The new waitress smiled as she approached the booth. "Would you like a menu?" "Yes, I would," said the old gent. He took the menu and slipped it under
the left side of his jacket. She frowned. "What are you doing?" "You just gave me a menu." "No -- I meant to read." "I read it once. I didn't like it." He placed the menu back on the table. "I'll give you a minute." She leaned over the table and reached for the napkin holder. "Excuse me." "What'd ya do -- what'd ya do?" He picked up the menu and fanned the air. The waitress straightened, looked around, turned as red as a Mexican sunset and mumbled, "I didn't do anything." She brushed back a loose strand of hair and regained her composure. "Would you like to order now?" "I'll have ham an' eggs." She scribbled on an order pad. "How do you like your eggs?" "I like them very much." "No -- how do you like them cooked?" "I like them that way, too." She smirked behind the pad. "I'll make them over easy." "I'd rather you asked the cook to do it." The waitress delivered the food then walked back and watched him from the counter. When the old man finished his breakfast and stood to leave, she rushed over. "Mister -- you left something." Mike Murphy turned, looked down at the table and a five-dollar tip and winked. "Welcome to Murphy's Coffee Cup Café."
Collins lives on the NE edge of the Mojave Desert and can sometimes be heard howlin' at the moon.
