It was the kind of milk shake that’s so thick it’s unsuckable through a straw and they don’t put a lid on the swirl that rises above the cup like an ice cream cone. You get a cherry on top and a long plastic spoon, but no lid. A lid would have been good.
A little boy swung from and climbed upon the wobbly rails that guide the queue. He pried and pounded at the acrylic pastry display case. He bounced and babbled constantly at his father’s side, the dad staring vacantly at his smart-phone and placing his lunch order without a glance at the jabbering boy.
That poor dad, I thought. It can be very trying, dealing with that level of activity all day.
The server placed the chocolate shake on the tray at the pick-up counter and turned to gather the rest of our order. There was a crazed look in the boy’s eyes when they locked onto that milkshake and I knew the kid wouldn’t be able to resist. Before I could say Noooo! the kid’s pointer finger was buried deep in my husband’s chocolate shake. The finger, of course, then went directly into the boy’s mouth.
That’s when my husband showed up with the napkins and straws. I was telling him what the boy had done when the finger went in for a second dip.
“Hey!” says my husband. The boy froze. The dad looked up.
“Your son stuck his finger in my milkshake.”
The dad came unglued, yelling down at the kid, “Did you do that?” He cuffs the boy upside the head. “What the hell’s the matter with you?” The dad grabs his bag of food from the server and drags the now squalling kid away from the counter, berating him loudly and apologizing to us all the way out the door.
The server went to make another milkshake.
I was sorry we ratted him out. That poor kid.