I’m working at an upscale restaurant, the type that’s been featured multiple times on Martha and glossed the pages of Town & Country.
Except, it’s obvious that I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.
I just butcher patron’s orders completely. I can’t even understand a muttering Frenchman customer, so I do the thing that comes naturally. I pull his order out of my ass.
“Would he like roasted African fly atop his house salad?” I ask myself while typing his order into the computer system. “Maybe he’d like grilled walrus instead of the grilled salmon.”
When I present the grilled walrus and charred goat testicles to the customers, frankly, they’re not amused.
“What the hell is this? I ordered the spring Chesterfield salad, not some goat’s nutsack,” a disgruntled man says.
“Oops, sorry Charlie,” I say.
I also begin picking unwanted food from the customer’s plates, another service retail no-no.
“You didn’t like your chocolate bonbon?” I ask an elderly woman customer. “No? Well, sister friend, that chocolate bonbon is going right in my stomach.”
I’ve returned to high school for some reason beyond my understanding. But of course, I’m in the high school parking lot with my Dad, my sister, Laura and her friend Deena. You get the feeling that everyone’s graduated from high school and we’re just there for shits and giggles sitting in the parking lot after school lets out.
Maybe we’re just lusting after the schoolchildren? That’s what I’m doing, mind you.
I’m ogling a sweaty, shirtless 17-year-old jock type who straddles the back of his pickup truck with a pack of teenage girls.
“Someone needs to tell him to put his shirt on,” Laura says.
I shake my head. “Fuck that shit,” I tell my sister.
Laura, however, is adamant about getting him to put a shirt on. “Daddy, can you tell him to put his shirt on?”
My Dad does, but here, the dream gets a little fuzzy. I vaguely recall the wa-wa punchline being my Dad gets his ass kicked by a muscle bound teen dream jock and the kids have to track him down in the school gymnasium.
“Do you know where they took my Dad?” I ask a doe-eyed, soulful musician type. He’s barely sixteen if a day.
“No,” the boy replies.
“Do you want to have sex with me?” I ask him. I have a .38 caliber handgun, so this seems a tad threatening to the poor boy.
“Um, okay. Yeah, sure,” he says.
“Do you want to drop your pants or should I drop them for you?” I continue.
This isn’t helping find my Dad, but it sure is a nice diversion for pedophile-rapists in the reading audience.
So then, the doe-eyed 16-year-old and I start making out and groping on the pebble-strewn asphalt parking lot. Just going at it like two dogs in heat. Laura is somewhere in the background, looking on and shaking her head in disapproval.
I remember my putting the handgun on safety, though. God knows that I don’t want anybody’s ass getting shot.
Even though I'm sodomizing a fresh-faced innocent, I'm still a hand-wringing liberal at heart.