“Sorry if I’m talking funny, but I just got my tongue pierced.”
The teenage girl behind the counter spoke as though she had a mouthful of cold oatmeal.
And she apparently wanted me to understand why.
My brain struggled to process the comment.
I’d been awake since two o’clock in the morning, so anything would have been a struggle.
But a pierced tongue?
I mean . . .
What do you even say to that?
It must have been obvious to the girl I was struggling.
“Seriously,” she said. “It was just, like, two hours ago.”
Did she want me to be sympathetic? Impressed?
I was mostly disgusted.
And totally perplexed as to how I had crossed into this hellscape the moment I’d walked into the Panera Bread in Council Bluffs, Iowa.
The pierced-tongue girl was only part of it.
I had stood the early watch in the Global Operations Center at U.S. Strategic Command, just down the road from Council Bluffs at Offutt Air Force Base.
This was my Navy Reserve annual training.
Rather than jet off to Spain or Hawaii or Croatia, I’d instead driven through cornfields to Omaha, Nebraska.
All the rooms on base had been occupied, so the Navy had put me up at a Holiday Inn in Council Bluffs, just across the Missouri River from downtown Omaha.
Tired as I was, I had zero ambition to do anything interesting for dinner.
I saw the Panera off the expressway and decided it would do.
Two older couples had preceded me into the store. It appeared they were all together.
I’d guess they were in their early eighties.
Upon entering, the group broke formation. One couple went to one register, and one went to the other.
I stood in line between the two registers, figuring I’d follow whichever couple finished ordering first.
And from that vantage point, I was able to take in both conversations.
“Let’s see,” started the gentleman on the right, “I want the chicken sandwich, but only half. How much is that?”
The girl behind the register started to explain that half sandwiches were only an option when paired with soup or a salad as a combo.
“Soup?” interrupted the gentleman. “I don’t want any soup. Who said anything about soup?”
Over at the left register, the lady was trying to order a salad.
“Well, can you show me the different sizes?” she asked. “I don’t want to pay for the big one if the small one is enough.”
The girl behind the register then went somewhere in back and came out with two plastic bowls to show the lady.
“How much is this one?” the lady asked, holding the smaller of the two bowls.
Meanwhile, back at the right register, the gentleman was struggling with the choice of sides.
“Do you want a baguette, chips, or an apple as your side?” the girl asked him.
“Baguette?” he asked. “You mean bread?”
Yes, the girl replied. She meant bread.
“Is it toasted?” the gentleman asked. “I don’t want anything toasted.”
But before the girl could answer, the lady next to the gentleman chimed in, “He’ll have the chips.”
“Chips?” the guy replied, indignantly. “What kind of chips?”
And it kept going on like that at both registers. For a while.
Presented with too many choices, these octogenarians repeatedly took the teenagers down successive rabbit holes to thoroughly exhaust every possible menu combination and option before making a decision.
At that rate, I figured I wouldn’t get my turn to order for another half hour.
When I finally did, I shot through my order in ten seconds with the pierced-tongue girl.
Now, I know what you’re thinking.
Classy move there, Dan, taking a cheap shot at a group of budget-conscious senior citizens.
That’s not it at all.
I have three issues here.
The first two concern my long-standing Restaurant Rules.
One, know the menu options in advance and be ninety percent certain what to order before you show up.
Two, if you’re not comfortable ordering the most expensive thing on the menu, don’t go to that restaurant. Pick a less expensive one.
The third issue deals with one of my primary concerns with getting old: the complete breakdown of situational awareness.
There could have been a line out the door, and these seniors would have been oblivious.
They would have kept asking their questions, not the least bit aware of how much of other people’s time they were wasting.
I suspect one’s concept of time changes in one’s later, post-career years.
When every day’s Saturday, what’s the hurry?
I get that.
What I don’t get is the discourtesy of it all.
You, Mister Retiree, may not be in a hurry.
But I sure as shit am.
So, can we keep the line moving here, please?
I finally got my Baja Bowl and found a seat in an out-of-the-way corner of the restaurant.
After the ordeal at the register, I was in no mood to have any further interaction with anyone.
I got about two bites in, when the lady a few tables over started shouting into her phone.
She was probably ten years younger than the people I’d stood behind at the counter.
Again, I was witnessing a total, senior-citizen breakdown of situational awareness.
The lady had no idea how loud she was speaking. Nor, likely, did she care.
“Yes!” she said, “seventy-three dollars.”
She’d apparently received a PetSmart gift card from someone and was detailing what she intended to do with the remaining funds on it.
“What?” she semi-shouted. “No, no . . . they’re dead! They’re all dead!”
What the hell was this all about? I thought.
It wasn’t exactly what you’d expect to hear in a conversation about pet supplies.
Not that I wanted to hear any of this, mind you.
She continued, “It was Turtle. I know it was him. He killed them all!”
Excuse me? What was she talking about, some kind of gang-related hit?
Shit was getting real in Council Bluffs.
I eventually pieced together that both Turtle and his victims were goldfish.
And, under certain circumstances, some goldfish, like Turtle, apparently eat others.
This, according to the PetSmart gift card lady.
She hadn’t found out until it was too late.
So, a portion of her remaining gift card funds would go towards replacing her eaten goldfish.
And getting Turtle a separate tank.
The lady continued to shout into her phone, nonstop, the entire time I was there.
Which wasn’t long.
I had to get the hell out of there.
I was completely wrung out.
Shit.
I don’t know which depresses me more.
The inevitability of aging and decline.
Or the thought of spending another week in Council Bluffs, Iowa.
Which I’m sure is a lovely town.
Full of lovely, self-aware people.
Who do not hang out
At Panera Bread
At five o’clock
On a Tuesday.