Where's a Terrorist?

On Friday I'm on my way to Philadelphia via Amtrak; I'm at Penn Station in New York at Zaro's Bakery to pick up an egg salad sandwich. There's a woman in line in front of me asking what kind of Danishes they have. She's rather big, a blouse coming untucked from her navy skirt that hangs to mid-shin. She's hanging onto a suitcase on wheels. The saleswoman says, pointing to another counter, "They're over there. You can go over and pick one out."

"But I don't want to go over there. I want to pay here."

"I can go with you," the saleswoman says.

"I don't want to go over there." She's giving the salesgirl a hard time.

I say, "why don't you just tell her what kind of pastry you want and she'll get it for you."

She looks at me like I'm crazy, pays for her other order, and mutters as she walks away, "Where's a terrorist when you want one."