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I owned retail stores. Pharmacies and greeting card stores. Worked them many hours a day, six or seven days per week. For 27 years. My kids worked whenever possible.

For a few years in the early to mid 1990s there was a home for adults with mental disabilities three blocks from the store. A group of four would peruse the aisles every Saturday evening, two men and two women, entering at precisely 6pm, stopping to inspect each display, hands clasped behind their backs, seemingly discussing the merchandising amongst themselves.

Other customers assumed they were my partners; the men were that distinguished looking, and immaculately dressed. Very sweet people. My fourteen-year-old son, Mike, was always happy when they walked in because it meant it was almost 7pm, which was the time we would take a break and walk to the local diner for our weekly meal out.

We always sat at the same booth for two, opposite the counter, because we liked a particular waiter, named John. He would always greet us and talk a mile a minute; he never stopped moving, because he had no time to waste. The diner was very large and very busy.

One night I decided to slow him down. I asked him to advise me of all of that night’s specials. Steaks, chops, chicken, fish and salads; I made him go down the line, announcing each dish from memory, which he did enthusiastically. Finally, he finished, and looked at me expectantly.

“I’ll just have an American cheese omelette,” I said.

John looked very disappointed as he turned for the kitchen.

Mike, on the other hand, realized what I was up to and was very impressed.

Next week, same scenario.

As we were getting settled at our table, Mike looked at me.

“Do it, dad,” he whispered. “Do it!”

John came over with two glasses of water (which we never drank). Apparently, he forgot what had transpired the week prior, and gladly informed me of the long list of specials once again. He droned on and on, as his eyes wandered to all of his other tables.

“Hmm. Sounds very nice,” I said, pondering my choices.

“I’ll have an American cheese omelette,” I said. Mike tried to contain his giggling. John called me a pain in the ass and stomped off.

The following week I told Mike there was zero chance of our ruse working for a third consecutive time. That it was time for him to step up and show me what he was made of.

We walked over at 7pm as always, after saying goodnight to our weekly well-dressed visitors. Sat at the same table and accepted the voluminous menus from the host. Mike looked very nervous; the anticipation obviously had him unnerved. Finally, our waiter appeared with our water, and set the glasses down in front of us.

“I’ll have the usual,” I told him instantly. “An American cheese omelette.”

John seemed relieved. No shenanigans this week, he assumed.

“Tee-rific!” he said, bouncing on his feet, a slightly mocking note in his voice. “And for the young man?” he asked, turning his attention to my son.

Mike paused for more than a few seconds, studying the menu as if it was to be included on his S.A.T. exam. Turned one page. Then another. Finally:

“John, could you tell me how the Grouper is prepared? Grilled or fried?”

John seemed very impressed with such an intelligent question from the young man. I was, too.

After a very detailed, time-consuming response, he waited for Mike’s decision.

“And the sides?” Mike continued. “What are my choices?”

Other patrons were beginning to get impatient, trying to signal John to come to their tables. But John was nothing if not professional, and gave my son his undivided attention.

“Mixed vegetables, cauliflower or broccoli,” he responded.

“Wow,” Mike replied. “What a choice! Sounds delicious. I feel like I’m in the mood for…broccoli. NO! Cauliflower! I’ll take the cauliflower. But what about the potato? I don’t really care for baked. Do you think it would be a problem to substitute mashed in its place? I would really prefer mashed…”

John said it would be no problem. No problem at all.

“And dessert? Does it come with dessert?”

“Your choice of ice cream.”

“Oh. Do you have Rocky Road?” Mike inquired.

“Vanilla, chocolate or strawberry. Plus whipped cream.”

“Great!” Mike said.

“I’ll have an American cheese omelette.”

If I was drinking water at the time, I would have spit it all over the table. We came close to ending up on the floor, doubled over. Mike had tears streaming. John stomped off, muttering under his breath.

Every Saturday after that, John did not take dinner orders from us. He would just come to our table with two American cheese omelettes.