Aggressions Of The Micro Variety

Yesterday, the girls and I began a northward trek. We packed our bags in the back of the car and started the drive to Wichita Falls. Along the way …

… I visited a few old friends (and by “visited,” I mean photographed from a moving vehicle). But since I was carting the girls along with me, I made an extra stop for their sakes so I could claim that there was educational value to the trip. We stopped in Glen Rose to take in the fossils and petrified wood all over the place.

We also got roped into taking a local museum tour that seemed to take forever, but we touched mammoth bones, so we had that going for us, which is nice, I guess. After acquiring some lattes, we got back on the road, and just before sunset, we made it to the city and to the Thursday night dinner Event at a Mexican restaurant. We ran into several cachers just outside the front door (Carrot Killer among them) and spent some time gabbing about stuff (and also things). They told me about the local delicacy that brought everyone to the restaurant in the first place: the red taco. A couple of people described it as “unique,” which is not normally an adjective I like applied to my food. Someone else described it as “OK,” which is hardly a ringing endorsement, but what was the worst that could happen? I despise it and spit it out? I led the way in, and the girls followed. I had already been warned that things were crowded, but the place didn’t look that bad. There was ample seating. Then I realized there was a back room and noticed that there was quite a press of folks, some of whom I even recognized. I had found us! I stepped into the back room.

Surrounded by my people, I encountered a waitress coming back out after (I can only assume) taking some orders. When she saw me, she put her hands up in an effort to bar me from entering and told me, “This is a private party.” I looked at her, thinking, Of course it’s a private party. It’s our Event. She repeated herself, hands still outstretched. That’s when I processed her meaning. This is a private party; therefore, I did not belong. Before I could open my mouth, a couple of cachers pointed out that I was, in fact, one of the party. After that, the girls and I sat, ordered food and drink, and chatted with our caching brethren and sistren about our trip up, various counties, and, in my case, how I wasn’t getting any new counties because I already had every county for a ten-hour drive in any direction.

I have, on several occasions, noted that I don’t look like a cacher. Usually, it’s a matter of wardrobe. I haven’t been out caching in my tuxedo or anything (though, on one occasion, I did grab one in a suit), but I lean more toward dapper than rugged. I get how someone can see a group of geocaching-shirted people in shorts and camping clothes and wonder why the dude in the cardigan and slacks is with them. But this time I was dressed more casually than usual, rolling in only a t-shirt and slacks (because they’re so much more comfortable than jeans) because of the early summer warmth and a desire for driving comfort. So I can only assume that the server’s assessment was based on other factors, namely that I wasn’t the same race as everyone else. I could have probably made a joke about arguably one of the best-known cachers in the room, possibly even the state, getting turned away from an Event, but I was more concerned with getting myself and my children fed. Besides, I had my reminder of why it is that I do what I do from the vantage that I have chosen. On one level, I’m happy to say that it’s been a while since it’s cropped up. On another level, I’d rather that it didn’t crop up at all. Most importantly, I’m pretty sure the girls didn’t witness it. That’s a discussion I’d prefer to hold off a little while longer (but they will read this one day, so it’ll probably happen soon).

The red tacos were, in fact, OK. We discussed some of our activities for the following day. I paid the check. But I didn’t leave a tip. Normally, I’d remark about being petty, but that wasn’t me being petty. The waitress probably meant no harm, and I hold no ill will against her or the establishment. I just refuse to reward bad service. And that was bad service par excellence.