Out of Whack (21 page)

       “Tonight’s going to be fun,” Laura said, the poor deluded soul. “I’m really looking forward to trying to make Out of Whack work. And that’s such good news about
Gleefully Disturbed!”

       She was actually perky! This was incredible. Go a few hours without barfing on somebody and their entire personality changes! Any second now she’d be breaking out the pom-poms.
Two, four, six, eight, this is such a special date!

       A moment later, a station wagon came around the corner and pulled up alongside the curb in front of us. The driver’s side door opened and a man wearing a nicely pressed dress shirt and pants stepped out. He had slicked-back hair, a neatly trimmed mustache, and looked about thirty. He could have been a male model.

       “You must be my dinner guests,” he said. No mistaking that voice—it was Mike. “Which one of you is Seth?”

       I raised my hand.

       “Very pleased to meet you, Seth. Now, if you’ll open the door for that lovely lady next to you, the three of you can squeeze into the back seat and we’ll be off.”

       Mike was charming. Laura was perky. I was in the Twilight Zone.

       I opened the door, and Laura slid into the back seat. I was prepared to violently shove Travis out of the way if he tried to get in next, but he graciously allowed me to sit by Laura. I slid next to her, and was forced to squeeze tightly against her to make room for Travis.

       “You’re not too scrunched back there, are you?” Mike asked, getting back in the car and shutting his door.

       “Not at all,” I said, never having been more positive about anything in my life.

       “Good. This is my girlfriend, Natashia.” He patted the shoulder of the beautiful redhead in the passenger seat. Actually, she had a beautiful facial structure, but had declared war on it through the use of bright red lipstick that looked like it was half an inch thick, and an arrangement of makeup that gave her the appearance of having been punched in the face a few dozen times.

       “Hiya,” she said in a high-pitched voice that sounded like she was about to administer a karate chop.

       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.”

       “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!”