Brush With the Underworld

Saturday morning cartoons were the best part of waking up on the weekends when I was little. Now, the best part of waking up on a non-weekday is it being past 5:30 a.m. But in an attempt to recall those golden days of youth, I'll share a Saturday Story.
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A few years ago, two friends and I went to a local Mexican restaurant for lunch. It was chosen based on location and cheapiness, not on the quality of the food, but it was a good place to catch up in the midst of hectic grad school days.


While we were eating and chatting, we noticed a man in sunglasses and a suit. He walked in, flanked on either side by thug-like friends. The waiters began lining up to talk to him and shake his hand.

"Who is that?" "Why is he so important?"

In the middle of nowhere as we were, it didn't make sense for some dignitary to be around, especially at the dingy Pueblo Viejo. That's when my brilliance struck.

"Guys!" I hissed. "He's probably in the mafia! The MEXICAN mafia!"

"I don't know, that seems a little far-fetched," one friend reasonably said. "Wait, is that the manager coming out to talk to him?"

"Yes!" I whispered furtively. "Because he needs protection!"

Just then, the Mobster walked over to our table. We three froze.

"How's the food, ladies? Is it good?" he jovially called out.

We responded in unison: "Yes, it's great!"

He strolled out with his henchmen, and we stared out the window as he got into an older car with tinted windows.

"Maybe he IS in the mafia!"

I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, he is. Unless he's like Erik Estrada or something, there's no other explanation."

Just then, a waiter walked by, and one of the other girls nearly grabbed him. "Who was that guy? The one in the suit?"

He looked at us excitedly. "Have you ever seen the TV show, CHiPs?!"

Oh.