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February 24, 2008
“Get me a dish of vanilla,” he says without looking at me, before I ask for his order.

I peer at the lunk, slumped on a vinyl-covered stool on the other side of the counter, imagining myself introducing his jowly face to the wide, flat expanse of my ice cream trowel.

“Get you?” I say, colder than the stuff he wants.

“Huh?”

“I will not GET you anything,” I say. “I will, however, bring you something, if you ask nicely.”

He looks up. “May I please have a dish of vanilla?”

Thus he is spared my sputum in his dish.