Homesick for Another World(25)

“Be a man, Larry,” my father-in-law had said, punching the menu I was holding with his fist. This was years before my wife died. “Life is short. Happy birthday, son,” he said.

He was in his early seventies by then, with a gut that strained the buttons of his work shirts, his belt on its last hole. He loosened his tie, took a look around. “Not as good as the Hooters in Galveston,” he said, “but they’ve got a few good-looking girls. That black gal?” He nodded. The booth was brightly lit, the oblong, pale wood table lined with paper place mats showing large owls with huge, dilated pupils, as though the birds were watching us, probing some deep subconscious level of our minds, priming us to be charmed. I turned my place mat over. I would not be hypnotized.

“What can I get you?” asked our waitress a moment later. She was a lanky blond teen with fake eyelashes, teeth like porcelain, nails and mouth a strange, neon purple. My father-in-law ordered for us both—an assortment of appetizers, burgers. “We’ll hang on to the menus,” he said, “in case the birthday boy here wants dessert.” I tried to smile politely as the blonde’s jaw dropped.

“You’re kidding me,” she said. “Well, aren’t we lucky to have you come and see us on your special day? Now, let me guess,” she cocked her hip, tapped her chin with a finger, looked skyward, up at the gypsum ceiling. “Thirty-eight.” She stabbed the air. “Am I right?”

“A clean fifty,” my father-in-law answered for me, smiling.

“Someone’s been taking care of himself,” she went on. Where did young women learn to speak that way? I wondered. What school had she gone to? What did her parents do?

“It’s nothing,” I said awkwardly.

“It is most certainly not nothing.” She pretended to be mad for a moment, then softened, looked down on me with a conspiratorial wink. “You hang on to that menu and let me know what dessert strikes your fancy, and it’ll be on me. A birthday treat. And me and the ladies will do a little something special.”

“Please,” I said, putting up my hands. “Don’t sing.”

“Don’t sing?” she said.

“Larry, let them sing,” my father-in-law protested.

“Don’t bother,” I said. “It’s nothing. Thank you,” I said. I could feel my face burning. I gulped my ice water. She stood there pretending to look displeased at my self-denial. I said thank you a few more times.

“Well, okay,” she said finally, voice lilting, and then she leaned toward me. I thought she might be trying to rub her bosoms in my face, but then she said, “Looky here.” The charms on her bracelet jangled as she shook the mistletoe above my head. Her breath smelled like candy.

“Aren’t you sweet,” said my father-in-law.

Then the girl kissed me on the lips. It was terrible. I should have stopped her, but I didn’t want to embarrass the poor girl. I wiped my mouth with my napkin.

“Happy birthday,” said my father-in-law, slapping the table and chuckling as the girl rose, sweeping her hair back and fixing her Santa hat.

“Want some more water?” she asked, not an eyelash out of order. She looked pleased, as though she’d just petted a dog. “You okay, honey?” She put a hand on my shoulder.

“Yes,” I said. “Fine. Thank you.”

Truth be told, I’d lost my enthusiasm for women somewhere along the line. Later, as a widower, I was relieved to be celibate, continent, out of the sex game for good. After my wife died, my daughter encouraged me to date, find some gentle but sporty senior citizen to wine and dine. As if I’d ever had any interest in wining and dining. “Or find someone young enough and you could even have another kid,” she said.

“What would I want with a kid?” I replied. “What are you getting at?”

“Mom wouldn’t mind,” she said next. “Trust me.” They’d had plenty of secrets between them.

“I’m happy,” I told my daughter. “Don’t worry about it. I’m fine here all alone.”

? ? ?

When Paul and Claude and I arrived, we found that the Hooters had been closed and turned into a Friendly’s. Paul took it badly. “Friendly’s is for kids,” he complained as we walked through the parking lot. I couldn’t imagine the decor or menu at Friendly’s would differ very much from Hooters’. They both had a lot of cream-colored plastic and tacky people, bright lights and bad food, I presumed.

“It’s all the same,” I told Paul, swinging the door open.

“They have a gumball machine,” Claude pointed out as we walked in. He fingered his tie, smiling politely. The place was full of fat ladies and their men, who looked wrinkled and haggard, heaps of mashed potatoes disappearing under the crooked awnings of their thick mustaches. There was one table of pug-nosed young women, bored and stirring their milkshakes with their straws, a half-eaten plate of fries split between them. A few children fussed and lolled around in their high chairs. The air was humid, the lighting bright and fluorescent, the carpet gray and stained. It was not a happy place. As we waited for someone to greet us, an Asian family passed us on their way out.

“Ching chang China,” Paul sang, tugging at the corners of his eyes. I ignored it. Then he turned to me and crossed his arms over his fat belly. “I hate it here, Larry. What happened to Hooters?”