I have waited tables, but before that, our friend group were regulars at several local "open all night" establishments. Our favorite was the Denny's about ten miles outside of downtown Savannah, and we had a regular waitress that was AWESOME. As a side note, I met her several years later and found out we were a major help putting her daughter through school. We had one kid in our group who was a perpetual problem, a wannabe at everything. He just tried too freaking hard to be the center of attention. Well, he joined us ONCE in a trip to Denny's. I mean we pulled up in six cars, all packed to the gills at 3a.m. and took up almost half of the restaurant. We get done, our favorite waitress drops the check, and this goofball says something about "dine and dash." We all just looked at him like he had grown a penis in the middle of his forehead and was trying to screw anyone within spitting distance with it. This kid wasn't driving, it would be a ten mile walk through neighborhoods that were questionable during the daytime, and he is talking about not just stiffing our favorite waitress on a tip, but walking out without paying? Are you kidding me? "Ryan. If you do that, you will be left beaten and bloody in the parking lot and EVERY ONE of us will participate." He hanged his head and coughed up his share of the bill, but he still didn't leave a tip. She made over five bucks a head in tips every time we walked in the door. Several of us were servers, bartenders, bouncers, and a couple strippers. Tips were how a lot of us put food on the table, and chemicals in our system. We shared when we had a good night. Needless to say, Ryan never joined us on a run to Denny's again. After knowing about Ryan's behavior he is probably: A. an angry person. B. not enough information C. a cheapskate. D. someone that doesn't like waitresses.
C

The sound of the clacking grew unbearable, so we turned the volume down. "Mute it." We muted it. "Turn it up; we might miss something." It's a silent movie. We won't miss anything. The sound of clacking gradually fills the room as my brother reluctantly turns up the volume. I can tell he's pressing hard on the button, jamming his thumb down in defiance or muted anger. He doesn't like for anyone to tell him what to do with the remote. But my grandmother wants the volume up, so we turn it up. We're all sitting along the edges of the tiny living room, staring at the fuzzy black-and-white images as they hazily walk across the television screen. I can hear a siren outside, barely discernable and then gone entirely. "Who's that?" my brother asks, evidently past his momentary and barely-noticeable indignation over the remote. "Uncle Arehl, and maybe his sister, Edna," my grandmother says, leaning in closer. "I think it's Edna," she says, in the tone of a doctor diagnosing a disease, as if the verdict was somehow relevant to someone who has only the vaguest idea who Arehl's sister is, or was. Uncle Arehl (I don't know precisely whose uncle he is, or for what the two initials of his name once stood) saunters slowly across a dry, patchy lawn, and the camera follows him. For some reason I'm more interested in the lawn--if it can be called that--than in the people on it. The sun in the movie is blazing, and everyone filmed looks only briefly at the camera before averting their faces once again to look at the stubbly grass. The camera pans once again and I can see an incredibly rutted path leading from the porch to the fence at the edge of the yard, broken pieces of concrete amid deep tire tracks fossilized in sun-baked mud. The fence is low, wire like a chain-link, but lower, with metal stakes holding it up instead of tubes. Who was sitting in the living room? A. The narrator, his brother, and his grandmother. B. Family members. C. Three people who are related. D. not enough information
A

(Question)
The address I had been given was a flophouse called Casa Salvador in the scummy side of downtown, the part where the city's redevelopment (read: "gentrification") efforts hadn't yet managed to drive out the sundry undesirable elements. I walked inside past the front lobby. I could tell the desk manager wanted to hassle me, but he was too busy arguing with a middle-aged peroxide-blonde woman in a leopard-print top. Her skin was leathery and weather beaten, and I guessed she was the type who was actually a good ten years younger than she looked. I made my way up the narrow staircase that smelled of urine and bleach, going all the way to the third floor. I continued down the dimly lit hallway, past a series of closed doors that muffled the sounds of women faking moans of pleasure. Room 313 was down at the far end of the hall, and its door was already slightly ajar. I knocked anyways, but there was no answer. Pushing the door open just enough to poke my head in, I called, "Hello? Is anybody in there?" There was no response, so I went in and felt along the wall for the light switch. A single weak bulb came on, lighting up the tiny, sparse room with a dim yellow glow. The room was about 8 feet by 8 feet, and the only furniture was a dingy, unmade bed and a metal foot locker. There were no windows, no closet, and no bathroom. As I stepped all the way in, I noticed a wooden baseball bat propped up beside the door. My watch said 6:20 - twenty minutes late for the interview. I sat on the edge of the bed to wait, hoping that maybe my contact had just stepped out momentarily. After a few minutes, a phone started ringing out in the hallway. I let it ring six times with no one answering before I decided to get it - partly in the off chance it was my contact, but mostly out of morbid curiosity as to what kind of business someone would have calling this dump. What kind of job was he going to an interview for? A. Pimp B. not enough information C. Desk Manager D. Hitman
(Answer)
B