PART 2 — The Waitress Who Remembered What Everyone Else Forgot
Walt picked up the folded receipt.
He had been coming to the Main Street Café for nearly fifty years, and in all that time, I had never seen him read anything so slowly.
He unfolded the paper, adjusted the glasses hanging from a cord around his neck, and stared at the three words written across the tip line.
GET A REAL JOB.
For several seconds, he didn’t move.
Then he looked up at my mother.
“Darlene, whose handwriting is this?”
Mom stood beside the booth with her coffee pot.
She didn’t answer immediately.
She simply reached over and filled his cup, leaving the usual half-inch of space at the top.
“Your son’s, Walt.”
The old man’s fingers tightened around the receipt.
“My Michael?”
Mom nodded.
“He came in Tuesday.”
Walt read the words again.
Then he took off his glasses.
