The Friendliest Town in the World

       Robin and I entered Lancaster, hometown of our friend Michelle Wilson, at about eleven on Sunday morning. A sign at the edge of town stated Lancaster was the "FRIENDLIEST TOWN IN THE WORLD" in huge letters. Main Street was bare except for a dozen cars parked in front of the cafe. We had to park a block away. I was anxiously awaiting my breakfast in the "FRIENDLIEST" cafe in the world.

        When we entered, all heads turned toward us and the cafe suddenly became quiet. Along the left side were two rows of orange colored booths. As we headed toward the one vacant booth, people stared at us if we had robbed a bank or something. The waitress seemed friendly enough as she joked with an old lady a couple of booths away. After about five minutes, she grabbed a couple of menus and threw them on our table as she passed by with a pot of coffee.

        "I sure could have used some of that coffee," Robin said as she opened her menu.

        "Me, too," I said.

        On the wall in front of the restaurant, I saw a blackboard that listed the Sunday morning breakfast special. That's what I wanted! When the waitress came back, I ordered it.

        With a disgusted look on her face she replied, "It's off the menu."

        I wanted to tell her it was still on the blackboard, but ordered a BLT instead. Robin just wanted coffee.

        Just then THEY walked in. Again the room became silent. The elderly couple at the door just stared at us. People looked back and forth at them and us.

       "I think we've got their booth," Robin whispered to me.

        She was probably right. We had obviously taken their booth, the one they sat in every Sunday after church. They stood there talking to each other, not knowing what to do, wondering whether they should eat standing up, kick us out of their booth, or just leave. Fortunately they joined another couple that had called them over.

       Twenty-five minutes later when the waitress brought over the food, I decided to ask the question. "Do you know Michelle Wilson?"

        She stared at me for a few seconds and then coldly answered, "Should I?"

        "She said she was from here."

       "Where is she from now?" she asked.

  
       "St. Paul."

        "Then how should I know her?" she scowled as she marched away.

        As we ate, I could see her walk from booth to booth.  I could hear her mumble, with ‘Michelle Wilson’ the only words I could make out. Then the people would turn and stare at us as they shook their heads. I guess I shouldn't have asked.

        When we got outside, two men were leaning against a pickup truck. I decided to give it one more try.

        "Do you know Michelle Wilson?"

        They looked at each other and laughed. Without answering, they just got in the truck and drove away.

       I now understand why Michelle moved to the Cities. Lancaster is no place for a writer. Or a mud wrestler. If there were any friendly people, we didn't see them. I am happy she decided to move to St. Paul. After all, there aren't any more booths available at the cafe.