Dining out downtown -- or -- Aiding and abetting the soda addictions of those too young to speak

Next door to my new downtown place of employment, there's a Kentucky Fried Chicken/Pizza Hut Express. Although the novelty and enjoyment are quickly wearing off, I've been going there about once or twice a week.

I never eat the fried chicken, just the pizza, and the breadsticks, drink and personal pan (well, box) are a pretty good deal for six bucks. Adding to the allure is the proprietor, a middle-aged Indian guy who calls everyone "buddy" or "sweetheart" depending on their gender (I'll let you figure out who gets called what). Though it sounds a trifle awkward in his thick accent, the heartfelt delivery more than makes up for it.

So the other day I was in there filling up my soda when I saw this little kid in a coat and stocking cap holding his soda cup and looking at me expectantly. I figured he wanted a refill, so I decided to help.

"Which one do you want?" I asked.

"Masfhfhfah" he said.

"Which one?"

"Dsssffffffma" he said, standing up on the toes of his Velcro sneakers and pointing up to the Dr. Pepper.

So the kid couldn't really talk, even though he looked like he was at least 3. No problem, I thought. Just fill up his Dr. Pepper. But as soon as I held the cup under the thing, he reached up and held down the lever (being just tall enough to reach it) and didn't let go until the fizz had crowned in a nice bubble just a split second away from overflowing.

I put the lid on for him and stuck in a straw, since he seemed to have lost his original one. I carefully handed him the full soda, which he almost immediately dropped. Once he got a better hold of it, he tilted the cup so he could get a drink -- never mind that the lid was firmly in place. In addition to not knowing how to talk, he also did not appear to know how to use a straw.

That's also when I realized that he was carrying a white styrofoam cup that definitely wasn't from the Kentucky Fried/Pizza Hut. For all I know, he had picked it up off the ground and carried it in to me to fill up for him while his mom took her sweet time deciding which chicken bowl to order.

Fortunately the mom reappeared, showed him how to use the straw, and told the kid to say "thank you" to me. "Mffaaffwa," he said, not taking his mouth off the cup. As the two of them walked off, I exchanged glances with the guy who runs the place and shrugged as if to apologize for using his soft drink fountain to fill up the contraband soda cups of itinerant, inarticulate children.

The man smiled and waved it off. "It's no big deal, buddy," he said.

And that's the end of my story.