This happened to me late last summer when I took some stuff to a re-sale store in French Camp. Most of the businesses in that town support French Camp Academy. My wife and I believe in that school and we try to do what we can to help them out. We were trying to finish moving (it only took us a little over two years) and we had a load of stuff we were wanted to donate to the store.
I made the trip and took my coffee mug with me. The Academy has a coffee shop across the street from the re-sale store, so I thought I'd make it a double whammy and donate a truck-load of items to the store and buy a cup of coffee.
After unloading the toys and clothes and dishes and what-nots at the store, I re-parked and made the forray into the inside of the coffee shop. Instantly, I knew I was in trouble. Every wall in the building was covered in menu. There must be eighty feet of menu. That is way too many choices for me. To make matters worse, I could not sufficiently read it. I can read Greek, Hebrew, Latin, French, German, and a few semitic languages. But this menu was far beyond my linguistic abilities. It had recurring words that I didn't know what they meant. Color me stupid, but I don't even know what a "lattee" is. That was one of the words, and yes, I was too ashamed to ask.
Luckily, there was a customer in front of me so this would buy me some time, I thought. But I failed to decipher the menu in the protracted minutes the other customer was trying to figure out her order. When she finally ordered, it took a long paragraph to place the request.
Finally the worker turned to me and asked, "Can I help you?"
I was nervous, and I know my face was red while I felt my heart pounding in my chest. This is somewhere I don't belong, I thought.
"I, uh, I want. . ." then I had trouble getting the word out, "I want coffee."
The girl behind the counter, a French Camp Academy student, no doubt, said nothing. She just stared at me while long seconds ticked off. There were several other cutomers in the joint, and I felt every eye on my back. This ain't New York City, I thought. This is French Camp, Mississippi, and I am not sophisticated enough to order a cup of coffee here.
"May I have some coffee," I repeated my order.
She looked at me some more. Then she asked, "Do you want . . ."
"No," I cut her off. "I want some coffee."
More staring. Then she said, "Okay," and went to a machine and put some dark liquid into a throw-away cup. "That will be $5.95," she added.
What!?!?!?! I can get a gallon of coffee for that in Greenwood. But I asked for it so I paid for it. Then I left, embarrassed but no wiser nor more able to order coffee in a coffee shop. Lord help me.
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