Dinner Out

“So how do you plan on letting Detroit know you’re dumping her?” That’s MyQueen.  She likes to play along. I’m just happy she reads my blog. She’s already seated at the table.

“I dunno.  I figured I’d just let it go. She’ll get the idea over time.” Yeah, I’m a classy guy. I take off my coat, throw it over the chair next to her and sit down.

“You can’t do that! You have to sit her down and let her know.”

“Uhm, are you guys ready to order?” The waitress is giving us the look. You know the one. The “I know what’s going on here, but I don’t know what’s going on here,” look.

I give her a look back that says, “I do know what’s going on here and you have no clue.”

“Sir?” The waitress looks a little panicked, and turns to MyQueen, “Should I call him a doctor?”

Maybe that wasn’t the right look.

MyQueen sighs and sips her wine. “No, he’s okay. That’s his normal face.”

The waitress hangs out while I look over the menu. When she has our orders, she leaves and we continue our 50 ways to leave your location conversation.

“Slip out the Ren Cen, Glen…”

It’s been a long week, for both of us. I found my dreams like Ralphie found his glasses in A Christmas Story: crushed under foot. MyQueen had an interview with Cagney and Lacey, except Lacey didn’t even care enough to show up, and Cagney might as well have come drunk.  Yeah, I lost my dream, she dodged a bullet and yet we’re both mixed—we both hoped for more, and we both need a drink.

“I think it’s okay, I don’t think Detroit is that into me. I think she’s trying to distance herself.”

MyQueen takes another drink. “Mmmm,hmmm. What happens then?”

“What do you mean?” I’m pouring more wine into my glass. I’ve already chugged the glass she had waiting for me.

“Well, if you leave her, you end up in Denver, LA, wherever.” She swirls the wine. Fruity goodness climbs up the glass as if it’s drawing to her voice. “Where are you if Detroit leaves you?”

“Wichita?” I shrug.

“Ain’t that the truth.” She downs the rest of her glass, then dangles it before me, in a “Fill!” fashion. “I think we need to avoid that.”

I nod, and fulfill my responsibility by refilling her glass. We’re gonna need more wine at this rate. I make a subtle motion. The waitress may not be able to interpret table banter, but roll an empty bottle across the floor at her, and she takes a hint.

In the meantime, my wife grabs a crayon from the table. Yeah, we’re eating in that restaurant.  (I’d mention their name, but they refused to pay for adverting.) “Okay, so where do we want to move?” She writes down “LA” in blue wax. 

I shake my head. We’ve both been there, done that. She draws a frowny face next to it, then pulls a crayon line across the letters.  Next word: “Denver” I nod.  It might be cool.  It’s kinda like where I grew up, except 10 times the population and none of the relatives. “Actually it sounds pretty good.”

“Okay,” she nods and puts a smiley next to it.

“Rotelli?”

“Where’s that?” I look up.  It’s right here. That was our waitress. I point to MyQueen. She gets the plate slid before her. I get the other plate full of cheese red sauce.  I think there’s meat underneath.

As we eat, we unwind and continue our conversation. She mentions Vegas, and then says “Scott!” cuz she likes watching “Flipping Vegas” and believes we can move in and become instant friends with the stars, Scott and Amy.  MyQueen’s “Scott” is a perfect imitation of Amy whining.  It’s sort of like Mary Tyler Moore saying “Oh, Rob” to Dick Van Dyke, except MyQueen’s mouth is full of pasta and it sounds like “Scoh-waht!”

We laugh. It’s ok. You don’t have to. It’s not funny to anybody else but us. Later I draw a US map that looks like wounded dog. We laugh some more, and the waitress calls the manager.

“So you folks having a good time?”

It’s true. We are. We need it. In truth, we need each other. When things get rough, it’s good to know we can come together at the table and laugh. To know that sometimes life kinda sucks, but things will get better. We’re here. We have each other and we’re in this together. I down the rest of my glass, take MyQueen’s hand, we pay the check, and leave.

“What about Chicago?”

“Isn’t that like kissing Detroit’s sexy sister?”

We haven’t got everything figured out yet, but we’re trying, together. And no matter where we land, I know we’ll have fun in the process.

Now I just have to work up the nerve to tell Detroit.

MyQueen in my official "Happy Hat."