Back in the 1900s, when I was but a mere teenager and waitressing midnights at Denny’s, we had a lot of regulars, you know, who would come and sit along the counter and smoke their cigarettes and drink their coffee. And most of those people were honestly my favorite people in the restaurant. I ended up marrying one of them, as a matter of fact.
But so, a gentleman would come in quite often and sat up there and went by the name Spit. S P I T. And this guy looked like he rarely, if ever, washed his hair or got a standard haircut, had like a cut-off jean jacket, lots of tattoos including neck tattoos, face tattoos, and this guy flirted with me a lot. And I ended up going down to the pool hall with him once or twice, but only with groups of other people. But, the one thing about him that was the huge warning sign that I said, “You know, I cannot be with a person like this. This is a mentally unwell person,” is this person would sit at the counter smoking their cigarettes and drink glass, after glass, after glass of whole white milk.
That is correct. A human being would go to a restaurant, sit at a counter and drink whole white milk glass, after glass, after glass. Lord, you know there’s something wrong with him there.