Hi, my name is Dave, and I’m your waiter. Whoops, sorry if you’re still looking up to where my face would be if I were standing over you - I’m down here now. I’ve completely crouched down next to you, like I’m a news reporter interviewing a child about where they think the Easter Bunny lives in the off-season.

I know this may seem unorthodox, a break from tradition, a shattering of the mold. But I’ve never been much of a traditionalist. My daddy always told me he’d never seen anyone kick a soccer ball with their hands before, but I said daddy, the kick is just the punch of the leg. He tossed me into a lake when I said that, and started focusing his energy on his Good children instead of me.

I am here to offer a fresh take on a stale experience. I’m a nonconformist. I used to ask the restaurant patrons to crouch down with me, like we’re drawing a diagram in the dirt on how to take the compound. But their knees tended to give them trouble. I wish they could have huddled down here with me, on the regular, like a bunch of umpires and catchers temporarily given leave from the field (but still customarily hunched). Too bad, really.

Oh, I’m sorry again, I’ve shrunken temporarily down into the shape of a tennis ball and bounced away from you. This happens when I’m allowed to crouch - occasionally I take it too far, and completely transform into a festive and rubbery toy. The other week I started out crouching down, and before I knew it I was taken into the yard by a grade-school coterie, then repeatedly smashed against the outside wall of the garage. I just got out of the hospital.

You know, why shouldn’t an order be taken from crotch-level, though? I’m hoping it will sweep the nation, regardless of profession. Harkening back to the knee taken before a member of royalty, perhaps. Soon enough, it will be customary to look down whenever expecting the receipt of services, in hopes of seeing a friendly face grinning up at you, eager to please. These days, you only get that angle when you’re talking to the digger of your drainage ditches, or perhaps your grave! But no longer.

Sorry to waste your time. What would you like? I’m right down here next to you, like someone offering encouragement to a sheepish dog. The sweet potato fries have a cinnamony tang to them. Go potty, Scrumpus. Go in the bush.