Henry and I finally had our dinner date last Saturday night at the Gypsy Cafe. I guess Manuel found out about it and got a little jealous, because he spent the better part of his Sunday morning calling various Pittsburgh restaurants, trying to make reservations for himself and Henry.
Three different Denny’s denied him. One left him on hold until the operator finally called uncle and disconnected the call, and the other two Denny’s flat out hung up.
“Denny’s doesn’t even TAKE reservations!” Henry yelled from the couch, forced to listen to my frothing rant about how Denny’s hates deaf people. I am seriously considering notifying the House of Deaf People Who Have Been Fucked Over. Together, we can fight this. I am a REALLY GOOD letter-writerer.
Henry just doesn’t fucking get it.
Manuel then attempted to call the Capital Grill, one of Pittsburgh’s finer eating establishments, but was told that “we have tried doing this before but no longer can do this, sorry.” No longer can do what? Allow deaf people to eat at your restaurant? Just because we’re deaf doesn’t mean we can’t be rich. What if Marlee fucking Matlin is in town and wants to make a reservation? Are you gonna tell her IP Relay Operator to have her go fuck herself in her worthless ears and eat in an alley with the poor blind fuckers?
(Henry just walked past me, shook his head and gave me a fatherly “I’m disappointed in you” smirk.)
Manuel wasn’t about to give up. He was HONGry, you guys. So he tried a little restaurant right up the street and found success.
I hope Henry can find a babysitter!