"But I don't want ketchup on my burger!" The waiter ducked as an airborne plate hurtled past his head straight into the wall behind him, leaving a trail of lettuce, pickles, and tomato on the floor and ketchup oozing down the freshly-painted stenciling. The crunch of the plate breaking into seventeen pieces silenced the rest of the diner.
It was true; Arlington Hughes hated ketchup, almost as much as he hated being ignored. Had the onlookers been paying any attention to him whatsoever, they would have heard his quiet request in his quiet voice that his food not contain any ketchup. But they hadn't. Neither had the waiter, apparently. Now everyone was just fearfully darting glances behind them, hoping his pecan pie plate wouldn't be next. The diner was not known for its burgers, but rather its pecan pie, despite being very far from any real pecans or pecan country or even anyone who knew how to pronounce pecan. It's puh-khan, not pee-can. Most people didn't even bother ordering burgers and just went straight for the pie, so it would have been a great shame to see it also go splat on the wall.
But Arlington Hughes wasn't prone to mindless temper-tantrums, and there was, in fact, nothing wrong with his pie. He sat down and contentedly ate it, quietly humming "Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah," wishing he had ordered a glass of milk instead of a root beer float, which wasn't even made with real ice cream, just frozen yogurt from the Stop-N-Go across the street. Fat free yogurt at that. Clearly, the pie was the only thing keeping the restaurant from being taken over by a large chain that would put real chefs in the kitchen and food that would pass a health inspection on the table, or turn it into a 24-hour Walmart with a pharmacy. Either way, things could only go up from there.
Except for the pie. It was the kind of pie that you could drown your troubles in, the kind that wouldn't taste good wrapped in a plastic box sitting under florescent lights as cracked-out whores looked for something to fill the empty void with other than white powder. The pie's flaky crust and squishy, nutty goodness could heal any hurt, banish any bothers, and brighten any bad day. And Arlington Hughes had had a bad day.