Every Sunday, these two miserable crones would come in for breakfast before church. Maybe it was my imagination, but when they came in I swore a green mist would appear and a shrill cackle would be heard as they materialized into our dimension. It was the same every week: they would run me, complain about their food, question their bill, pay with exact change – lots and lots of change – and tip a dollar.
One particular Sunday, the more unlikable one who wore garish makeup, angel jewelry and a permanent scowl etched into her wrinkly face approached me at the counter. She asked if she could leave a $5 tip on her debit card. Pleasantly surprised, I answered “sure”! Then she said “can I get $4 back? I need cash for the collection plate.” And that, my friends, is the story of how the sad trombone was created.