Dec 29, 2016 By Nick Jacobs 4 min read

The normal transfer of kids from parents to grandparents took place about a once a month, Saturday morning ritual that took place at a restaurant on the way to their home.

It was equal distance between both houses and Pappy loved the man-sized breakfasts that he could get there. Consequently, we were up at the crack of dawn, packed the still sleeping kids in the car and headed off toward The Lamplighter numerous times over about a six-year period so that the kids could enjoy a fun, overnight stay with their much too generous grandparents while mom and dad sang and played in various musical performing groups in the area.

One particular sunny, Saturday morning, we drove toward the now infamous dining spot in our beige, 1970 Plymouth Satellite with the angels tucked ever so insecurely in the back seat. After about 45 minutes into the trip, they would wake up and start their kid frolics. These actions included hitting, yelling, and sometimes even pretending to spit on each other. You know, the normal kid stuff.

Upon arrival at the drop off location, we headed to our oversized booth where Pappy Pete would order enough food for the entire weekend for all of us. Pancakes, French toast, home fries, orange juice, oat meal, bananas, and muffins. You get the picture.

Again, true to form, usually seven minutes into the meal, the boy child would make his normal announcement, “I have to go to the bathroom.” Now, at age 4 and 11 months, this was usually just a game that he played. It allowed him to leave his seat, explore the restaurant a little, check the pay phones for money and then examine the men’s room which was approximately a 10-minute walk away from the meal. It was located in the basement. Of course, it always meant that his dad had to go with him to protect him from all forms of danger and possible imprisonment.

So, off we went to the men’s room. This time, however, was a very different experience, unlike any that we had ever had before. As I pulled him out of the gift shop, and encouraged him to give up the matches he had discovered in the cigarette machine, wrenched him away from the free mints at the cash register, and headed him downstairs, he began to tell me how much he had learned that week from his preschool classes on phonics.

Seriously, when I was under five, my only knowledge of reading came from watching my dad take the newspaper into the bathroom, but here was my kid bragging about his reading capability.

We opened the bathroom only to find that nearly every available urinal, stall and sink was occupied by clientele. Many of them were there to enjoy their mid-breakfast cigarette, but most where just following nature to its natural conclusion. Nicky ran to the only open stall, and before I realized what was going on, he had slammed the booth door shut and was dropping his drawers.

About 30 seconds into this adventure, I could hear him talking. It was a very strange sound at first. Then I realized that he was sounding letters that he was reading from the bathroom stall. He was reading. It went something like this, “fa . . . faaaaaaaaaa, or orrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. For; ah, For a; ga, gaa, od, ooood, Good; For a good, ta, taaaaaaa, i, i, ima, ima; For a good tima. For a good time . . . Ca, ca, ca, ca . . . ul, ul, ul, call. For a good time, call 724-245- . . . .” Then he yelled out, “Hey Dad, can we call this number?”

At that point the six grown men in the men’s room lost it. They began laughing, looking at me and pointing at the stall and hitting each other. Finally, I yelled out to him, “Nicky, you need to ask your mother.”

Nick Jacobs of Pittsburgh is the international director for SunStone Management Resources and author of the book “Taking the Hell Out of Healthcare.”