Up to My Old Tricks

I was sitting in a downtown Glenville restaurant waiting for a server when I heard a commotion outside on the sidewalk. It was obvious that skin was smacking skin and curses were flying freely.

Finally, a familiar voice rose above the cacophony: "Now you stand here and hold the reins and don't let me come out and find you on that animal kicking him and making motorcycle noises like you look like you might want to do!"

My heart leapt to the roof of my mouth as I hoped against hope. . .

Just then, the door of the restaurant flew open and I knew God had heard me: it was Jim!

"I see you're up to your old tricks again!" he shouted at me from across the restaurant.

He sprinted toward me, but before he could assault me, a waitress rushed over to the table and smacked Jim on the arm.

"Hey, now—" she started.

"Ah, pipe down and get me a large juice glass full of whiskey," Jim said. "And bring this lying little wench an extra large order of truth serum!"

The waitress looked at me with one eyebrow raised.

"Just two Cokes," I smiled.

"That's right, two Cokes! Only, don't put any ice in hers because she's so damned special!" Jim said.

"How did you get here?" I asked Jim.

"Like you care!" he said, and stuck out his lower lip. "Martin and I broke into Kenny McLean's stable and stole one of his polo horses, if you must know."

"I see," I said. "Long trip?"

"'Long trip?'" Jim mimicked in a falsetto voice. "Let's just say my ass is on fire—Martin forgot to grab a saddle on the way out of the barn. Not that you give two shits."

"Jim, please," I said. "Why can't you be nice for once? I've missed you so much!"

"Oh, I just bet you've missed me, you two-timing scabby little rat's ass! You're up here living high on the hog, eating out in swanky restaurants with goddamn valet parking and only calling me four times a week—"

Just then, our waitress returned. "You need to cut the raunch, mister man," she said as she slammed his Coke on the table in front of him. "Or I'll have Herbie take you out back and slit your throat."

Jim was quiet for all of two seconds. "Yeah, well, you just better take our order. And I want this on one check—her check! Or there's gonna be trouble with a capital...R!"

"Tell her what you want, precious lamb," I said, trying to distract him.

"I'm hungry!" Jim shouted, kicking me so hard under the table that I screamed.

"Then gimme your goddamn order and quit kickin yer girlfriend!"

I dipped my head in fear of Jim's reaction to this. "Yeah, that's right," he said, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning his chair back on two legs. "This is my girlfriend. I only date fruits. That's my policy: if she ain't gay, no roll in the hay."

"Herbie!" the waitress yelled toward the back of the restaurant.

Jim brought his chair back down on four legs and sat up straight. "I want a dozen eggs, and I want six over easy, four poached, and two sunnyside up. And I want a loaf of bread toasted, 18 English muffins, a tub of butter, a quart of grape jam, two dozen flap jacks, three pounds of bacon, a pint of maple syrup, a chocolate shake with extra malt, a bacon cheeseburger, an order of onion rings, and mashed potatoes. With two boats of gravy."

"We don't got English muffins, so you'll just hafta take good ole banana nut made in the U.S. of A.," the waitress said.

"Fine," Jim said. He shook out his napkin and placed it delicately on his lap. "For dessert, I'd like tiramisu."

"We ain't got that, neither. You can have pie. Apple or cherry."

"Apple and cherry, please," Jim said.

The waitress looked as though she might throw up as she scanned Jim's order. Then she glanced at me. "What about you?"

"Yeah, what about you?" Jim snarled. "I guess WAFFLE HOUSE will never be GOOD ENOUGH for you NOW!"

I took Jim's hand and smiled broadly. "I have everything I need right here," I said.

And I meant it.

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