Phil Elmore: Individual Authoring Services

Are You in My Section?
It's Safer in the Tunnels

Recently my lovely wife and I went to a local restaurant for dinner. The establishment is one of those medium-priced family-oriented chains, and in this case focuses on ice cream as its hook. You're expected to get a sundae or something. If you don't, it makes the waiter sad.

As we sat down, a server wandered up and began talking in our general direction. It wasn't until a few sentences drifted past that I realized she was talking to us; she wanted to know if we were in her section or not.

I'm supposed to know? I wondered.

The people at the table behind us had been waiting fort heir server for fifteen minutes, but none of the staff had taken responsibility for their table, apparently.

We ordered iced cappuccinos. The server wandered off. Some time later, she returned.

"Uh," she mumbled, "There's a problem with your drink order."

"Yes?" I said.

"There's... there's no ice."

"I can see where that would be a problem," I offered.

"Yeah... that's... that's kinda in the name, and all."

"Yes, it is." I waited for a moment as she stared helplessly at us.

"Will you need time to make more ice, then?"

"Um... Someone usually goes and gets it..."

"So," I said, attempting to guide her through a simple logic tree in order to come to a satisfactory conclusion, "are you saying that no matter what drinks we order, there will be no ice?"

"Someone usually goes and gets it..."

"So you won't be able to make any ice?"

"No, we don't have any way to really make it..."

Silently, I pondered this. I can see where the technology to make water very cold might elude you, I thought wryly, this being an ice-cream-based restaurant chain.

"Am I to understand, then, that there will be no ice whatsoever?" I asked.

She stared at us.

We canceled our order and fled.

Either the aliens who live and work among us are the stupid ones, or those of us who can chew solid food and do simple algebra are aliens on our own world. I must get that slack-jawed stare three or four times a week, if I am forced to leave my network of tunnels to go out into the city to barter for supplies.

It's safer in the tunnels.