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David Fitzsimmons, Tucson’s most beloved ink-stained wretch.

The following column is the opinion and analysis of the writer.

‘Boomer” loved the royal service at his trendy neighborhood cafe.

“Sunshine” was the cafe’s top selling waiter. The young man’s mastery of the menu coupled with his smooth and sunny description of the specials made him Boomer’s favorite server. “He’s delightful.”

The hostess smiled. “Do you have a reservation?”

“Under the name Boomer.”

“Inside or outside?” she chirped.

“Outside.”

Great. Only the finest for another privileged boomer. Rain forests still on fire? Hummer running fine? Would you care to leave behind a better world? She pulled out a chair for him, presented him with a menu and turned back to her phone.

“Would you care for water?” asked the racing water server. May as well guzzle all the clean water you can before your climate turns us into Tatooine, granddad.

“Your server, Sunshine, will be right with you.” Okay, Boomer?

Boomer barely acknowledged Sunshine when he appeared.

“How are you tonight, sir? Would you care for a cocktail? Some wine?”

Boomer grunted.

Sunshine thought to himself, “Me? I’m fine. Thanks for asking. Know what I’d care for? A living-wage. I need rent money, my student debt is crushing me and my utility bill is overdue. And your boomer tools in Washington gave all of you boomers the tax cuts.”

As Boomer pondered his choices, Sunshine pondered him. Man oh man, if this boomer’s a child of the “greatest generation” the fruit fell far, far, far from the tree. These boomers don’t care; they just want to make as much money as they can until the planet dies. Mr. Boomer looked up from his menu. “I’d like a martini.”

“Excellent choice, sir. Martini’s on its way!” Me? I’m great. Thanks for asking. I got no health insurance. No chance at saving up to buy a house before I’m 80. I’m doing what college I can. How’s your second home, Boomer? Alcohol causes heart disease, you know. Would you like two?

Sunshine returned with Boomer’s martini. “May I tell you about our specials?” Boomer was delighted by Sunshine’s mouth-watering descriptions of specials offered by the cafe.

“While you decide, would you care for some bread?” Sunshine was always scrambling for “bread.” His two low-wage jobs saw to that. Boomer nodded. Sunshine returned.

“May I make room for the bread on your table?” If only all the Boomers like you would make room for my generation at the table. By dying or retiring and getting out the way. Sunshine set down the basket of killer carbs in front of His Lordship. Eat up.

“Would you like an appetizer to start you off?”

“No, thanks.” Sunshine took his order as Boomer sniffed at the menu. “Chicken Cordon Bleu. Grilled Artichoke. Small salad.”

“Excellent, sir.” What, no endangered speeches or pretentious nonsense to gulp down? No ostentatious wine choice?

Sunshine fantasized about giving Boomer an order to take, later tonight. “I’d like the Top Ramen again, after closing, around 1:30, and then I’d like a river of coffee, no cream, and no sugar, because I’ve got another all-nighter studying for a calculus test in the morning.”

Mr. Boomer studied the status of his shares and skimmed his Wall Street Journal until Sunshine arrived with his meal. “Your meal, sir. Plate’s hot.” Hot, like our planet, and getting hotter. Thanks a lot, Boomer. You won’t be around for that little Mad Max party, will you? “Pepper?”

“No, thanks.”

Sunshine left to serve others and returned, like a cheerful servant. “How’s your meal?”

“Good. Tell me something. You seem like such a nice young man.” Boomer pointed to a news article. “Why are so many millennials lazy? My generation worked for everything we have.”

Not true.

But Sunshine wanted a big tip. “So very true, sir. You think they would have learned a thing or two from your generation.” Like how to how to poison a planet, how to give away the store to billionaires, how to destroy the middle class, democracy and public education, and how to eat a species into obese oblivion.

You’ve devoured all the resources on our planet. Surely, you could consume every dessert in here. “Care to see our dessert menu?”

“No, thanks.”

“Coffee?”

“Yes, please. The sauce was salty. I hope the next meal is better.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” Sunshine hoped the next generation would be better, too. Less salty. More responsible. Thanks for nothing, Boomer.

“Would you like a box for your food, sir?” Boomer shook his head, dabbed his mouth, and waved Sunshine away. Moments later, Sunshine dropped the check at Boomer’s table and paused to smile at his customer like a caring grandson. “At your leisure, sir. It was a pleasure serving you. Have a great day.”

Late for a round of golf, Boomer knew times were tough for millennials. He left 10%, a discarded Wall Street Journal, and note to read Ayn Rand. “She’ll set you straight.”

David Fitzsimmons: tooner@tucson.com.

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