Last Sunday, the boys and I ended up in a restaurant over near Port Orange (called McKenna’s). We’d already had a full day, and we were all feeling tired and a little silly, too silly to focus on the menus.
“Are you ready to order?” the waitress asked.
“Sure,” I said.
“No!” the boys said, opening their menus. They were sitting across from me in the booth. “Not yet.”
The waitress smiled. “Okay. I’ll give you a couple minutes.”
McKenna’s has TV’s everywhere. It’s more of a sports pub than a restaurant. A soccer game was playing on some of the screens. Another one had motocross, which is basically motorcyclists racing around a dirt track so covered with hills that they spend as much time in the air as they do on the ground.
The waitress returned. “Ready yet?”
“Um,” the boys glanced at each other.
She smiled again. “Okay. I’ll be back in a few.”
As she walked away, I looked at the boys. “Focus,” I said, tapping the menus.
Cue a phenomenal save by the goalie on the television screen, followed by a motorcyclist jumping so high that the camera shot just showed him and the sky, without any ground in sight.
The waitress returned. This time she didn’t say anything, just put her hands on her hips and fixed the boys with a stare.
“We’re sorry! We’re sorry! Just a few more minutes!”
“No more distractions,” my oldest said, examining his menu.
“Yeah.” His little brother leaned close over his menu, making a show of studying it. “Focus.”
“Nothing can distract us now.”
“That’s right. We’re deciding what we want to eat.”
“Why doesn’t that girl have any clothes on?” I asked, looking behind them at a blank spot on the wall.
Both boys’ heads whipped around to where I was looking. They glanced back at me, then at each other, then started laughing uncontrollably.
“Focus,” I said, tapping the menu. “Focus!”