Last night I had a dream that my parents and I, while on vacation somewhere in the southwest, found ourselves eating in the same little run-down restaurant as Clint Eastwood. He was sitting in a booth across the deserted dusty room.
My Dad, completely out of character, went into fanboy mode and was bursting at the seams to go over and talk to Clint. When he came back to our table, he brought with him several small bowls of food. Apparently in my dreamworld one did not get autographs from the celebrities they admired but rather food from their plates… plates they have been eating from.
My Dad had a sample of the salsa Mr.Eastwood was enjoying and my Mom had some of his drink, while I was lucky enough to get a scoop of his mashed potatoes. The same mashed potatoes that he was currently licking off his fork.
What was I supposed to do with his food, treasure it? Freeze it, only bringing it out on special occasions? I like Mr. Eastwood and all but I was at a loss. My Dad, getting embarrassed and annoyed with me because Clint was watching from across the room, told me I was supposed to eat it. So I mixed it around with my fork and took a bite, smiling and waving to Clint, while trying not to cringe at the thought that I was eating his saliva.
Richard, if I ever meet you while dining out, just acknowledging that I exist will be fine. Maybe even a handshake or hug if I’m really lucky, but please don’t make me eat after you. That is where I draw the line.
Nowhere in Particular RA 