There’s this guy that I deliver to once or twice a week. He lives at an assisted-living home close by, and complains about being stuck there every time I show up. He also says that we can’t make anything hot enough for him, and so he always asks for extra jalapenos.
He meets me at the door in his wheelchair, and has severe symptoms of Parkinsons disease, his hands shaking severely while he hands me his blank personal check. I write out the amount, and always have to force him to take a receipt, telling him that he needs to know how much money “people” are making out his checks for.
He asked me last week about what our restaurant looks like, and after describing it, I told him about the Bulletin Board covered with photos. I whipped out my camera and took a photo of the two of us, telling him that we’d have it front n’ center on our Bulletin Board if he ever makes it out of his house.
Tonight, his wings were so spicy that the smell of them made me uncomfortable. When I delivered them, I warned him how hot they were going to be.
He laughed as I made out his check, telling me that would be impossible.
We’ll see. I’m sure I’ll be bringing him another delivery later this week.