Todd Paris, Associate Editor and Salisbury, Attorney
♦ All safe at East Innes Street Waffle House. Kittah and I awoke from napping tenish or so and suddenly the rabbit food and “everything free” (tasty as it was) salad dressing was long gone and my body said “meat, feed me meat!” Everything frozen; I availed myself of one of the benefits of downtown Salisbury living and launched myself at “burger row” to find meat not stuck between bread in keeping with my new life as a Type 2 diabetic. Christo’s (a favorite) was closed, but there appearing in the darkness was my old friend, “Casa de Waffle.”
I like Waffle House. You can get real food day or night. It’s clean and has never made me sick. The waitresses are usually middle-aged or older ladies who sometimes remind me of “the fun girls from Mt. Pilot” (Andy Griffith Show). The service is quick, as long as they stagger smoking breaks, and the coffee is strong and black.
Approaching the familiar door, suddenly I was greeted by a new sign that said, “NO WEAPONS ALLOWED ON THE PROPERTY.” This is no doubt related to a window being “possibly” shot out from the parking lot earlier this month. Thank goodness! We are safe now.
No doubt if members of a local “enterprising social club” were to cruise by and see a member of another unfriendly “enterprising social club” sitting inside and one were to pull a weapon in an attempt to resolve previous commercial disputes; one of his compatriots would certainly say something like, “No dawg, they got this sign up now.”
Conundrums! Well, I could go back to the truck and ditch my Glock and return and try to position myself behind the 6” by 8” “no weapons” sign. I figure it must be made of some space age bullet resistant polymer but, technically my weapon would still be on the property and in violation of the trespassing laws. We who carry concealed holders have to slavishly follow the laws.
Alas, left with a proverbial “Catch 22” situation, I had no choice but to vacate the property. IHOP had no such sign, allowed me to sit facing the entrance and the T-bone, and eggs were all the better for not being stuck in a brightly lit, glass box of a “victimization zone” with no way to protect myself.
Good-bye, “Casa de Waffle.” I will miss you, but then again, my diet won’t let me eat the hash-browns anymore, anyway.
