I stare through the glass at the dozen or so tubs of ice cream. “How many can I have?” “Umm. As many as you want.” “Ha, right, okay. Well, here’s the thing”—I look at her name tag—“Glenda. How many scoops I want might kill me. Like, actually, kill me dead. Plus, I don’t really feel like breaking records in this category. So . . . what’s the current scoop record again?” Glenda sighs. “Seven.” Jackpot. Even though Cincinnati is something like twenty minutes away, our driver (whose name I’ve already forgotten, but I assure you is the very opposite of Carl) insisted on stopping for pie. That’s right. Pie. Over the microphone, he’d announced that Jane’s Diner had the best pie this side of the Mighty Mississippi, and that he’d be a monkey’s uncle if he was gonna pass right by without helping himself to a slice, and that if we knew what was good for us, we’d help ourselves to a slice, too, and that we’d surely be thanking him later.
