The day before Thanksgiving, I went to an ice cream parlor with my sister-in-law, who is a regular at this shop, and my husband, who works for the local news organization, in order to get a good ice cream.
It was around noon.
There were about five people at the counter, with the entire staff seated around the counter and watching the clock.
One of the people working there, who I will call Jack, was talking with me as I walked by.
He was wearing a black t-shirt that said “LIFE” and a pair of black jeans.
“You can eat what you want at the shop,” he said.
I looked at my sister in law and asked her, “Are you here for the food?”
She looked at me and nodded.
“I want to come here.”
“What’s the deal?”
“I’ve got the chicken,” he told me.
I was a bit surprised to hear that, but I had to get my mind out of the gutter.
I had been to a chicken shop once, and it had a really good chicken dish, and I was pretty much sold on it.
But this place wasn’t exactly the kind of place where I would want to eat chicken.
My sister- in-law and I decided to go to another ice cream place a few blocks away, in an older neighborhood.
“It’s not the kind that people in the neighborhood would want,” Jack told me as we entered the store.
“But if you want something different, you should go to the other ice cream.”
“I know, right?”
“That’s why you should.”
“The other ice- cream place,” he corrected.
“Yeah, well, I want to go there too.”
“Okay,” I said, looking at the other person at the checkout counter.
“Can I buy you a dessert?”
He looked at the bill, and said, “Sure.”
“And can I have a dessert too?”
I looked up and noticed that I was paying $6.99.
“No,” I protested.
“Sorry,” he replied, and then walked away.
“What kind of ice cream is that?”
I asked my sister.
“Blackberry ice cream,” she replied.
“Oh, that’s so much better than the chicken.”
“That sounds really good,” I told her.
We made a reservation for dinner, and he asked if we would like the chicken and dessert.
I told him that I would like to try the chicken, and when I got there, he had already placed the order for the dessert.
We got the food, but he wasn’t satisfied with the chicken.
It wasn’t dry, it wasn’t salty, and there wasn’t a whole lot going on.
He told me that the dish was good, but not good enough.
I thought about that for a moment.
“Well, maybe it’s because I didn’t want it to be so much like chicken, because I thought it was really bland,” I replied.
I went back to Jack, and asked him if he could give me the dessert again.
He looked me in the eye and said he didn’t care what I wanted.
He explained that he had ordered the chicken because it was on his “must-have list.”
I wanted it to taste good, and Jack had told me I was too picky.
“Maybe,” I agreed.
“If you want to know what I’m talking about,” he added, “I just order it in the back of my mind, and if I want it bad, I go to your place and say, ‘I’m not getting it, and don’t let me order it from you.'”
I was still thinking about the chicken when my brother-in, whom I’ll call Mike, came into the kitchen.
I said that I wanted to go see what was going on, but Jack insisted that I wait until dinner was over.
“We’ll be there at three,” he assured me.
“Okay, Mike,” I finally said, as I looked over to him.
I went up to the counter to order, and Mike immediately recognized me.
He didn’t look surprised at all, and didn’t say anything at all as I placed the ice cream order.
“So, what are you doing here?”
“Just to check out your food,” he responded.
“Do you know what it’s called?”
I wondered if he knew what it was.
“Sure,” he laughed.
“Now I just want to talk to you about it.”
I was not expecting a conversation like this.
“Uh, well,” I began, “You’re my brother.”
“Oh my god,” he exclaimed, and walked over to me and said that he was a reporter for a local newspaper, and that he wanted to talk about a story about a guy named Joe.
He wanted to know how it was possible that he