Or: “What if a supplier delivered the wrong order and the restaurant needed it by tomorrow morning?”
I’d stop what I was doing and think about it. I’d answer as well as I could.
Sheldon would nod slowly, like he was grading an exam in his head. Sometimes he’d ask a follow-up question. Why would you do it that way? What if the customer got angry? What if the employee quit?
He’d walk away, eating sunflower seeds, without telling me whether I’d gotten it right.
I assumed he was just obsessed with running the business well. Or bored. Or both.
It was a Tuesday in March, about two months before prom. A man named Mr. Castellano came storming into the warehouse at ten in the morning. He owned an Italian restaurant downtown called Castellano’s. Good lasagna. Terrible temper. ShopParty Decor
He was holding a box of takeout containers. He slammed it down on the front counter so hard the lid popped open.
