Writing Exercises II
Here is an exercise where I had to take my character out to lunch.
We decided to go to Outback Steakhouse. It’s a nice balance of casual and formal; and by formal, I mean we have to sit down and depend on an underpaid, exhausted waiter or waitress who, hopefully, has been receiving good tips all day. It’s still better than average food, though. I know Ant would’ve rather gone to Arby’s, but I had just eaten there last week, and their chicken sandwich gave me a bit of a stomachache. Ant just scoffs at me. “Impossible,” he defiantly claims, “Arby’s is pure quality. It must’ve been something else you ate.” I laugh and tell him the roast beef has turned him into a zealot. We both laugh for a bit, and then get to the business of figuring out what the hell we want.
It’s called that specifically because, 90% of the time you eat at one of these places, someone says that exact phrase. This time, I was the culprit, as I inquired aloud to nobody in particular “what the hell do I want?” while I perused the menu. Ant just shrugged. He was taking his decision somewhat seriously; or he was just ignoring me. Either one’s a possibility; working in an office Ant often tunes out what he doesn’t want to hear.
Our waitress, a well-fed redhead with surprising spunk, came took our orders: steak and potatoes for me, and a western style burger for Ant. The menus were gone, and our identical glasses of water were left in their stead. “Do you think we can finish the nachos by ourselves,” I ask, referring to our appetizer selection.
Ant shrugs. “Probably. I don’t know about you, but I haven’t eaten since around 11, after a late breakfast.”
“That is late. I guess since you didn’t have work today, you slept in.” Ant nods. “It figures,” I said, “you sleep like the dead.”
Ant chuckles some more and takes a drink. We just sit and look around the restaurant. Both Ant and I are comfortable not talking, especially because neither of us likes starting bullshit conversations. My ears did catch the muzak on the speakers, and it’s some contemporary rock-country ballad, like Brett Michaels with a southern drawl and Jim Bean on his breath. I decided to gamble with some bullshit, thinking Ant might bite. “This music is horrible. Not only does it ruin my ears, but I don’t think it’s appropriate for this place. Aren’t we supposed to be in Australia?”
Ant looks at me and cuts a wry grin. “Well what should they play instead? A didgeridoo and death wails,” he asks with biting sarcasm.
“No, asshole, I just think that this is more appropriate for El Paso or maybe even Golden Corral. Even some 90’s alternative would be preferred than this, both for my auditory nerves and the restaurant.”
Ant is unimpressed by my sarcastic verbiage and argument. He shrugs, “well, if it bothers you, just ignore it.” I can tell he’s way ahead of me in that department.
“Well, what music do you listen to?” I ask him.
Ant looks at the ceiling. He’s thinking. He looks back at me and replies, “I’ll listen to most stuff, honestly. I prefer jazz, blues, and maybe some punk too. Like classic, angst-fueled trashy punk that makes you want to start a riot.”
“Hmm, that’s an interesting mix. I didn’t expect you to support anarchy music.”
“It has its time and place, like all styles of music. Sometimes you just want to break stuff, or at least listen to people yell about breaking stuff.”
“If that’s the case, I usually listen to Van Halen.”
I catch Ant off guard. “Van Halen? Like, Jamie’s Crying? The Cradle Will Rock? Right Now?”
“Yeah, but not those songs. Get Van Halen I, listen to Atomic Punk at full volume and try not moshing in your living room.”
Ant smiles. “Good to know. I’ll have to try it sometime.”
We both continue talking about music until the nachos arrive. We eat in silence for the most part, usually commenting about how delicious and ridiculously cheesy the nachos are. From that point we bullshit some more about work and pop culture. Ant rarely goes a minute without chastising some celebrity with a video of them acting stupid on YouTube. I usually just laugh and agree with him; mostly because he gets flustered easily with this stuff and it’s damn entertaining to watch. Our lunch arrives and we eat again in silence, mostly. We inquire about each other’s respective dishes. Ant thinks the burger needs more barbecue sauce. My steak is fine, but the potatoes need salt. I needed a water refill as well.
We finish our lunch, both of us stuffed and satisfied. We turn down dessert and ask for the check.
“I’ll pay for this,” I offer to Ant.“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, it’s my treat. You get the next one.”
“Alright, sounds good.”
Our waitress returns with the check. Her spunk hasn’t diminished at all. She’s either hopped up on speed or she really likes this job. I suppose either one is detrimental to her health. I should probably tell her that…maybe next time.
I look at the damage and drop some bills in the booklet. “Let’s bounce,” Ant says. He doesn’t like wasting time after the check is done.
We grab our stuff and head out the door. I drop Ant off at his place. He turns to me before he gets out and says, “Next time we’ll go to Arby's.”
I roll my eyes at him and drive away.
We decided to go to Outback Steakhouse. It’s a nice balance of casual and formal; and by formal, I mean we have to sit down and depend on an underpaid, exhausted waiter or waitress who, hopefully, has been receiving good tips all day. It’s still better than average food, though. I know Ant would’ve rather gone to Arby’s, but I had just eaten there last week, and their chicken sandwich gave me a bit of a stomachache. Ant just scoffs at me. “Impossible,” he defiantly claims, “Arby’s is pure quality. It must’ve been something else you ate.” I laugh and tell him the roast beef has turned him into a zealot. We both laugh for a bit, and then get to the business of figuring out what the hell we want.
It’s called that specifically because, 90% of the time you eat at one of these places, someone says that exact phrase. This time, I was the culprit, as I inquired aloud to nobody in particular “what the hell do I want?” while I perused the menu. Ant just shrugged. He was taking his decision somewhat seriously; or he was just ignoring me. Either one’s a possibility; working in an office Ant often tunes out what he doesn’t want to hear.
Our waitress, a well-fed redhead with surprising spunk, came took our orders: steak and potatoes for me, and a western style burger for Ant. The menus were gone, and our identical glasses of water were left in their stead. “Do you think we can finish the nachos by ourselves,” I ask, referring to our appetizer selection.
Ant shrugs. “Probably. I don’t know about you, but I haven’t eaten since around 11, after a late breakfast.”
“That is late. I guess since you didn’t have work today, you slept in.” Ant nods. “It figures,” I said, “you sleep like the dead.”
Ant chuckles some more and takes a drink. We just sit and look around the restaurant. Both Ant and I are comfortable not talking, especially because neither of us likes starting bullshit conversations. My ears did catch the muzak on the speakers, and it’s some contemporary rock-country ballad, like Brett Michaels with a southern drawl and Jim Bean on his breath. I decided to gamble with some bullshit, thinking Ant might bite. “This music is horrible. Not only does it ruin my ears, but I don’t think it’s appropriate for this place. Aren’t we supposed to be in Australia?”
Ant looks at me and cuts a wry grin. “Well what should they play instead? A didgeridoo and death wails,” he asks with biting sarcasm.
“No, asshole, I just think that this is more appropriate for El Paso or maybe even Golden Corral. Even some 90’s alternative would be preferred than this, both for my auditory nerves and the restaurant.”
Ant is unimpressed by my sarcastic verbiage and argument. He shrugs, “well, if it bothers you, just ignore it.” I can tell he’s way ahead of me in that department.
“Well, what music do you listen to?” I ask him.
Ant looks at the ceiling. He’s thinking. He looks back at me and replies, “I’ll listen to most stuff, honestly. I prefer jazz, blues, and maybe some punk too. Like classic, angst-fueled trashy punk that makes you want to start a riot.”
“Hmm, that’s an interesting mix. I didn’t expect you to support anarchy music.”
“It has its time and place, like all styles of music. Sometimes you just want to break stuff, or at least listen to people yell about breaking stuff.”
“If that’s the case, I usually listen to Van Halen.”
I catch Ant off guard. “Van Halen? Like, Jamie’s Crying? The Cradle Will Rock? Right Now?”
“Yeah, but not those songs. Get Van Halen I, listen to Atomic Punk at full volume and try not moshing in your living room.”
Ant smiles. “Good to know. I’ll have to try it sometime.”
We both continue talking about music until the nachos arrive. We eat in silence for the most part, usually commenting about how delicious and ridiculously cheesy the nachos are. From that point we bullshit some more about work and pop culture. Ant rarely goes a minute without chastising some celebrity with a video of them acting stupid on YouTube. I usually just laugh and agree with him; mostly because he gets flustered easily with this stuff and it’s damn entertaining to watch. Our lunch arrives and we eat again in silence, mostly. We inquire about each other’s respective dishes. Ant thinks the burger needs more barbecue sauce. My steak is fine, but the potatoes need salt. I needed a water refill as well.
We finish our lunch, both of us stuffed and satisfied. We turn down dessert and ask for the check.
“I’ll pay for this,” I offer to Ant.“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, it’s my treat. You get the next one.”
“Alright, sounds good.”
Our waitress returns with the check. Her spunk hasn’t diminished at all. She’s either hopped up on speed or she really likes this job. I suppose either one is detrimental to her health. I should probably tell her that…maybe next time.
I look at the damage and drop some bills in the booklet. “Let’s bounce,” Ant says. He doesn’t like wasting time after the check is done.
We grab our stuff and head out the door. I drop Ant off at his place. He turns to me before he gets out and says, “Next time we’ll go to Arby's.”
I roll my eyes at him and drive away.