The Chit in Her Apron Pocket Named the Number He Said She Stole
He shoved her into the wait station in front of sixty members at Saturday lunch.
Delia Marsh has stood in the same spot in the grill room for nine years. One loud legacy member and one accusation can take all nine of them away from her, along with the respect of every member who was watching.
Wade Hollis drinks his second bourbon at table six and checks the wait station door every time he raises his voice. Delia's order pad already has the morning's numbers copied out in pencil.
"You stole my number," Wade says across the room, so the whole dining room hears it. His open hand drives her back into the wait-station edge. A water glass shatters on the tile. Delia presses a hand to her shoulder and the room goes quiet for one beat.
Ellis Prosser, the general manager, hurries over and does what the club does every year.
"Just say sorry," he tells Delia.
She reaches into her apron pocket instead and lays a triplicate grill chit face-up on the counter. Block handwriting, white top copy, the ink pressed deep. The general manager leans over the counter to read it.
The handicap posting sheet pinned behind the hostess stand tells the rest, and what Delia says to Ellis after that is not for the dining room.
Posting 1142 sits under the name Ruth Hollis, not under Delia Marsh.
The question that settles it is a fair one both ways: who behaved worse, the man who wrote the number onto his own chit, or the manager who asked the waiter to apologize for catching it?
The blog carries it the rest of the way — the regional office call, the Monday meeting, and the one seat Delia leaves open on purpose. Read the full story at the link below.
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