Steak & Shake Lit...
And now for the third installment:
3
*Ding.* With the sound of the bell from above the Steak & Shake doorway I snapped awake like one of Pavlov’s mutts, drooling from the corners of my mouth. The black and white checked floor was swirled in my mind to create a grayish whirlpool at my feet. I felt like I was looking down on a monochrome barber’s pole and stumbled over to the waiting area next to the register. The sparkling red booth-style seats were covered in a layer of polyurethane to provide me, the diner, with the least comfort possible while retaining the overall décor of the place. I had the feeling they would’ve put a splintered wooden bench in had it fit the restaurant’s theme. I actually think that is the furniture used at Cracker Barrel.
Lucas grabbed me by the arm and led me into the dining hall to my apparent dismay. I say apparent because I have no idea what I actually felt like at that moment. My only emotional barometer was the tinted black glass of the restaurant into which I stared while walking over to our table. My reflection conveyed a sense of discomfort, but for all I know I had reached a state of euphoria that would make the Dalai Lama weep with jealousy. When you take this shit you become unable to discern what and how you feel, or even why you’re feeling that way at all. To say this is the drug’s appeal would be to understate the matter. After we sat down at our table I brought the pack of American Spirits that I had nicked from one of the burnt-out hippies that frequent Beaners. There used to be some kind of free-love commune about 15 miles down the interstate and when it disbanded, Grinnell found itself inundated with aged hippies. One of these 50-something guys will invariably bust through the doors at least once a week stoned out of his mind and sit down to order some coffee. The last guy, who demanded that we serve him his iced mocha in a porcelain mug he brought from home boasting “World’s Greatest Uncle” on it’s side, didn’t even need any coaxing to break him of his smokes. Normally I have to at least ask if I can bum a cigarette before I squirrel away the tobacco for personal use, but this guy just dropped them. He sat down with his iced mocha and began rustling inside his jean shorts for his pack of American Spirits. As I was walking over towards him he fished the pack out and held them up against his mouth, the knuckle of his right pointer finger pressed against the bottom of his nose, and just let go of them. Ten minutes later he simply got up and took his mug away with him, leaving me with 14 un-smoked fags.
I brought a cigarette to my lips and lit it, letting my inventory of smokes dwindle to thirteen. Thirteen being such an unlucky number, I instantly thrust another cigarette into Lucas’ mouth and lit that, content with the untold number of bad omens I had just avoided. As soon as I had taken my first real drag (the first puff doesn’t count because you’re too busy fiddling with the lighter and making sure it’s properly lit) the waitress waddled over towards our booth and began screeching in some sort of gibberish that sounded Arabic in origin. The woman, May as her nametag would lead us to believe, was a frighteningly large black woman. As hyperbolic as that description sounds, May’ girth was truly horrific, especially for a man in my condition. I can at least say that she was fair in her distribution of rage, scaring the both of us into an equal state of paranoia and panic. After May was done with me she turned around to screech at Lucas and give him an equal share of the horror. I swear I heard her belch out the phrase, “Mistah Kurtz, he dead,” but I think that can be chalked up to the drugs entering the right wing of my brain where the library is located. I’m just thankful the juice made a beeline for Conrad, building on the savage environs of the Steak & Shake. Had I heard the voice of Heathcliffe from Wuthering Heights emanating from that woman’s mouth I would have been in for a real bad trip.
In the middle of her tirade, May accidentally stepped over an air-conditioning grate that billowed cold air up her skirt. This was one of the first signs of the apocalypse; any sight that repulsive had to have been sent by the Antichrist, or at least Judas. Even the quickest of glances showed that this woman hadn’t shaved her legs in weeks, a sort of advanced, prickly stubble running everywhere. I felt like I was looking at two giant honey-baked hams that had been dyed a dark brown and covered with hair. It was The Seven Year Itch gone terribly, terribly wrong. I was holding up well considering the circumstances, but Lucas wasn’t fairing as well. Our plus-sized aggressor had thrown him for a loop and, to be quite blunt, Lucas was tripping balls. He couldn’t stop staring at the disgusting spectacle that was May’s legs, a gesture that May was none to pleased with. She frantically pushed down her skirt and escalated her berating of Lucas to the brink of physical violence. Sensing danger and knowing that Lucas was beyond repair, I knew I had to do something drastically disturbing. When May cocked her hand back to slap the lifeblood out of Lucas, I extinguished my cigarette on the laminated menu and held the butt in front of my face between my thumb and forefinger. The stench of burnt laminate got May’s attention, at which point I did the only thing I could do: I ate the butt. To rave like a lunatic is commonplace and something May was surely used to dealing with. However, there are very few people in this world that can cope with an act of lunacy. It’s the next step and May was most assuredly not ready to take that step. As I chewed the burnt tobacco shavings and sucked the filter down my gullet, I stared at my charred menu while May began pacing back and forth. Still not looking at May, I ordered my meal, asking for a banana milkshake, two Frisco melts, and onion rings. May informed me that they didn’t serve Frisco melts. I informed May that she was wrong and they did in fact serve Frisco melts but she was just too pigheaded to realize it. Lucas ordered a crock of baked beans and some cottage cheese, but was in no state to convey such an order verbally so I translated for him. May walked away a broken woman and upon reaching the kitchen area dipped her left hand in a vat of boiling vegetable oil. The old axiom, “If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen” applied in both the metaphoric and literal senses for May, as she ran through a plate-glass window at the front of the restaurant.
Fifteen minutes later another waitress brought out my milkshake and onion rings along with two bacon cheeseburgers. Apparently May hadn’t told her about the Frisco melts, but I was no longer hungry and it was moot point. Lucas was repulsed by the cottage cheese and demanded that more pineapples be added to it. After the waitress had gone back to fetch Lucas his extra garnish of fruit I suggested that we shag ass. I downed my milkshake and Lucas picked up his baked beans. He was very taken by the burnt brown porcelain crock and insisted that he could only eat the beans in this specific container. However, being the consummate gentleman, Lucas opted not to take any silverware with him. “Don’t worry about it man,” he groaned. “I’ve got some spoons in the glove compartment.”
Once again, unedited first draft.
3
*Ding.* With the sound of the bell from above the Steak & Shake doorway I snapped awake like one of Pavlov’s mutts, drooling from the corners of my mouth. The black and white checked floor was swirled in my mind to create a grayish whirlpool at my feet. I felt like I was looking down on a monochrome barber’s pole and stumbled over to the waiting area next to the register. The sparkling red booth-style seats were covered in a layer of polyurethane to provide me, the diner, with the least comfort possible while retaining the overall décor of the place. I had the feeling they would’ve put a splintered wooden bench in had it fit the restaurant’s theme. I actually think that is the furniture used at Cracker Barrel.
Lucas grabbed me by the arm and led me into the dining hall to my apparent dismay. I say apparent because I have no idea what I actually felt like at that moment. My only emotional barometer was the tinted black glass of the restaurant into which I stared while walking over to our table. My reflection conveyed a sense of discomfort, but for all I know I had reached a state of euphoria that would make the Dalai Lama weep with jealousy. When you take this shit you become unable to discern what and how you feel, or even why you’re feeling that way at all. To say this is the drug’s appeal would be to understate the matter. After we sat down at our table I brought the pack of American Spirits that I had nicked from one of the burnt-out hippies that frequent Beaners. There used to be some kind of free-love commune about 15 miles down the interstate and when it disbanded, Grinnell found itself inundated with aged hippies. One of these 50-something guys will invariably bust through the doors at least once a week stoned out of his mind and sit down to order some coffee. The last guy, who demanded that we serve him his iced mocha in a porcelain mug he brought from home boasting “World’s Greatest Uncle” on it’s side, didn’t even need any coaxing to break him of his smokes. Normally I have to at least ask if I can bum a cigarette before I squirrel away the tobacco for personal use, but this guy just dropped them. He sat down with his iced mocha and began rustling inside his jean shorts for his pack of American Spirits. As I was walking over towards him he fished the pack out and held them up against his mouth, the knuckle of his right pointer finger pressed against the bottom of his nose, and just let go of them. Ten minutes later he simply got up and took his mug away with him, leaving me with 14 un-smoked fags.
I brought a cigarette to my lips and lit it, letting my inventory of smokes dwindle to thirteen. Thirteen being such an unlucky number, I instantly thrust another cigarette into Lucas’ mouth and lit that, content with the untold number of bad omens I had just avoided. As soon as I had taken my first real drag (the first puff doesn’t count because you’re too busy fiddling with the lighter and making sure it’s properly lit) the waitress waddled over towards our booth and began screeching in some sort of gibberish that sounded Arabic in origin. The woman, May as her nametag would lead us to believe, was a frighteningly large black woman. As hyperbolic as that description sounds, May’ girth was truly horrific, especially for a man in my condition. I can at least say that she was fair in her distribution of rage, scaring the both of us into an equal state of paranoia and panic. After May was done with me she turned around to screech at Lucas and give him an equal share of the horror. I swear I heard her belch out the phrase, “Mistah Kurtz, he dead,” but I think that can be chalked up to the drugs entering the right wing of my brain where the library is located. I’m just thankful the juice made a beeline for Conrad, building on the savage environs of the Steak & Shake. Had I heard the voice of Heathcliffe from Wuthering Heights emanating from that woman’s mouth I would have been in for a real bad trip.
In the middle of her tirade, May accidentally stepped over an air-conditioning grate that billowed cold air up her skirt. This was one of the first signs of the apocalypse; any sight that repulsive had to have been sent by the Antichrist, or at least Judas. Even the quickest of glances showed that this woman hadn’t shaved her legs in weeks, a sort of advanced, prickly stubble running everywhere. I felt like I was looking at two giant honey-baked hams that had been dyed a dark brown and covered with hair. It was The Seven Year Itch gone terribly, terribly wrong. I was holding up well considering the circumstances, but Lucas wasn’t fairing as well. Our plus-sized aggressor had thrown him for a loop and, to be quite blunt, Lucas was tripping balls. He couldn’t stop staring at the disgusting spectacle that was May’s legs, a gesture that May was none to pleased with. She frantically pushed down her skirt and escalated her berating of Lucas to the brink of physical violence. Sensing danger and knowing that Lucas was beyond repair, I knew I had to do something drastically disturbing. When May cocked her hand back to slap the lifeblood out of Lucas, I extinguished my cigarette on the laminated menu and held the butt in front of my face between my thumb and forefinger. The stench of burnt laminate got May’s attention, at which point I did the only thing I could do: I ate the butt. To rave like a lunatic is commonplace and something May was surely used to dealing with. However, there are very few people in this world that can cope with an act of lunacy. It’s the next step and May was most assuredly not ready to take that step. As I chewed the burnt tobacco shavings and sucked the filter down my gullet, I stared at my charred menu while May began pacing back and forth. Still not looking at May, I ordered my meal, asking for a banana milkshake, two Frisco melts, and onion rings. May informed me that they didn’t serve Frisco melts. I informed May that she was wrong and they did in fact serve Frisco melts but she was just too pigheaded to realize it. Lucas ordered a crock of baked beans and some cottage cheese, but was in no state to convey such an order verbally so I translated for him. May walked away a broken woman and upon reaching the kitchen area dipped her left hand in a vat of boiling vegetable oil. The old axiom, “If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen” applied in both the metaphoric and literal senses for May, as she ran through a plate-glass window at the front of the restaurant.
Fifteen minutes later another waitress brought out my milkshake and onion rings along with two bacon cheeseburgers. Apparently May hadn’t told her about the Frisco melts, but I was no longer hungry and it was moot point. Lucas was repulsed by the cottage cheese and demanded that more pineapples be added to it. After the waitress had gone back to fetch Lucas his extra garnish of fruit I suggested that we shag ass. I downed my milkshake and Lucas picked up his baked beans. He was very taken by the burnt brown porcelain crock and insisted that he could only eat the beans in this specific container. However, being the consummate gentleman, Lucas opted not to take any silverware with him. “Don’t worry about it man,” he groaned. “I’ve got some spoons in the glove compartment.”
Once again, unedited first draft.