Tonight, Rodney Dangerfield walks onto the Tonight Show stage exactly the way he always does. The disheveled jacket, the loosened tie, the bulging eyes, and the sweat already on his brow before a single word is out of his mouth. The audience is already laughing. Johnny is already grinning.
Everything looks exactly the way it has always looked. And then Rodney reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulls out a piece of paper, old, folded many times, soft at the edges from years of handling. He sets it on Johnny Carson’s desk. Johnny looks at it. Then Johnny looks at Rodney.
And for the first time in 22 years of hosting the Tonight Show, Johnny Carson does not say a single word. What was written on that piece of paper would stop the broadcast for 41 seconds. It would cause one woman in the third row to stand up and leave the studio quietly crying. It would lead Johnny Carson to do something in front of a live audience that he had never done in his entire career.
Something nobody who witnessed it that night would ever be able to fully describe. But before we start, I want to say something to you. I often see comments from people who did not realize they were not subscribed. If you enjoy the channel, please take a second to check and make sure you are subscribed.
It is free and it really helps us keep the show growing. Thank you for being part of this journey with us. Now, let us talk about the night Rodney Dangerfield stopped being funny. October 14th, 1978. The taping of the Tonight Show was scheduled to begin at 5:30. Rodney Dangerfield arrived at 3:47. Fred de Cordova, the show’s executive producer, watched Rodney walk straight past the green room without going inside.
He watched him pace the corridor back and forth twice the length of the building. his jacket slightly too large in the way all of Rodney’s jackets were slightly too large. The way a jacket is when it has been worn everyday for years and has taken on the shape of one specific body. His right hand at intervals of roughly 4 minutes moved to the inside breast pocket of the jacket, touched something there with Drew, returned to his side.
Fred watched this for 20 minutes. Then he went back to his office and sat at his desk and decided that whatever was going to happen tonight, he was not going to stop it. What had happened 4 days earlier had started the way most significant things in Rodney Dangerfield’s life started as something ordinary that turned out not to be ordinary at all.
He was cleaning out a closet, not by choice. His manager had called to remind him that a magazine photographer was coming to the apartment the following week, and the front closet needed to not look the way it looked. Rodney worked his way through it with the systematic resentment of a man doing something badly but decisively until his hand landed on a brown paper bag near the back of the top shelf.
He pulled it down. Inside was a jacket, navy blue, single- breasted. The cuffs worn to fraying, a price tag from a secondhand shop in Englewood, New Jersey, still attached to the inner seam. $8. He had bought this jacket in 1951. He had worn it every working day for 11 years. He checked the pockets.
Right pocket, a dried out ballpoint pen, a business card from a hardware store that had been closed since n left pocket, a stick of double mint gum, hard as chalk. Inside breast pocket, a piece of paper folded into quarters, then folded again, pressed flat, the way you press something when you want it to stay closed.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and opened the paper. He read it twice. Then he sat on the edge of the bed for a long time without doing anything at all. Then he reached for the phone and called Fred to Cordova’s office. He did not explain why. He just said he needed to come on the show next week, that he had something he wanted to tell Johnny.
But what was written on that piece of paper was something nobody was prepared for. Because what Rodney had written in a hacken sack parking lot on a Thursday afternoon in October of 1961 was not a joke. It was the only true thing he had ever written without intending anyone to read it. Wait, do not miss what is about to happen.
Because what Rodney Dangerfield carried into that studio on October the 14th, 1978 was not just a piece of paper. It was the answer to a question that 20 million people had been laughing at for 15 years without knowing they were laughing at the question. The question had been in every joke, in every pulled tie, and every bulging expression, and every delivery of the five words that had made him famous.
They had all been asking the same thing and nobody, not even Rodney, had fully understood the answer until he sat on the edge of his bed and read what he had written in n his name was not Rodney Dangerfield. The man who walked onto the Tonight Show stage with the loosened tie and the sweat on his brow had been born on November the 22nd, 1921 in Babylon, New York.
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His name at birth was Jacob Rodney Cohen. His father’s name was Philip Cohen, who had decided before Jacob’s fth birthday that he would prefer a different name and a different life. Philip Cohen became Phil Roy, a vaudeville comedian of modest ability who left his family sometime in 1926, not dramatically, but progressively, becoming less and less present until one day he was not present at all and did not come back.
Jacob was 5 years old when his father chose comedy over him. His mother, Dorothy Cohen, worked in a garment factory. She worked long hours at close work in bad light for wages that were barely adequate. She was a quiet woman, worn in the way women become worn when they have been handling too much for too long.
She never spoke about Philip with bitterness. She did not have the energy for bitterness. What Dorothy noticed early was that her son could make people laugh. Not the accidental amusement of a child doing something childish, but something more specific. Jacob noticed things other children did not notice.
the gap between what adults said and what they meant. The precise moment when a room shifted from polite tolerance to genuine engagement. He noticed where the laugh lived inside a situation before anyone else in the room could feel it approaching. He learned very young that deploying this could make a hostile classroom become manageable, could make a threatening kid on the street become an ally.
Jacob Cohen understood by the age of 10 that comedy was not entertainment. Comedy was a survival skill. You made people laugh and when they were laughing they stayed. He began performing in his mid20s under the name Jack Roy. He was good, frighteningly good in the way that people who learned early that their survival depended on charm become good.
His timing was precise in the way timing is precise when a person has been honing it since childhood out of necessity rather than ambition. He could feel an audience before it felt itself. 30 seconds ahead of the shift, adjusting mid-sentence in ways that looked effortless. He could not get booked.
not in the rooms that mattered. The rejections were not dramatic. They were the silence that follows a phone call that does not come. A call back that is never made. The industry did not hate Jack Roy. It simply did not know what Jack Roy was for. In 1949, he married. In 1951, his daughter Melanie was born.
In 1952, when Melanie was 14 months old and the bookings were not improving and the money was not there and Jack Roy was 30 years old and still performing for audiences of 12 people in rooms that smelled of industrial cleaner, he made the decision he had been approaching for 3 years. He quit. He did not announce it.
He simply stopped calling the clubs, stopped writing material, got a job. He sold aluminum siding in New Jersey to homeowners in Hackinack and Englewood and Tene who needed their houses protected from weather and who had no particular interest in the inner life of the man on their porch with the sample case and the professional smile.
He was a good salesman, reliable. He showed up on time. He made enough money. He was present for his daughter’s early years in the way his father had not been present for his present in the technical sense at the table in the house. And he told himself that this was what growing up looked like. He was not happy.
Not dramatically. Not in any single crisis. He was not happy in the way a man is not happy when the life he is living is designed for someone else. The observations were still happening. The gap between what people said and what they meant was still visible. He could still read the comic potential of a situation the way a musician hears the melody inside a conversation automatically without being able to turn it off.
He noticed these things and then he said nothing because his customers were not his audience. The observations accumulated without release until they had a weight that became over 11 years. Indistinguishable from despair. 11 years. Jacob Cohen sold aluminum sighting in New Jersey for 11 years. And then came October of 1961.
He had been having a bad week in the specific way that bad weeks accumulate when a person has been living below their own waterline long enough that the accumulation has become structural. Three sales calls that went nowhere. A car repair he had not budgeted for. A conversation with his wife that had been quiet in the way.
Conversations are quiet when what needs to be said is too large to say. He sat in his car in the parking lot of a diner in Hackinack at 4:30 on a Thursday afternoon in October. He had been sitting there for 23 minutes. He could not face going home and could not face going anywhere else. He picked up the ballpoint pen from the door pocket, turned the order form blank side up, and began to write.
He wrote for 11 minutes. When the pen stopped, he looked at what was there. Then he folded the paper four folds, pressing each one hard. He put it in the inside breast pocket of the jacket. Got out of the car, went into the diner, sat at the counter, ordered a bowl of tomato soup, ate it slowly, paid, drove home.
He never looked at the paper again. He put the jacket in the closet at the end of that winter. He never wore it again. He put it in a bag on a shelf, closed the door. Two months later, a club owner in Greenwich Village called a booking agent who called a manager who made a half-hearted inquiry to Jacob Cohen, who was by now going by the name Jack Roy again.
The club owner needed someone cheap and reliable for a week of late sets. Jack Roy was cheap. Jack Roy was reliable. Jack Roy showed up. The first night was fine. The audience laughed where they were supposed to. The tips were modest. The second night, everything changed. He was 3 minutes into a story about his marriage when a man in the second row laughed at something Jack Roy had not intended to be funny.
The involuntary laugh, the kind that escapes before a person decides whether to release it. Jack Roy paused. He looked at the man and then without planning it, without knowing he was about to do it, he reached up and pulled at his tie, loosened it slightly. The gesture of a man who has just been reminded once again that the universe has no particular interest in treating him with dignity.
I don’t get no respect, he said. He had not planned those words. They were not in the set. They arrived fully formed because they were the truest thing he had said on a stage in 11 years. His father had not given him respect. The industry had not. The 11 years in New Jersey had given him a reliable income and nothing that resembled respect.
The man in the second row laughed again. Then the people next to him. Then the room laughed. genuinely the way a room laughs when someone says the thing everyone has been thinking and nobody has had the nerve to say. Rodney Dangerfield was born in that moment. The name came over the following months. It sounded like a man who had been knocked down enough times to have developed a philosophy about falling.
It sounded like what Jacob Cohen might have sounded like if Jacob Cohen had ever been allowed to be funny about the specific shape of his own suffering. The climb back was slow. He was in his early 40s when most comedians of his generation were in their prime. He built his audience one club at a time, one late night set at a time, earning his laughs the way he had earned every other thing in his life by absolute refusal to stop.
The Ed Sullivan show changed the trajectory the way a Sullivan appearance changed trajectories in that era, which was completely and permanently. The phone turned on, then it rang. By the time Johnny Carson had him on the Tonight Show, the journey from Hackinack parking lot to Burbank had taken 17 years and cost things that no audience who ever laughed at the loosened tie would ever fully understand.
But what nobody talks about is what the character was actually doing to Jacob Cohen. Every night on every stage, in every club and television studio and concert hall that booked him through the 1960s and into the 1970s, Rodney Dangerfield stood up and performed his own autobiography as comedy.
He told them about the father who left, coded as jokes about his childhood. He told them about the marriages that failed, the ones where he had been absent in the way his father had been absent, coded as jokes about his wife. He told them about the 11 years in New Jersey. The slow suffocation of living below your own waterline coded as material about failure.
Every laugh was minded from the actual ae of his actual life. The character worked because the wound was real. He understood this. If the wound healed, he feared the character would stop working. If the character stopped working, Rodney Dangerfield would cease to exist. And if Rodney Dangerfield ceased to exist, what remained was Jacob Cohen, age 40some, who the last time anyone had really looked at him had been sitting in a car in a parking lot in Hackinack.
This was the trap inside the success. If you want to support the channel and get access to exclusive member only episodes, click the join button below this video. Members are the reason we can keep making these stories. Thank you. In the summer of 1978, his daughter Melanie came to visit him in New York. She was 26 years old.
She had grown up largely without him in the way that children of comedians who have found their audience often grow up without them. Present for holidays, available by phone, but not there in the ordinary daily way a child needs a parent. The comedy had always come first. They sat together in his apartment for 3 hours.
Rodney did not perform. That was what Melanie would say about it years later. He sat across from her in the kitchen and talked the way Jacob Cohen talked, not the way Rodney Dangerfield talked. He said he knew he had not been there the way he should have been. He said he knew what that had cost her and could not give those years back. Melanie was quiet for a while.
Then she said the thing that stopped him. She said, “Dad, you have been performing the worst things that ever happened to you for my entire life. Every night you get up and turn all of it into a joke. And I have never heard you talk about what that cost you.” She looked at him.
What does it actually feel like? Not the bit. What does it really feel like to stand up there every night and mine all of that? He could not answer. The language he had was comedy language designed to protect the wound by making the wound the point of the joke. The language the question required was something he had not used since a parking lot in Hackinack.
He began looking for the jacket 3 weeks later. He found it on October the 10th, 1978. He sat on the edge of his bed and unfolded the paper he had written 17 years earlier. The letter was not long. It was written on the back of an aluminum sighting order form in the handwriting of a 39-year-old man at 4:30 in the afternoon in a parking lot in Hackinack.
It said, “My name is Jacob Rodney Cohen. My father left when I was 5 and took with him the idea that I was worth staying for. My mother cleaned other people’s dirt to keep us alive. I spent 8 years making people laugh in rooms where nobody knew my name and have concluded that the rooms were correct. I am 39 years old and I have a daughter I barely know and a marriage held together with apology and a career that does not exist.
I am sitting in this parking lot right now because I cannot face going home and I cannot face going anywhere else. I cannot see the next step. I think the next step might be nothing. I think the nothing might be a relief. The letter ended there. He had written it, folded it, put it in his pocket, then gotten out of the car, gone into the diner, eaten the soup, driven home.
Not because of any dramatic intervention or infusion of hope, but because he had gone into the diner, and while the soup was being prepared, the ordinary world had presented itself as ordinary, and the next few minutes had been manageable, and then the next few after that. He sat with the letter and understood for the first time what had actually happened in that parking lot.
He had not been saved by anything large or dramatic. He had been saved by the smallest possible thing. The decision to get out of the car and see what was on the menu. The soup was the whole story. He picked up the phone and called Fred to Cordova. Back to October the 14th, 1978. Rodney had arrived at 3:47.
At 5:15, he knocked on Johnny Carson’s dressing room door. Johnny opened it. He looked at Rodney’s face and his expression shifted immediately. He stepped back without a word and held the door open. They were in the dressing room for 16 minutes. The stage manager knocked once, Johnny said through the closed door.
Give us a minute. The stage manager had worked at the Tonight Show for 12 years. He had never heard Johnny Carson ask for more time before a taping. Not once. When they came out, something had changed behind Johnny’s eyes. Rodney was quiet. He did not make a single joke in the 45 minutes between leaving that dressing room and walking onto the stage.
Fred Decordiva watching from the wings said afterward that in 30 years of television he had never seen Rodney Dangerfield not make a joke. The taping began at 5:32. At 5:49, Ed McMahon’s voice filled the studio. Ladies and gentlemen, a man who has been making this country laugh for 20 years, the one and only Rodney Dangerfield. The audience erupted.
300 people on their feet. Before Rodney had cleared the curtain, he came through the entrance the way he always came through. The jacket slightly too large, the tie a skew, the expression that said perpetually wronged and perpetually unruffled. The audience roared. He walked to the desk.
He and Johnny shook hands. He sat down. The first 6 minutes were exactly what they were supposed to be. Three jokes about his marriage, two about his doctor, one about his mother-in-law that brought the house down. The audience was having the time of their evening. Johnny was laughing the real laugh.
And then there was a pause. It lasted approximately 2 seconds. Nobody consciously registered it. But in those two seconds, Rodney’s right hand moved to the inside breast pocket of his jacket. Slowly, not as part of a bit, not with the telegraphed intention of a comedian setting up a physical gag, just a hand moving to a pocket. He pulled out a piece of paper.
old, the color of time, folded many times, the edges soft. He held it for a moment, then he set it on Johnny Carson’s desk. The audience did not know what to make of it. A ripple of uncertain laughter moved through the room. The laugh of an audience preparing to find out if this is a bit. Johnny looked at the paper.
He looked at Rodney. And Rodney’s expression had changed, not gradually. Between one breath and the next, the Rodney Dangerfield expression was simply gone. What replaced it was something nobody in that studio recognized. It was the face of a man sitting in a parking lot in Hackinack in October.
It was the face of Jacob Cohen. Johnny Rodney said, “I want to read you something.” The uncertain laughter faded. 300 people went quiet in the way rooms go quiet when a frequency changes. I wrote this 17 years ago, Rodney said, in a parking lot in New Jersey on the back of an aluminum sighting order form because it was the only paper in the car.
I have never read it to anyone. I have never told anyone it existed. He looked at the paper. He did not unfold it yet. My name is not Rodney Dangerfield, he said. A few people laughed. The laugh died quickly because Rodney was not smiling and Johnny was not smiling and 22 million Americans watching at home felt without knowing how they felt it that something was happening that was different from what usually happened.
My name is Jacob Rodney Cohen. Rodney said, “And on October the 10th, 1961, I was 39 years old and sitting in a parking lot in Hackinack, New Jersey at 4:30 in the afternoon. And I wrote down what was true. He unfolded the paper. He read it. all of it. In the voice that was not the comedy voice, the voice underneath, the one that said Jacob before anything else, he read the part about his father, the part about his mother, the eight years in rooms where nobody knew his name, the daughter he barely knew.
The marriage held together with apology, the part about not being able to see the next step, the part about the nothing, the part about the relief. The studio was absolutely silent. Johnny Carson had not moved. His hands were flat on the desk. When Rodney folded the paper and set it back, his hands were not entirely steady, but his voice was, “I never threw it away,” Rodney said.
I put it in the jacket and I drove home. But first, I went into the diner and I had soup. He looked at Johnny. I cannot explain why I went into the diner instead of not going in. I was 39 years old and completely out of road and I went and had soup. And then two months later, a club in Greenwich Village called and I went and did the set and I said something true and somebody in the second row laughed and I thought one more night.
Let’s see what one more night looks like. He looked at the audience, 300 people who had come to laugh at the tie. That was 17 years ago, Rodney said. And I have been performing the truth ever since. I just never told anyone it was the truth. 41 seconds of silence. A camera operator counted them later on the tape.
41 seconds of dead air on national television. Johnny Carson’s eyes were closed. When he opened them, they were wet at the edges. His jaw was working slightly, the way a jaw works when something wants to happen and a person is preventing it. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and precise. Jacob, he said.
It was the first time that name had been used on that stage. Possibly the first time it had been used in public in 17 years. Rodney looked at him. Why did you go into the diner? A pause, not a comedy pause. A pause in which a man is considering the real answer to a real question that has never been asked.
I think Rodney said, I was curious. Even in that parking lot at that moment, I was just curious what the next thing was going to be. I wanted to know what the soup tasted like. A single laugh moved through the audience. Not the comedy laugh, the other laugh, the one that comes when something has been said that is so precisely true that the only adequate response is that involuntary sound.
Then the laugh settled and the quiet was different from any quiet that had been in that studio before. Johnny looked at his desk. Then he looked at Rodney. I need to tell you something, Johnny said in front of everyone because that is the only way it means what it is supposed to mean. What you have seen so far is nothing compared to what happened next.
Because what Johnny Carson said in the next 8 minutes was something that producers and crew would describe only in fragments for years afterward. Not because they were keeping a secret, but because there are things that happen in front of cameras that exist outside the grammar of television, and putting those things into words afterward always reduces them to something smaller than they actually were.
Johnny told Rodney about his own father. not in clinical detail, in the way of a man who has lived next to a specific absence his entire life, and learned to work around it so thoroughly that the working around had become the architecture of everything he built. His father had been present in body and absent in warmth, and Johnny had converted that over decades into professionalism, into the controlled, charming, unimpeachably composed persona that America watched every night, into the performance of ease that cost more than it looked like it cost. You built a character, Johnny said. You named him Rodney Dangerfield and put him on a stage and every night he told the truth about Jacob Cohen in the only way Jacob Cohen knew how to tell it because telling the truth directly is terrifying and telling it as a bit is survivable. Rodney did not speak. That is what the best comedy is, Johnny continued. The truth delivered at a speed and from an angle that makes it bearable. The audience laughs because the laugh is the release that crying would be if they let
themselves cry. They laugh because you are saying the thing they have been unable to say. He looked at the folded paper on the desk. You have been standing on stages for 15 years telling 20 million people a night that it is survivable that you can be knocked down every day of your life and still be standing and still be funny about it.
He paused. That letter is why you are here tonight. Not Rodney Dangerfield. Jacob, the 39year-old in the parking lot who went into the diner. That is who we have all been watching. We just did not know his name until tonight. A woman in the fourth row began to cry. The microphones caught the sound of it, and within a few seconds, it had moved through the room, the way sound moves through water in concentric rings, reaching every corner.
The audience that had come to laugh at the loosened tie, was sitting in the silence that descends when something true has been said publicly, and everyone in the room knows it. Ed McMahon had his hand pressed against the side of his face. The camera operators were not hiding their faces. Rodney reached across the desk and picked up the folded letter.
He held it for a moment. Then he held it out to Johnny. I want you to have this, he said. Johnny looked at the paper. He looked at Rodney. “Why?” he said. “Because you just told me what it means,” Rodney said. “And I have been carrying it for 17 years without knowing.” He paused. “I think it means I went and had soup.
That is what it means. And I think if you keep it, I will remember that. Johnny reached out and took the letter. He held it carefully, the way you hold something that has been folded many times along the same creases and might come apart. He did not open it. He held it in both hands for a moment.
Then he placed it in the inside breast pocket of his jacket and pressed his hand flat against his chest over the pocket. He looked at Rodney. “Jacob,” he said quietly. “What?” Rodney said. “Thank you for going into the diner.” The applause that followed was not the applause for the performance.
It was the applause for the person, which is a different and rarer thing. The Tonight Show ran 38 minutes over its scheduled broadcast time that night. NBC received more than 2,000 phone calls before midnight. Not from fans of Rodney or Johnny as individuals. From people who had their own parking lot, their own October afternoon, their own version of the letter on the back of whatever paper was available.
From people who had folded that letter and put it in their pocket and then followed it without drama or certainty by the small, unremarkable choice to go into the diner and see what was available. Mental health lines across the country reported an increase in calls in the 72 hours following the broadcast.
Overwhelmingly, the calls were not from people in crisis. They were from people who wanted to talk about the soup. Rodney Dangerfield’s relationship with his daughter Melanie changed after that broadcast. Not immediately, not in any single scene. Over months and years in phone calls and dinners and conversations that were not performances, in the slow accumulation of ordinary time in which he was Jacob and not Rodney, he learned the language that existed outside the comedy language. The language of being present without being funny, of being Jacob without being Rodney. It was harder than comedy. He said this in interviews for the rest of his career. Always briefly, always with the timing that suggested he knew where the laugh lived in the sentence, always choosing not to deploy it. Cattyshack came in 1980. Back to school in 1986. The HBO specials that became defining documents of American standup. The Rodney Dangerfield who walked onto those stages through the 80s was performing the same character, the same tie, the same eyes, the same five
words, but something underneath had changed in the way things change when a person has finally looked at the wound directly instead of only mining it. Melanie Dangerfield in an interview years later said that her father after October of 1978 was different from her father before, not from the stage or the television screen.
From across the kitchen table at 11 in the morning when there were no cameras. He is just Jacob, she said. He has always been Jacob. We just needed someone to call him by his name. Johnny Carson kept the letter. He moved it after four weeks from his jacket pocket to the wooden box in his home office where he kept the things that mattered to him privately.
In 1992, when a reporter asked him what single thing from 30 years of broadcasting he would take with him, he said, “I have a letter in a box in my office that a man named Jacob Cohen wrote to himself in a parking lot in Hackinack in 1961. The letter said he could not see the next step.
” The letter did not say he was about to go into a diner and have soup. I keep it to remember that the soup is the whole story. Almost everyone I have ever interviewed has a version of that letter. The ones who made it through found the soup. They found the small and ordinary next thing and did it and then found the thing after that. He paused.
The soup is the whole story. Rodney Dangerfield passed away on October the 5th, 2004. He was 82 years old. Among the tributes, the statement from Melanie drew the most attention. It said, “My father was a man named Jacob Cohen. He spent 60 years performing a character named Rodney Dangerfield so that he could tell the truth.
He was the funniest man I ever knew and the most honest. And in the last 26 years of his life, when he sat across from me at his kitchen table and was just Jacob, he was also the best father I could have asked for. On Rodney’s nightstand, when his family went through his personal effects, was a small framed photograph, not from any Hollywood production or arena show.
It was a photograph of a parking lot in Hackinack, New Jersey. He had gone back in 1979 just to see it, just to stand in the place where Jacob Cohen had sat in his car and written the letter and then gotten out and gone into the diner. He was standing next to his car in the photograph, wearing the navy blue jacket with the worn cuffs, smiling the way a man smiles when there is no audience and no character to maintain and the ordinary world is presenting itself as ordinary and he is grateful for the ordinary. Below the photograph in his own handwriting, he had written four words. I had the soup. If this story moved you, take one moment before you close this video. Think about your own parking lot. The afternoon when the next step was not visible. And remember that what happened after that moment was not nothing. It was soup. The smallest possible choice. You are still here because of something small and ordinary that you chose when you could not see the next step. And if you have never told anyone about your parking lot,
think about whether there is a Johnny Carson in your life. Someone who watches, someone who asks the real question, someone who will hold the folded paper carefully and keep it. Go tell them. Subscribe so you never miss these stories. Share this with someone who is in their own parking lot tonight. Drop a comment telling me where in the world you are watching from because this story is reaching people everywhere and I want to know where it is landing.
And if you have your own version of the crumpled letter, tell us about it. Tell us about the diner. Tell us what you chose when you could not see the next step.
