Dear Catered Buffet Busgirl

Laughing Karma, ruler of my universe, has decreed that I shall have no dearth of diatribes destined for Unsent Letters.

The latest in a series of events designed to upset my applecart manifested itself this morning upon my return to the world of working people. I have fought the urge all day to drop a line to the catered buffet busgirl. And now the opportunity presents itself.

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Dear Catered Buffet Busgirl:

Let me congratulate you on the gusto with which you carry out your duties. I admire a person who is not afraid of good, old-fashioned work. Your are to be commended for your gung-ho table-clearing performance. A more driven individual I never shall meet.

You have elevated yourself to Wimbledon Ball Boy status in my eyes. For sixty minutes, you were at the ready, eager to pounce. Like a rat terrier left overnight in a vermin-infested restaurant. Only your prey was the empty foam plate. The nanosecond such a plate was relieved of its load of eggs, hash browns, bacon, biscuits, gravy, cinnamon roll, cantaloupe, honeydew, watermelon, pineapple, strawberries, and grapes, you sprang into action. Darting into the jumble of plastic-clothed tables, arms akimbo, you snagged the finished breakfast plates before the eater even knew she was done. Almost as if you were psychic.

I'm sure you never entertained the idea that some breakfasters might like to consume the three grapes, lone strawberry, or single cinnamon whorl that remained on the object of your ultimate quest. Perhaps you imagined the hunched shoulders and eagle-talon grip of your quarry-thwarters to be early manifestations of Dowager's hump, or arthritis. Au contraire.

Your haste has provoked us to react like so many Elaines trying to save theater seats from a horde of swarming moviegoers. "Taken. It's taken. TAKEN!" Except we are protecting the delectable morsels we worked so hard to pile upon our foam plates.

In the future, please allow patrons to consume all foodstuffs before removing plates from tables. Our administration has paid a pretty penny to stuff us with good will. It's not like we are savoring a seven-course repast with the intention of writing a review. We are teachers. We eat faster than any demographic on earth, with, perhaps, the exception of state penitentiary inmates and sixteen-year-old boys. Would another thirty seconds have put a crimp in your schedule?

Signed,
President of the Clean Plate Club