by Jeff Strand
We made introductions all around and engaged in idle chitchat as Mike drove us to the restaurant. Natashia had the cheery disposition that can only come from a deep-rooted stupidity, but Mike was enchanting. There was no trace whatsoever of the vile wretch I’d spoken to on the phone.
This was going to be a fine evening.
We pulled in front of a restaurant called Genevieve’s. Just looking at the place made my wallet go “Yip, yip, yip!” like a hurt puppy. We were entering a whole new stratosphere of high class here. This was the type of establishment where an unsocialized cretin like myself had to make sure not to slurp when drinking out of the finger bowl or request peanut butter for my fries. It certainly wasn’t the type of place where the waiters would say things like “Eat your asparagus first, since it’ll go bad the soonest.” The squished bug stain on my shirt felt two feet wide.
We got out of the car as a uniformed valet with long brown hair and a goatee approached us. “Take good care of her,” said Mike, handing him a ten-dollar bill and the keys. “Maybe you could wash the windows if you get a chance.”
The valet gave him a “yeah, right” nod then drove off with the car. The five of us walked into the main lobby of the restaurant, where the snottiest-looking man I’d ever seen in my life stood waiting to greet us. Every inch of his aura seemed to say “If I should choose to let you lick the lint between my second and third toe it is only because I’ve taken pity upon you.”
“May I help you?” he asked in a spectacularly snotty voice, regarding us as he would a six-day-old dung beetle corpse.
“We have reservations for five,” Mike told him.
“Your name?” inquired Mr. Snot, in a tone of voice that suggested Mike would have a name like Cooter or Chuckles The Toothless Gimp.
“Mike Garrett.”
Mr. Snot glanced at his clipboard. “Very good, sir. Follow me.” Translation: “It appears that we are in fact allowing cattle to graze here tonight, so I’ll take you to your cud.”
We were led to a corner booth and seated. Mike pulled out Natashia’s chair for her. I pulled out Laura’s chair for her, smacking it into her shin because she wasn’t prepared for a gesture of chivalry.
“Your waiter will be with you in a moment,” Mr. Snot informed us. Translation: “The restaurant staff will now draw straws to see who is given the miserable task of smelling your collective odor.”
“Thank you,” said Mike.
“You’re welcome, sir.” Translation: “I must now take a six-week shower to wash away the vile pollution your presence has cast upon my being, you scummy repugnant waste of evolution. I hope you choke on a fish bone, die in extreme agony, and have disappointing attendance at your funeral. Then I hope everybody you’ve ever cared for is maimed in a series of similar but unrelated attacks by wild buffalo, and your name is spat upon for the next decade, after which you fade into an infinite obscurity not unlike Samuel Hiyam, who you’ve never heard of because he’s too obscure.”
After a moment of perusing the menus, we were greeted by our waiter, who had a mustache that must have weighed two pounds. I’m surprised it didn’t sprain his neck. He introduced himself as Lionel, and seemed to have a significantly smaller quantity of snottism than our host.
“May I take your drink orders?” he asked. Translation: “Can I take your drink orders?” (He wasn’t quite as polite mentally as he was verbally.)
Mike and Natashia both ordered incredibly expensive booze. Travis ordered an incredibly expensive Coke. Laura ordered a free glass of water with an incredibly expensive twist of lemon, and I showed the good taste to order an iced tea instead of chocolate milk with a twisty straw.
While Lionel went to get our drinks, we engaged in idle chitchat over what to order. “Order anything you want,” Mike announced. “Remember, the—” he held up his fingers in quote signs “—whiplash is paying for it.”
There was no doubt that this was a high-class restaurant, because many of the menu items were things that you’d have to be an eccentric millionaire to want to eat. Even the foods I would normally like were covered with creepy sauces or unnerving garnishes. You couldn’t even get a hamburger without spinach topping.
“Everything looks so delicious,” said Laura.
I noticed Mike grimacing slightly as he looked over the selection. I guess he wasn’t a gourmet, either.
Lionel returned with our drinks. Travis’ beverage may have contained a drop of Coke hidden somewhere amidst the ice, but I sure couldn’t find it.
“Are you ready to order?” Lionel asked.
“I think we are,” said Mike. “Seth, why don’t you start?”
“Ummmm...how’s the prime rib?” I asked. I don’t know why I even bother asking a waiter how the food is. What’s he going to say? “Well, sir, once the dishwasher finishes rubbing lemon juice on the spoiled parts, the meat should taste just fine.”
“Excellent,” said Lionel.
“What about the marinated salmon?”
“Excellent,” said Lionel. (“I plan to spit in it before I serve it to you, but since I’ve just had a tasty meal that should improve its flavor.”)
“What about the seafood pasta?”
“Excellent.” (“It sucks.”)
“I’ll have the salmon.”
“Excellent choice.”
After everyone ordered and Lionel had returned to the kitchen, Mike turned to me. “Seth, you’ll be happy to know that starting with the issue you’re in, Gleefully Disturbed is going to have a glossy cover and proofreading.”
“Sounds great,” I said. “I do have some more ideas for things to send you.”
“Hey, send ‘em on! I like your writing style. Pardon my French, Laura, but most of the submissions I receive are written by complete and total illiterates, dammit.”
“Illiterates have done some great things for the world,” said Travis, going off his good behavior diet for a moment. “My Uncle Max was an illiterate, and he crossed a slug with a Dalmatian.”
“What’d he get?” asked Natashia.
“A really slimy Dalmatian.”
I kicked Travis under the table. He kicked me back. We kicked each other a couple more times, then smiled politely at the others.
“That reminds me of when I was eight,” said Natashia. “My brother told me that if you put salt on a slug, it’ll dissolve. Well, my brother was always lying to me and putting dirt down my dress, so I thought I’d try it for myself. I went and got the salt, then I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to find a slug.” She bit her lip. “Well, I found one. There it was, just sliding along a leaf, not bothering anyone. And I poured some of the salt on it. For like a second nothing happened, and then its skin got all liquidy and it stretched out, like it was screaming. Screaming.” Her voice cracked and she wiped a tear from her eye. “The poor thing melted away before my very eyes. There was nothing it could do. It died in pure agony, and I just stood there, watching it, not doing anything to help. I could have poured water on it—maybe that would have saved it—but I was so selfish back then. God, children can be so cruel! The poor little thing...”
She couldn’t speak any more. Mike put his arm around her shoulder, but I noticed his fingers curling inward as if he might be considering a bit of strangulation.
“So, Mike, how long have you been publishing Gleefully Disturbed?” Laura asked.
“Six years. It used to be called Chicks Licking Di—, er, it used to have a different title and content. But then I started putting words in with the pictures, and gradually the words took over, and I changed it to Gleefully Disturbed.”
“I need to get some fresh air,” said Natashia, dabbing at her eyes with the napkin. “Travis, why don’t you join me?”
Travis looked taken aback, glanced at Mike as if unsure how to respond, and nodded. The two of them left in the direction of the lobby.
“I have great plans for the magazine,” said Mike. “I think you’re involved in something really big, Seth.”
&n
bsp; “Who’s your new distributor?” I asked.
“They don’t have a name yet,” Mike admitted. “Actually, it’s my friend Scott, the one who’s doing that movie Gore Drenched. But he can be trusted, trust me.”
“I thought it was Gore Slaughter.”
“It was. He decided to go with the more commercial title.”
“And who’s printing up the ten thousand copies?”
“Scott’s handling that, too. He’s got connections. Believe me, if you’d seen how good those counterfeit bills looked, you’d have no doubts whatsoever about their ability to publish a magazine.”
As I tried to think of a suitably polite comment, I glanced over at the window. Travis and Natashia were out in the parking lot. Mike’s back was to them, which was good because it prevented him from seeing when Natashia threw her arms around Travis and gave him a passionate kiss. Travis pulled away, and she dove at him again.
Mike gave me a strange look. “Are you okay?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah, I’m fine. Just got distracted for a second.” The way Travis was reacting, I figured Natashia had to have a high-powered vacuum cleaner lodged in her throat.
I heard Laura gasp as she noticed the commotion.
“Is something wrong?” Mike asked.
“No, nothing,” she said, quickly. “I’ve got asthma. It acts up every once in a while, and I have to gasp.”
Mike studied our faces for a long moment. “Is that bitch out there jumping Travis?”
Laura and I both looked at each other, then nodded.
Mike sighed. “Why does she always have to do this? Will somebody please explain to me why every goddamn time we go out in public she has to do something like this to make me jealous?” He leaned toward me. “Can you explain that?”
“No, I can’t,” I admitted.
“For two hours before we left, she’s like ‘Behave yourself tonight! Behave yourself tonight! Don’t say the f-word! Don’t say the f-word!’ Well, pardon my fucking French, but what kind of shitbag tramp goes and bangs some guy in front of the window at Genevieve’s and calls it behaving herself?”
“Technically she’s not banging him,” I clarified. “Right now Travis is trying to get away and...wow, good move on her part...she’s got him in a headlock, and...oooh, the shirt’s over his head, I think she ripped it...maybe we should go out there and help him.”
“Nah, she’ll let him go. She’s just trying to get a reaction from me. I’m not even going to turn around.”
“Okay, they just moved away from the window,” I reported. “No, wait, now they’re back, and she’s going for the zipper...he deflected her first attempt, but I don’t know how much longer he can hold out...attempt two deflected with a wicked elbow move...now an elderly man sitting near the window just dropped his dentures in his pasta...whoa, Travis just did an incredible twist and duck escape and now he’s free!”
I wanted to applaud, but that would have been inappropriate.
Mike shook his head in annoyance. “When the slutmobile returns, pretend like nothing happened. I don’t want to encourage her.”
We engaged in idle chitchat until Travis and Natashia came back to the table a minute later. Travis seemed a bit frazzled, while Natashia had a satisfied look on her face.
“We’re back,” said Travis unnecessarily. “Look at this, I ripped my shirt on the paper towel dispenser.”
“How was the air?” asked Mike.
“Oh, it was fine. Good air. Good, good air.” He took a drink, and flinched as he noticed the lipstick smear he left behind. “I’m looking into becoming a transvestite,” he explained. “Just starting small.”
Lionel stepped out of the kitchen, wringing his hands nervously. He approached our table. “How are your drinks?”
We all said that they were fine.
“Oh, that’s good. I’m so glad you’re enjoying them. I don’t want to cause a commotion, so I’m only talking to the parties that came in around when you did. Did you use our valet service?”
“Yeah,” said Mike. “Is there a problem?”
“That all depends. It’s just that the valet service you used may not necessarily have been our valet service, if you understand my meaning.”
“I’m not sure I do.”
Lionel smiled nervously. “The boy in the red uniform who looked like a valet may not in fact have been what he claimed to be, and if you gave your car to somebody with long, brown hair and a goatee, he stole it.”
“He stole my mother’s car?” Natashia asked, horrified.
“Yes,” said Lionel. He had the humble look of a waiter who knew his tip was shot to hell.
“Are you freakin’ kidding me?” screamed Mike, jumping to his feet and attracting the attention of every person in the restaurant, except for the old guy who was still digging for his dentures. “You stupid used-condom slurpers let them steal the car? What kind of dipped-in-shit establishment is this?”
“Mike, chill,” said Natashia.
“Chill? Chill? You’re not the one who’s going to have to listen to your mother screeching like a cow with its bloated udder caught in a taffy puller!” He returned his attention to the waiter. “If you don’t get that goddamn car back in the next five minutes, I’m going to shove a red-hot fire hydrant up your ass and then up the ass of every worker in this place without washing it in-between ass shovings!”
“He’s really crude,” Travis whispered to me. “I bet when he eats a chocolate rabbit he starts at the butt.”
“Sir,” began Lionel, “if you would please lower your voice, I assure you we’re doing everything we can to help—”
“Lower your own pansy voice!” Mike thundered. “I got dressed up in this freakin’ strait-jacket of a suit and drove all this way and acted like the kind of stuck-up rich dickhead that would go to a place like this and ordered shitty food for more than it would cost to breed the goddamn cattle myself and got this fancy-ass wine that tastes like whoever stomped on the grapes had Athlete’s Foot and you didn’t even have goddamn peppercorn ranch salad dressing and my wench girlfriend went and tried to pork some loser outside the goddamn window because she’s a worthless bitch who can’t even aspire to be a bimbo then you told me that the car I borrowed has been stolen by a nutless fake valet and the slut told me to chill and then you stand there with a constipated look on your face while I tell you all about my shitty evening from the part where I got dressed up to the part where the freakin’ car got stolen and then I run out of breath and shut up!”
Lionel looked at his feet. “I’m sorry you had a disappointing dining experience.”
* * *
We stood in the ditch, staring at the station wagon. Every one of the windows had been smashed, and Mike’s ten-dollar bill was taped to the hood.
“Was the vehicle insured?” the police officer asked.
“No,” said Natashia. Mike was standing a few feet away, wringing his hands and looking like he wanted to say something objectionable.
“He’s done this at a few other restaurants,” the officer informed us. “But don’t worry, we’ll catch him. Last week he got the Slappy-Happy Frankfurter Car, and lots of people are hunting for him.”
As the tow truck began to pull what remained of the car out of the ditch, Natashia patted Travis on the back. “I’m sorry about what happened. I guess I’m just kind of insecure about whether or not Mike really loves me. Him always calling me a mindless wench probably has something to do with it.”
“That’s okay,” said Travis. “It made me feel desirable.”
“We’re going to call a cab. You could catch a ride back to your dorm with us, but I wouldn’t recommend it.”
“We’ll find our own way home,” I said. “I guess I’ll go say good-bye to Mike.” I glanced over at him, and saw that he was cursing loudly at the grass. “Or maybe you could say good-bye for us.”
“I will. Nice meeting you all.”
As we left the scene of the vandalism, I mentally crossed Gleefully Dist
urbed off my list of things that would add meaning to my life. I’d expected a disaster, but I’d at least expected to get to eat. I wondered how impressed Laura was with my selection of social peers.
“That was a new experience for me,” said Laura. “And, wow, I was even embarrassed! That takes a lot.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, then winced and hoped she wouldn’t punch me.
“Don’t be. We’ll have something to laugh about later.” She stepped out of her high heels and picked them up. “Listen, it’s going to take us more than an hour to walk back home. I don’t mind if you don’t.”
Chapter Twenty-One
“A Completely Irrelevant Chapter”
“Everybody dance!”
“You put your right foot in, you put your right foot out, you put your right foot in, and you shake it all about, you do the Hokey Pokey and you turn yourself around, that’s what it’s all about.”
“Left foot!”
“You put your left foot in, you put your left foot out, you put your left foot in, and you shake it all about, you do the Hokey Pokey and you turn yourself around, that’s what it’s all about.”
“Third toe on the left foot!”
“You put your third toe on the left foot in, you put your third toe on the left foot out, you put your third toe on the left foot in, and you shake it all about, you do the Hokey Pokey and you turn yourself around, that’s what it’s all about.”
“Right edge of the toenail on third toe of the left foot!”
“You put your right edge of the toenail on the third toe of the left foot in, you put your right edge of the toenail on the third toe of the left foot out, you put your right edge of the toenail on the third toe of the left foot in, and you shake it all about, you do the Hokey Pokey and you turn yourself around, that’s what it’s all about.”
“Fungus on right edge of the toenail on the third toe of the left foot!”
“You put your fungus on the right edge of the toenail on the third toe of the left foot in, you put your fungus on the right edge of the toenail on the third toe of the left foot out, you put your fungus on the right edge of the toenail on the third toe of the left foot in, and you shake it all about, you do the Hokey Pokey and you turn yourself around, that’s what it’s all about.”
