I looked down at the three-pronged monstrosity sticking out of the kid’s mouth.
“Where ya’ from, boy?”
“Effingham,” he said as he pulled the trident from his mouth and stuck it into a fresh piece of meat.
“Effingham!” I repeated, looking at the slab of meat on his paper plate. “Looks more like an effing pork chop to me!”
“Ha … ha,” he answered slowly. “That’s a real good one, mister. I ain’t never heard that joke before. You’re a real comedian.”
“Ya’ll don’t have forks in Effingham?” I asked.
“Course we do, Mister. What do you think I’m eating this pork chop with?” He shoved the meat-laden trident back into his mouth.
“That ain’t no fork,” I said. “That three-pronged monstrosity is what we call a trident. In the civilized world, forks have four prongs.”
The boy pulled the utensil out of his mouth slowly and held it up in front of him, the four prongs gleaming in the sunlight. “They don’t know how to effing count wherever the hell you’re from, mister?”