For years I've been getting a terrific rotisserie chicken from a nearby restaurant. One night as I placed an order to go, I told the girl behind the counter, "I'll pick it up later. Do you want my name?"
"Oh, no," she said. "I've seen you come in here a lot." Then she scribbled something on a piece of paper. Feeling flattered, I did my errands. When I grabbed my order, I glanced at her note on the bag: "Old man in the pink shirt."
