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I've been accused -- mostly by Mrs. Franco -- that I embellish the stories you have so graciously read and followed from me over the years.
Though I will disagree with her on that statement for the most part (which you can put at about 90%), this is not one of those times.
This is the whole truth (sort of … OK, maybe at 98%).
Here is another chapter in my book that will be published by my good friend John Dibert some day called "The #@% That Happens To Me." This chapter will be called "Date night: Franco style."
We were driving back from our son Vincent's track and field meet at Penn State recently. The prices for the food there were just -- to me at least -- out of this world. The cheapest thing that I could afford was a $2 cup with cheese sauce in it, and though that may be a dinner item to college students, it is not to me. A $9 cheeseburger would only be eaten by me because my jaw was open from it dropping so low as I read the menu in shock.
So Ann Marie and I had a great idea … let's stop to eat at a place between State College and Hollidaysburg on the way home. I will leave the name out of this column only because it wasn't their fault they let me into their establishment.
We called some friends in Altoona and asked them to meet us there, and they did. We got into the place and were seated at the bar until a table for four opened up. It did.
I even jokingly used my last name, hoping that it would get me a table a lot faster. It didn't, but the atmosphere was so nice that we did not mind waiting for something to open up.
The four of us ordered our food. We got it in a timely manner and it was more than affordable. It was also delicious. I wanted to order more, but my waistline was against it.
Now here comes the good part.
Ann Marie and I got our check … $39.01. So let's jump forward here before coming back to the restaurant.
We got home and I looked at my check and the first thing I saw was … I didn't leave a tip. I was sick because I am a good tipper. The waitress was really nice and really good at her job. We were sick.
I called the place up and told them what happened. I gave them the name of the waitress and the table number. The lady who answered the phone was downplaying my snafu, but I got the address of the place and assured her a tip would be in the mail Sunday morning. She thanked me for calling back about the tip.
After hanging up, I got our checkbook out and started to write out a nice-sized tip when I noticed one more thing … I did not sign the receipt. Holy #@%. I walked out without even paying the bill.
Now this is where I am going to pass the buck -- which I obviously could do since I didn't use any bucks to pay our bill -- on some people from Hollidaysburg whom we bumped into on our way out of the eatery. Let's call them Dave and Wally. We will spare the names of the other innocent bystanders who were with them.
If I didn't know them, I would have never stopped and talked to them, but I cannot help stopping to talk to people, especially folks I know. To be honest, they could have easily told me to go home, or move on, but they didn't. They wanted to listen as much as I wanted to talk.
I got so lost in the conversation that I forgot to pay my bill. It was so busy that I imagine no one saw us slip out into the night … through the front door.
Now sitting at my dining room table and realizing how awful this mistake was, I called the place back and told them who I was again. They said they had already figured out that we forgot to pay the bill. That's right, at this point in the story, I will now throw Ann Marie under the bus as well.
I promised them on the graves of my parents that I would send out a check and a sizable tip for the bill, which if you are raised Italian/Catholic, you cannot swear on the cemetery plots of your parents and not follow through with the promise.
If I am trying to get into Heaven, and this is still on my resume, I've got to imagine an alarm system goes off, and the gates will close until I am dealt with by some kind of angel/patrol force. Keep the promise. Get into Heaven.
However, the check was sent out on Sunday morning. My wife enjoyed calling some people to tell them what happened, which was fine with me because I don't mind being the butt of a joke. A laugh is a laugh, and I never look down on any comedic opportunity.
But again, before you judge me, make sure you also judge Dave and Wally. And Mrs. Franco. Don't forget her, either. But the next time … I think Mrs. Franco will suggest a drive-thru dinner night instead.
Mirror Sports Writer Scott Franco writes a monthly column for the Mirror.