Several years ago, I landed in New Orleans, rented a car, and drove to Jackson, MS.
It took half of forever to cross the swamp, and when I finally did, it was way past my lunch time, and I stopped at a crusty looking fish house where I ordered a fish plate and iced tea.
I sip the tea. It's not sweet. I call the waitress over, and she steps directly from Mel's diner.
I ask her: Why with me so tired, with me so hungry, with me so far from the bones of my father, why on this day with me in such a weakened condition, why must she place unsweetened tea before me?
Without missing a beat, she says: "Honey, I don't have time to sweeten your tea."
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