So Pudgy and gay guy come in last Tuesday, as usual. Only this time they sit at my station instead of the bar—her looking at him all gaga. And it's not like he's one of those pretty ones. You know the ones—too pretty to be real. Eye candy. I mean, it's obvious she's got to know this guy's not rowing with both oars in the water—making a complete fool of herself, dressed like it's a special occasion or something. She still looks slutty. And Kenny, the bartender—you met him, right?—he's a bit of a slut himself, you know, standing behind the bar, watching her skirt, the stretchy spaghetti string top, white with no bra. She keeps yanking at it, but it rides up, shows her fat rolls. And she thinks she's so sexy, leaning over, making sure gay guy sees her tits. As if he gives a shit.
I'm wishing they were sitting at the bar. They give me the creeps, you know. But Kenny, he says They're okay. Whatever on that one!
The drinks are up for my other tables, so I serve them first—a couple of giggly soccer moms, yakking over strawberry daiquiris, and this guy that looks like Jack Nicholson—those evil eyebrows—he's on his third vodka martini straight up very dry with a twist. Sasha has brought Pudgy and gay guy a basket of oyster crackers, and I take my tray of dirty dishes to the bar before going over.
I'm walking to the table, and you shoulda seen Pudgy's face! She wasn't looking so gaga anymore. Looked more like she wants to cry but won't because she don't know if she can stop. She's staring out the window, and I think he's talking about something really important because he's all into it—hands moving, stupid little mustache jumping around on his lip, face all serious and intense. And then I hear him say—Married man with three kids and a needy wife. What do you do with that?
And I'm thinking Oh my God! Which one? Him or her? What do you do with that?
She looks away from the window, sees me coming, and she says, You change the subject.
And I'm thinking I really want to hear this.
Hi, I say. What can I get you?
She is so pale. I mean that gray kinda pale that makes you think about learning CPR.
Two double vodka rocks, she says.
She's taking slow, deep breaths, fingers fiddling with her waistband.
I hurry to the bar and give Kenny the order. He pours them quick. I take the drinks to their table, set them down, and start to walk away, but she stops me.
We'd like something to eat, she says. The potato skins with everything on them. And the Mountain. Maybe some dessert later. Oh, and a glass of water, she says. She tries to smile, but it looks more like gas pains, and all the while she's kneading her stomach.
Sure, I say, but I'm thinking—Honey, this ain't gonna help. I mean, you've seen the Mountain, right? It's like two pounds of chili cheese fries with onions, sour cream, everything.