I
was in New York for a long weekend - my first time in Manhattan in more than
one decade. A friend met me in the City that weekend and we were
determined to see a show. We bought last minute seats to a popular
revival and made our way to the theater. We crossed the cavernous lobby
and handed our tickets to the usher, who showed us to our seats. As the
curtain rose, we found ourselves a mere twelve rows from the classic musical
unfolding onstage. For the next two hours, I sat, trying to take in the
scene, the music, the crowd, the experience. This, after all, was my
first Broadway show.
It was a slow afternoon at the tiny Seattle coffee shop. As I opened the door, a group of three school-aged boys ran in front of me. Each of the boys was lugging an overloaded backpack with them. They obviously had just left the private school a couple of blocks down the street. As I perused the menu, the three boys placed their orders, all the while joking with one another. The first two each requested a pastry and a glass of water. The third boy studied the menu a bit longer before deciding. “Umm. . . I’d like a tall espresso, double shot, please.” The cashier giggled a bit, thinking that her young customer was just repeating something he had heard adults order. After a few seconds, she jokingly said to him, “Alright. . . whatever.” Noticing that the boy seemed serious, she looked puzzled. Then, sh...
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