by Sarah Daltry
“Yeah, sure. That one,” I say randomly.
“Okay.” He continues to choose his meal. I decide I’ll have toast. There is absolutely nothing that can be read into toast. Plus, I fully intend to pay for the entirety of the toast expense. In cash.
The door to Denny’s opens and George and Lanyon walk in. They’re shaking and are covered in a dusting of snow. I look out the window behind me. It’s starting to snow. Lovely. Maybe there will be a massive blizzard and we’ll be forced to eat each other. Jeff’s being cooked first.
Lanyon holds out his hand to George, who hands him a couple singles, and then walks over to the claw machine. I watch, impressed, as he picks up a stuffed basketball. It nearly makes it all the way to the prize chute, before the claw just gives up and it falls back into the fray. Lanyon smacks the machine and holds his hand out again. George gives him more singles and he tries a few more times. It almost looks like the basketball will be his, but it’s not to be. After about ten minutes, though, he does manage to win a blowup pencil. He takes it, looks at it with disgust, and hands it to George. George just shrugs and hangs onto it.
They’re seated and I almost make eye contact with him, until Darlene, our waitress, stands in front of me. I was just cock blocked by the Denny’s waitress. “Whatd’ya want?” she asks.
Jeff orders a smorgasbord, complete with mozzarella sticks. I’m not having even one bite. Darlene turns to me and I order a side of toast.
“White, wheat, sourdough, or rye?” she asks.
“Sourdough.”
“Butter, peanut butter, or jam?”
“Jam.”
“Strawberry, mixed berry, marmalade, or apple?”
“Strawberry.”
“Toasted or grilled?”
I look up at her. “Is this a joke?”
She stares at me, unblinking.
“It’s toast,” I say.
“Toasted or grilled?” she asks again.
“Toasted. Toasted toast.”
“Would you like it cut from corner to corner or top to bottom?”
“Holy shit. Is this Cal Tech Ph.D. level toast?” I ask.
Again I get an unblinking stare.
“Surprise me,” I tell her.
“Corner to corner or top to bottom?” she repeats.
“Triangles. Cut it in triangles.”
“So, corner to corner?”
“Yes,” I reply.
“Do you want-”
“No,” I cut her off.
After she leaves, Jeff leans closer. “You didn’t order anything to drink.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“It’s okay. You can share mine.”
Now that his hand is free, he’s back to squeezing my thigh. I wonder if, even if I liked him, that’s supposed to do something. It’s kind of just annoying. Then he leans over and kisses me on the cheek. I sigh and look at George and Lanyon. George is staring at us but, as I make eye contact with him, he lifts his menu and breaks the gaze.
George
“Why the hell do you want a fuzzy basketball?” I ask Lanyon as he throws money into the machine.
“It’s calling to me. I must have the fuzzy basketball.”
“You won’t get it, though. Because the goddamn claw machine is a trick. The feeble little grabber, the wobbly controls. It’s a scandal how poorly this game is constructed.”
Unfazed, Lanyon tries yet again. I’m forced to stand in the cold doorway of Denny’s at four in the morning while my idiot friend throws money away on a child’s toy. “You know, you could just buy one for half of what you’re spending to try to get it,” I say.
“Yes, but a fuzzy basketball won is twice as sweet as a fuzzy basketball bought.”
“Well, there’s no arguing with that logic.”
“Excelsior!” he shouts.
“Did you get it?”
“I got this inflatable pencil.” He hands it to me and I stick it under my arm.
“I thought the ball was calling to you?” I ask.
“The pencil was pretty loud as well.”
“Two of you?” The waitress seems about as happy to see us as I am to see a shit puzzle in an action game.
“No, there are twenty of us,” I mumble.
Her expression remains unchanged. “Two then?”
We nod. She drags us over to a booth by the never ending window that runs the length of the restaurant. A small breeze puffs out of it and makes my arm twitch.
“Pancakes,” Lanyon says in a deep, I’m a giant voice.
As I pick up the laminated list of Denny’s treats, my eyes catch sight of my own personal Silent Hill. “By the holy wet nipples of Horus.” I accidentally make eye contact and duck behind the menu. I never was good at camping.
“What is it? No pancake balls?” Lanyon asks in honest terror.
“I’m sure they have them.”
“Well, then all is right with the world. What can the problem be?”
“Katie,” I say.
“Her again? Forget about her. Why do you keep bringing her up?”
“She’s right over there.”
“No way.” Lanyon goes to turn in her direction, but I lunge across the table and yank his head back.
“Do not look. You’ll draw attention to us.”
“Yes. But a man wearing a goblin outfit choking a warg with a human face does not stand out. Relax. It’s no big deal,” he says.
“Are you crazy? It’s a horrible deal. She’s going to think we followed her out of the movie and then snuck around after her and tracked her into Denny’s and are now spying on her because I’m a creepy stalker lunatic who likes the taste of hair and terror.” I let my head fall to the table with a thunk.
“Well, that is basically what happened.”
“It is not. We had no idea she was at Denny’s. And I don’t know how I feel about the taste of hair. I assume I’m not a fan.”
“Listen,” Lanyon says, “lots of people go to Denny’s after a late movie. Look, this place is full of sad bastards with no place to go. Just like us. Just play it like we wanted to come here and talk about that hellacious shit farce of a movie.”
I must admit that’s a bit comforting. “That sounds normal. Not crazy or serial killer like at all. Good. Then let’s get some fucking pancake puppies up in this bitch.”
Of course, the waitress shows up next to me right as I say this. “How many?” she asks.
“How many do you want?” I ask Lanyon.
“Three is the number of the counting and the number of the counting shall be three.”
“We don’t sell them in three,” she says.
“Five is right out,” Lanyon yells in a ridiculous British accent. The waitress pauses. Her eyes betray a lifetime of dealing with overtired and overstimulated college kids nightly. “How about six?” Lanyon asks. “Is six okay?”
She nods. A series of questions that test the very mettle of my will follow, questions so irrelevant that they wouldn’t even make it into a James Cameron film. Eventually, after Lanyon and I earn our Master’s in Denny’s menu science, she leaves with our order. I steal a look back over to Katie. Hipster Seynar is dog fucking her leg with his hand.
“Maybe we should just leave?” I say.
“No. That will look even stranger. Besides,” Lanyon grabs my wrist with an iron manacle grip, “I’m not going anywhere without those goddamn pancake puppies.”
Katie
“Can you please stop touching me?” I grumble.
“Huh?”
“I’m trying to jam up my toast and you keep knocking my damn arm all over the place while you enter cheat codes on my knee.”
He leans in and says, in what I suppose he thinks is a seductive whisper, “Up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right.”
“What the hell?”
“It doesn’t only work on Activision.” I don’t honestly have a clue what he’s hinting at. Is he trying to suggest that his sexy time moves are somehow connected to NES? And wh
ere are B and A? Oh, God, I don’t think I even want to know.
“Listen, Seynar,” I start.
“Jeff,” he corrects.
“Jeff. I don’t think this is gonna work out.”
“Why not?” He looks sad suddenly and I feel guilty. I actually feel real, palpable guilt about blowing off this tool.
“Look, it’s not you. It’s me. I’m just not sure about pursuing anything serious right now. I mean, with school and all…”
“That’s okay,” he says, and he encircles me with his abnormally long arms. “I’m more than happy to let this be casual. I know you’re only home for a month, but friends with benefits are always nice to have.”
He leans over and kisses me again. I back away, but he hangs on, so instead of falling out of the booth as I’d hoped, he ends up nearly on top of me. Holy hell. I’m being dry humped in Denny’s. This is a new low, even for me.
“Okay, I lied,” I tell him. “It’s totally you. It is all you.”
He leans up, leading to him pressing his crotch against my thigh. I’m not a virgin, but I’m also not exactly the world’s most sexually experienced girl. Still, I know he doesn’t have a lightsaber in his pocket. Ew. I wiggle away from him, which makes his lightsaber grow.
“I need you to get off of me,” I say.
“I can’t,” he replies.
“Why?”
He presses himself harder against my thigh. This is not happening. This is a dream. I passed out from lack of sleep and I’m having a nightmare. A nightmare that includes lounge versions of Christmas carols and the smell of bacon.
I wait and, eventually, Jeff sits up and lets me get away. I don’t know if I should be upset that no one in Denny’s even noticed. I guess, at 4 am, they see it all. I glance over and Jeff is eating his mozzarella sticks dejectedly. A glob of marinara sauce hangs from his goatee. Damn it. Damn my stupid guilt.
“Look, I shouldn’t have said that. It isn’t you. I just don’t really date, but I don’t really have sex, either. I’m kind of asexual.”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I just think you’re really cute, and on Live, you’re pretty cool, and I fucked up, huh?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Can we just go back to shooting shit? The whole dating thing just isn’t really for me.”
He finishes his mozzarella stick and looks sad. Then, he wipes his goatee, smearing the marinara more than actually cleaning it, and he smiles weakly. “Any chance you want to make out when we leave? You know, just for fun?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I’ll buy you pie.”
“Firby nurbs,” I mumble.
Fortunately, somehow the gods smile upon me for a moment. Maybe even they realize being whored out for pie takes humiliation to a new level. Ally slides into the booth across from us.
“Hey, what happened to you guys? We thought you were right behind us,” she says.
“We’re on a date,” Jeff interjects.
She raises an eyebrow at me. I told her in the bathroom that this was, in no uncertain terms, not a date. “It’s not a date,” I say.
“Anyway, we’re heading out. Are you gonna be up later?” she asks.
“I will,” offers Jeff.
She looks at him, then turns back to me. I nod. “Cool. Add me on Live.”
I nod again and Jeff grins. “What’s your tag?” he asks.
“Colddayinhell,” she says and walks away. He writes it down.
I look over to George and Lanyon. They’re chatting animatedly about something. I debate about going over and talking to them, maybe even asking for a ride home, but I figure if George wanted to talk to me, he would have come over here. He clearly doesn’t want anything to do with me; he hid behind his menu when I looked at him. I turn my attention back to Jeff, who’s ordering a slice of peanut butter pie.
George
“They’re like a couple of horny ass tribbles over there,” I say.
“Do tribbles get horny?” Lanyon asks amidst the ravishment of his pancakes.
“Well, there’s always a shitload of them multiplying, so I’m going with yes.” I watch as Katie and Seynar roll around together in the booth. “Jesus. This is an embarrassing display. What kind of idiots slobber all over each other at a movie, then go at it in a restaurant?”
“The poor and the horny.”
“That would be a good soap opera name,” I say.
“I’d watch it.”
“The Wonder Twins are getting up to leave,” I tell Lanyon.
“Form of a horny icicle.”
“Shape of a harpy.”
She’s coming this way. There is no way to pretend I don’t see her. What do I do? Maybe I can fake some kind of seizure.
“Hey,” she says, looking right at me. “Did you like the movie?”
“It was a bucket of tauntaun jizz.” Lanyon loses a bit of his charm as the hour grows late.
“You know these guys?” Seynar asks. He looks pretty miserable considering he just dry humped Arwen. What the fuck is up with her outfit?
“No,” says Lanyon. “We’re just telepathic.”
Seynar rolls his eyes and turns to Katie. “I’m going to the bathroom. Be right back.” She doesn’t respond, but he seems to take this as acceptable and he’s off.
“What happened to your Arwenness?” I ask as I motion to her torn outfit.
“I had a bit of an accident.”
“Did you tear it on the booth or the floor or something?” It’s a little mean, but why not give her just a touch of the pain she gave me?
Her face flashes red. “No, I caught it coming out of the movie.” She looks over her shoulder. “Look, I know this is going to sound strange, but can you give me a ride home?”
“What?” I actually shoot backward in the booth from the shock.
“Why don’t you let Hipster McHippington give you a ride home? He probably has a hybrid Jetta. He does, doesn’t he?” Lanyon prods.
“Huh? No. It’s an Altima.”
“His mom’s?” Lanyon polishes off his last pancake puppy.
“Probably.” She locks eyes with me. She’s intense all of a sudden. It’s the first time I’ve seen her like this. “Look, I would really appreciate it if you could give me a ride home. Please?” She touches my arm and I pull back. I don’t want any Seydar residue on me.
I consider giving her a ride, though. She seems upset. Then I remember that Crimson Lightning is sitting, perhaps broken, along a pretty sketchy stretch of road. Provided it’s still there. “About that. May present a bit of a problem.”
“Why? I would owe you so big,” she says.
That shouldn’t arouse me, but it does. But then I think of her spitting all over Seynar and I’m disgusted again. “It’s like this. You know how there are all those cars in traffic jams that are useless during the zombie apocalypse?”
“Of course.”
“Well, that is the state of Crimson Lightning right now. She’s as useless as a daughter on The Walking Dead.”
“It broke?”
“She broke,” corrects Lanyon.
“That’s okay. I’ll wait with you. I have my phone. We can call a tow truck or something.” The bathroom door opens. “Please?”
Seynar comes back up to us. It looks like he may have combed his goatee. “You ready to go, babe?”
“Don’t call me babe.” She makes eye contact with me again. Her brain is shooting me with telepathy but it’s unclear. Something about grapes and fries for lettuce out there. Mount bereave me deer. That seems wrong. Stupid telepathy.
“Nice meeting you guys,” Seynar says. The dumbass has no idea who we are. But I guess I wouldn’t recognize him without Katie, either. “Let’s take off.”
“You know,” Katie says. “It’s really late and you live sort of far from me. These guys are practically next door to me. They can bring me home.”
Seynar’s hurt. If he was a boss, he would start flashing right about now. “But I thought I’d bring you
home.”
“You did,” she says. “You did think that. And that is just great. But I think it would be best for everyone if I go home with them tonight. All right. Thanks. Bye then.” She actually shoves him toward the door.
“I suppose. I’ll give you a call.” He goes out the door. Then, when it seems he’s gone, he pops his head back through the door into Denny’s. “Don’t forget to read my new blog post.” This time, he’s gone.
“That guy is an Alpha class walrus puncher,” Lanyon says.
“Aye-firmative, Hicks.”
Katie shakes her head. “How far to the car?”
“Five meters, man. Four,” I say and her lip curls up just enough.
Katie
Denny’s is too warm. Outside, it’s freezing. “Hang on,” I say and run back inside. In the bathroom, I use the handicapped stall to change out of my ruined Arwen costume and back into my jeans, t-shirt, and hoodie. It’s not necessarily significantly warmer, but it’s a lot more comfortable.
When I get back outside, Lanyon is lying in the parking lot, trying to make a snow angel.
“Does he know like four flakes have actually stuck?” I ask George.
“He gets… odd in the wee hours. Also, he’s high on pancakes.”
“Do you want me to just call AAA from here? I’m sure it will be like eight hours anyway.”
He shrugs and takes a seat on the bench by the newspaper box. I wonder if anyone buys newspapers from those anymore. Maybe old people. I bet old people buy newspapers before the early bird special of liver and onions. I dial AAA and wait. Of course, they put me on hold. George stares out at the highway and Lanyon continues lying on the ground.
When someone picks up, I’m hopping up and down to stay warm. They ask me a bunch of questions, but I realize I know none of the answers except that the car is red and George calls it Crimson Lightning. I join him on the bench. “Here,” I say, handing him my cell. “They need your blood type and shit.”
He answers a bunch of questions and then, after a few minutes, returns my phone. His fingers brush mine for a split second and I get all gooey on the inside. It’s definitely not the Denny’s food, either, because I still only had the toast. Oh, and a sip of Seynar’s Cherry Coke. I look up from the finger touch and meet his eyes.