Boca Raton, 2003. You’re in one of those kind of shitty beachside hotels that’s 5 years overdue for a renovation. The white vinyl upholstery on the booths is grimy and the watercolors on the walls are faded by the sun. The waitstaff are forced to wear visors and white denim shorts and they are being bossed around by a drunken Cuban and sexually harassed by sixty-seven years plus three Coronas at each table every night.
Your sweaty, sunburnt thighs are sticking to the vinyl and the water is treated with sulfur and tastes like flatulence. You’re picking at dry flakes of what is allegedly Mahi Mahi and it’s drenched in bright green Zinger Sauce and served alongside a pitiful salad garnished with clementine wedges. There is utter silence and a fallen army of cocktail glasses between you and your spouse.
A voice bellows from across the half-empty dining room. He didn’t order this. This wasn’t what he asked for. Besides it looked like it came out of the freezer and no he knows what good steak tastes like and that wasn’t it. He doesn’t want an apology he wants it to be taken off the bill and so what if he ate it all he didn’t order it and it was your screw up not his – what’s your name – it was your screw up Chad not his so you can take this bill and shove it up your ass. Can he speak to the manager, you’re a zero Chad, where’s your manager. Go get your manager and quit making excuses he’s a very powerful man and he’ll make sure you never get another job in Boca Raton again and go get your goddamn manager he said he doesn’t wanna hear another word out of you Chad
The voice is ejaculating from a tawny plump mole-rat of a man. A Hawaiian shirt billows on top of the loose skin that flaps with his gesticulations; the whole thing seems to begin in his combover – which looks as if it were plucked off of a corn husk and placed atop two quivering jowls – and end in the defeated hand-wringing of the waiter. The manager arrives and deflects a barrage of the kind of racism that only spews out of those who move reckless through the world without a shred of self-awareness or empathy. The manager grabs the sweaty wrinkled receipt from the sun-mottled hand of the Hawaiian Shirt and begrudgingly removes from the bill the Surf N’ Turf, which is now being dissolved by a half-gallon of bile beneath a single layer of cotton-polyester blend and 40 pounds of subcutaneous fat.
The neural pathway from his brain to his mouth is an absolute colostomy and you wouldn’t trust him if he tried to sell you a wilted carnation from a plastic bucket outside of a Chinese restaurant in the blinking neon lights of the blighted crevices of anywhere. But he did manage to sell you the fantasy of destruction once, wrapped in a flag.