot, thought Brooklyn, struggling to write down the order. After verifying to make sure she wrote everything down correctly, she went to take the order slip to the cook, passing the old couple on her way. She stopped and asked how they were doing. The old man nodded and the old woman gummed a very loud, "We’re doing fine, thank you, dear!" and patted Brooklyn on the arm. Brooklyn smiled and turned in her order to the cook.
* * *
The woman’s salad and chowder were ready at the same time and Brooklyn took them over to her and set them down on the table. She noticed that the woman had already finished the Long Island Iced Tea she had brought her earlier.
"Would you like another tea?" she asked. The woman looked at Brooklyn, not really seeing her, and nodded yes. Brooklyn took the empty glass over to the bar, passing the old couple’s table; the old couple was gone. They left $5 for a tip. Brooklyn shook her head as she pocketed the bill and got another tea from the bar. She wondered what was wrong with the woman in the booth. When she returned with the drink, the woman pushed the salad and the chowder toward Brooklyn.
"You can take these," she said. They weren’t touched.
Brooklyn was confused. "Was there something wrong?" she asked.
"No, it was very good," the woman responded, sipping her tea. Brooklyn shrugged and grabbed the salad and chowder. She noticed that even the little packet of chowder crackers had not been opened.
* * *
The woman’s order was finally ready and as Brooklyn walked toward her carrying the steaming plate of fish, she resolved to ask what was wrong. The woman’s napkin was now a pile of paper bits and she still seemed out of it.
"Careful, the plate is very hot," Brooklyn said as she set the fish down in front of the woman. The woman looked at it and nothing registered. Brooklyn took a deep breath.
"Ma’am, I’m sorry if I seem like I’m prying, but are you alright? You seem to be…preoccupied."
The woman looked at Brooklyn and for the first time seemed to snap back to reality. She made an attempt at a smile and tried to chuckle it off. Both were forced. "Yeah, I’m alright," she said sadly. "It’s just that I found out earlier today that I was dying."
The unexpected comment caught Brooklyn off-guard, rendering her speechless. She searched for something to say, some words of comfort or reassurance. What came out instead was, "Dessert’s on us." The woman looked at her and furrowed her brow, and Brooklyn walked away, face burning.
Dessert’s on us? What the hell was I thinking? Brooklyn thought. The woman is dying and all I could offer was free dessert? Will free dessert prolong her life? Hell no it won’t! Brooklyn sat at the bar with her back toward the woman, not interacting with her again until she brought her a free brownie sundae that she paid for with the $5 tip from the old couple. Her face burned; she knew she was foregoing what could have been a decent tip. This was why she was surprised at the tip the woman left after she had paid and gone. When she returned to the booth to clear it off, she noticed a $100 bill peaking out from under the empty glass that had held a Long Island Iced Tea. On it the woman had written, "Thanks for the sundae."
The Whippersnapper was where Brooklyn waited tables. Brooklyn was a native Floridian, something that her parents regretted since the day she was born. Due to lay-offs at her father’s company, her parents were forced to leave New York and move to Florida when her mother was six months pregnant with Brooklyn. Florida (or anywhere else, for that matter) was a last resort; her father tried fervently to find work in another part of New York or in one of the bordering states with no luck. He did, however, get a job offer from a company in Florida, and, left with no other options, took the job. Three months after they moved, Brooklyn was born in St. Joseph’s Women’s Hospital in Tampa. As a tribute to the great state of New York, she was named after the city where her parents were born, raised and planned on dying.
It was at the Whippersnapper’s indoor wooden bar where Brooklyn sat on a stool, bored. It was 2:00 p.m., the period between lunch and dinner where business was the slowest. The only customers were an old man and woman who were hard of hearing and had to gum their food. The bartender leaned in a corner, cupping a hand-held radio with a miniature speaker that nestled in his ear. He was listening to game 5 of the World Series, the showdown between the Yankees and the Braves. Ceiling fans turned lazily; the breeze off the ocean came in through the open doors that led to the tiki bar outside and teased a few of Brooklyn’s stray hairs. "Margaritaville" was playing over the loudspeakers. Brooklyn yawned and again counted the hours until she could leave. Three left. She prayed they would go by quickly.
A woman walked in and seated herself in a booth at the very back of the restaurant, in a corner. At nights, this was the darkest part of the restaurant. She had a permanent frown on her face and nervously played with her napkin, tearing off little bits and dropping them in a little pile to the side. Her mind seemed to be elsewhere, looking at her napkin as she was playing with it but not really seeing it. Brooklyn walked over to her.
"Hi, welcome to the Whippersnapper! Can I get you something to drink?"
"I want the fried grouper with a side of coleslaw," the woman said absent-mindedly, still looking down at her napkin. The pile of paper bits was growing. Brooklyn fumbled around for her notepad and pen. "I also want a Caesar side salad and a bowl of clam chowder. And a Long Island Iced Tea."
Jesus, this woman eats a lot, thought Brooklyn, struggling to write down the order. After verifying to make sure she wrote everything down correctly, she went to take the order slip to the cook, passing the old couple on her way. She stopped and asked how they were doing. The old man nodded and the old woman gummed a very loud, "We’re doing fine, thank you, dear!" and patted Brooklyn on the arm. Brooklyn smiled and turned in her order to the cook.
* * *
The woman’s salad and chowder were ready at the same time and Brooklyn took them over to her and set them down on the table. She noticed that the woman had already finished the Long Island Iced Tea she had brought her earlier.
"Would you like another tea?" she asked. The woman looked at Brooklyn, not really seeing her, and nodded yes. Brooklyn took the empty glass over to the bar, passing the old couple’s table; the old couple was gone. They left $5 for a tip. Brooklyn shook her head as she pocketed the bill and got another tea from the bar. She wondered what was wrong with the woman in the booth. When she returned with the drink, the woman pushed the salad and the chowder toward Brooklyn.
"You can take these," she said. They weren’t touched.
Brooklyn was confused. "Was there something wrong?" she asked.
"No, it was very good," the woman responded, sipping her tea. Brooklyn shrugged and grabbed the salad and chowder. She noticed that even the little packet of chowder crackers had not been opened.
* * *
The woman’s order was finally ready and as Brooklyn walked toward her carrying the steaming plate of fish, she resolved to ask what was wrong. The woman’s napkin was now a pile of paper bits and she still seemed out of it.
"Careful, the plate is very hot," Brooklyn said as she set the fish down in front of the woman. The woman looked at it and nothing registered. Brooklyn took a deep breath.
"Ma’am, I’m sorry if I seem like I’m prying, but are you alright? You seem to be…preoccupied."
The woman looked at Brooklyn and for the first time seemed to snap back to reality. She made an attempt at a smile and tried to chuckle it off. Both were forced. "Yeah, I’m alright," she said sadly. "It’s just that I found out earlier today that I was dying."
The unexpected comment caught Brooklyn off-guard, rendering her speechless. She searched for something to say, some words of comfort or reassurance. What came out instead was, "Dessert’s on us." The woman looked at her and furrowed her brow, and Brooklyn walked away, face burning.
Dessert’s on us? What the hell was I thinking? Brooklyn thought. The woman is dying and all I could offer was free dessert? Will free dessert prolong her life? Hell no it won’t! Brooklyn sat at the bar with her back toward the woman, not interacting with her again until she brought her a free brownie sundae that she paid for with the $5 tip from the old couple. Her face burned; she knew she was foregoing what could have been a decent tip. This was why she was surprised at the tip the woman left after she had paid and gone. When she returned to the booth to clear it off, she noticed a $100 bill peaking out from under the empty glass that had held a Long Island Iced Tea. On it the woman had written, "Thanks for the sundae."
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