Diary of a Wimpy Kid

It was the Eighties. Which is irrelevant. And I'd just ordered a burger and fries from that once popular burger franchise, you know, the one? The one that became Betamax to Mickey D's downloading capabilities.

Anyhow, I took my tray of bun-related, skinny-fried joy to the seating area upstairs, passing the little white mouse as I went...

Wait.
The little white what-now?

I head back to the counter, careful not to step on the wee critter in the process and wait patiently for eye-contact, my fries quietly congealing in their damp paper sleeve. The put-upon man at the tills is used to one-way traffic. He has the look of a man haunted by the flotsam of directionless teens and John Waters movies and right now he is doing everything in his power not to catch my eye.

Me: Excuse me (I shout over the din) EXCUSE ME!

He reluctantly looks over, waiting for whatever fresh hell I'm about to lay at his door. He is ancient. At least a decade older than me, the majority of his customers and all of his staff. Even to my 17 year-old self, he strikes me as A Manager Who Probably Doesn't Manage All That Well.

"I saw a mouse"

"Where?"

"There! On the stair!"

"Where on the stairs?"

"RIGHT....THERE!" I point.

It takes a moment for the penny to drop. I can't keep a straight-face. He watches blankly as I giggle like a loon.

"It wasn't wearing clogs. to be fair" I spurt out.

I bet he really hated teens.