i met up w/ the old gang in Winston, at TGIFriday’s. I got there first and was seated. it was Prom Night and the mall was full of misplaced formally dressed teens. all of them african american, now that i think about it.

i have learned it is best to set off your black tux and fedora with a white doo rag.

we got a thugged out waiter. the service was horrible.
he kept coming over to provide meaningless information.

“the appetizer’s not coming out right now…”
naw, for real?
“the food’s going to take a while”
what about them refills tho?
“the kitchen’s backed up, it’s gonna take some time”
what’s worse than not having any food is giving my stomach frequent reminders that i’m hungry and still not fed.

He tries to engage us in small talk which was agonizing.
“Y’all know my name?”
We’re like ‘what in the world’? Check on our food, man!!!
I offer “Jordan?” because that’s what the tat says on his neck in script.
“Nah, that’s my daughter. My name is Casanova.”
and he pauses for effect. And then reiterates that it’s really his government (given) name. I want to ask him if he and Romeo had ever been friends, but I resisted. At this point i’m really disliking him, because i’m starving and he didn’t seem too concerned about that. the kitchen was the furthest thing from his mind.

the other waiter we flagged down hit us off w/ refills and eventually brought out our food. More Casanova banter throughout the meal. he get’s so comfortable chillin’ as our tableside friend he swears during his final exchange.

“I’m just fu**ing with y’all” he says. You sure were, Casanova. You sure were. He never did come back w/ S’s 9 cents change.