I strode into the establishment, but nobody got the door for me or greeted me. There was no umbrella stand, no coat check girl, no amenities of any sort. A dreadful premonition seized me, like the time I lost my bearings and accidentally entered something called a Woolworth. I shuddered at the memory. I told myself.
Every establishment gets a fair shake until the bitter end.
All the while rude people were shouldering past me, spinning me around. Like sheep to be shorn, like lambs to the slaughter, the people were being forced through a zig-zag line. I chided myself for not making a reservation. Soon the press of flesh forced me before a pimple-faced youth behind a cash register. Cash registers should be tucked away to preserve the illusion that civility, not cash, is the currency traded in.