Kith & Kin

Even AI can ’t  get my order right! “Welcome to [McRedacted]. Did you use your mobile app today?” “No.” “May I take your order please?” “Yes, good morning! I’d like—” “Good morning, hon.” (This is South Carolina.) “Yes, good morning. I’d like one sausage biscuit with egg, just the sandwich, and one sausage biscuit, plain, just the sandwich. And two milks.” “OK.” The screen looks like this. “Is your order correct on the screen?” “No, not exactly. I want one sausage biscuit with egg and one without egg. Plus the two milks.” “Oh, OK, one moment please.” New screen: “Is your order correct on the screen?” “Well, yes, but you’re charging me for two sausage biscuits with egg even though I’m only getting egg on one of them.” “That’s what you said, sir.” “I want one sausage biscuit with egg, which is number four on your menu. And I want a plain sausage biscuit, which is on your Value Menu and is only $2.19.” “The upcharge for the sausage biscuit with egg ...

My program from that evening, signed by Ma and Ax. AUTHOR’S NOTE: Yes, this is a true story, related as accurately as I can, considering that the events occurred thirty years ago. There I sat, alone—alone on stage at the Peace Center . Alone in front of a packed house—over 2000 people in attendance. And I wasn’t supposed to be there. You ever have a nightmare where you find yourself in public in your underwear? Yeah, well, this was kind of like one of those dreams. Except I was wearing a suit. How in the world did I end up here? My mind began to drift back . . . “That Would Be . . . Amazing!” Months back, at my interview for an usher position with the Peace Center, Gary, the House Manager, asked me why I wanted to be an usher. Part of my answer was that I loved music—I played the piano, sang in choir, loved classic Broadway musicals . . . Gary remembered those comments when an unusual need came up. “Hey, you read music, right?” “Yeah.” ...

It was September of 1980. Mom and Dad had brought me down from Ohio to South Carolina to start college, and once again Dad was getting on my nerves. A lot of things that Dad did irritated me. His staunch standards and inflexible beliefs. The way he made us boys work on our property whether we wanted to or not. (Oh, those dreaded words on a Friday night: “We’re going to drag some brush tomorrow, boys.”) Even the way he came into my bedroom every Sunday morning at eight and put his hand gently in the middle of my back and said, “Time to get up.” And now here I was, eighteen years old and more than ready to be on my own, free from the responsibilities and frustrations of home, and he seemed determined to get on my nerves one more time. Anyone who’s lived in the dorms (nowadays “residence halls”) at a university knows the importance of arriving early each semester to claim your storage space and bunk. I had arrived after only one other roommate had arrived, so the pickings were still prett...