Wednesday, October 6, 2010

Allergic to Work

The tall lanky Italian with greasy black hair and a day's growth on his face grunted when the American couple came to his dad's restaurant. "No seats," he said in broken English that might have been the entire extend of his English vocabulary.

"But, you have no customers... look, no one's here."

"No seats, no reser va tions," he asserted sharply, fumbling over the largest word in English that he knew, and not caring for the American's logic.

He then walked into the back room to sit down and finish his glass of wine.

"Who was that?" his dad asked.

"Just a couple of Americanos... we don't need them."

"Don't need them... you want some gas money for that car of yours?"

His dad was a smaller and fatter version of the lanky Italian. In place of the black hair was a polished skull. The father's face turned red as he realized that his son was allergic to work.

The couple walked out, with the tall man remarking to the short woman, "you know, this is why I love traveling to foreign countries... you are treated like s...t."

"Perhaps this just isn't the restaurant for us," the short woman consoled. "Remember, there are two other restaurants in the town... maybe we'll have better luck with one of them."

The Italian man and his father continued to argue. The American couple could hear them as they walked away.

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