The Reason I Didn't Write Much Today *Meeting John at McDonald's*

I had planned my morning: I was going to write. I also knew that I needed to leave my house, get away from all of the usual distractions, and go somewhere different. Maybe I'd get some work done.

I did. Well, a little bit. Not nearly as much as I had first planned. But that's okay.

I met John.

My local McDonald's happens to be a pretty cool place to get some writing work done. It's not like your normal-looking McDonald's, but has an atmosphere much like an updated coffee shop, and I've gone there off and on over the years to write. It also helps that they have self-serve fountain drinks, which feeds my caffeine need (and only for a dollar). All a person can chug.

I was sitting at my table, working, and he was sitting at his alone. He had his phone charging, and for the hour and half or so in which he sat there, all he had was a small soda. He kept to himself and I kept to myself.

At one point, he came over to me, and I removed my earbuds. He asked if I could watch his things while he ran next door for a minute. I said of course.

When he returned a few minutes later, he said that he wanted to thank me and buy me an ice cream cone. I told him it wasn't necessary, but he insisted.

After purchasing two vanilla ice cream cones, he handed me one and then proceeded to slide into the seat on the opposite side of my table. I wasn't prepared for conversation, but I'm also not a jerk either, so I left my laptop open, my earbuds on the table, and gave this older gentleman my full attention.

He asked if I ever went to Wendover, NV, to which I told him that I didn't. I'm not much of a gambler, though I didn't tell him this. He talked about leaving the next morning on a bus to head to Wendover to take part in the slot machine tournament. He said that the year before he'd won $500, but that he'd gone home early and because you had to be there to win the money, he'd lost out on the cash. "Not this year," he said. "Not this time. I may stay two weeks if I have to."

I nodded.

"Do you go to Vegas?" he asked me.

I told him that we did, some times, when we were traveling through to California we'd stop there for the night.

He gave me a look as if I was crazy. "Don't go to Vegas. It's gross." Then he proceeded to tell me all about a short cut that we could take to avoid going into Baker. He spent a lot of time on the details of this shortcut and assured me that though it was out in the middle of nowhere, it would be worth it.

He asked what part of California we visited, and I explained about going to Anaheim for my daughter's cheerleading competitions. Again, he gave me another dirty look. "You don't go to Disneyland, do you?" 

"Sometimes," I said. "But my kids are getting a little old for it now."

He told me all about Knott's Berry farm, and that if we get there early, we should make a reservation for the fried chicken first thing, right away, then we were to go do the park. When it's time for dinner, we can avoid the lines for the chicken and go right in. I thanked him for the tip.

"Do you like dolphins?" he asked.

"Who doesn't?" I said.

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