More Than a Kiss (17 page)

Zombie at the Restaurant

P.C.’s
turned out to be housed in what was once a car dealership.  The entire front of
the restaurant was glass and there was plenty of parking.  This was a bonus in
a city with parking issues.  Amy wondered if that wasn’t the big draw to the
place.  They’d taken Jeremy’s Buick Le Sabre, inherited from his grandmother. 
They’d popped Jordan’s bike in the humongous trunk.

“I
mean I love this car but I can hardly park it anywhere,” Jeremy said, sighing
with relief as they parked easily.  “One of the bonuses of this restaurant. 
Miles and miles of parking.  Who knew?”

“Yeah,
but is the food any good?” Amy asked.

“We’ll
soon find out,” Jeremy said.  They all got out of the car.  Jeremy lovingly
patted the hood of the Buick.

Jordan
said, “There are a lot of cars.  The food must be pretty decent.”

“There
are a lot of BIG cars.  Doesn’t that sort of defeat the purpose?  An organic
restaurant that attracts gas guzzlers because it has a huge parking lot,” Amy
replied, as they walked to the restaurant which seemed to be a half a mile away
from where they were parked.

“Not
necessarily.  If the food is all sustainable and does positive things for the
environment then the carbon footprint with the car thing brings it to the level
of a Burger King,” Jordan said, as they passed into the slide glass doors. 
“It’s kind of a wash.”

“I
like how you think,” Jeremy said.

Jordan
thought that the inside was exactly how you would expect a used car dealership
turned restaurant to look – all chrome, glass and plastic.  Jordan took one
look at the booths and chairs and joked, “You know how many naugahydes had to
die to make this place?”

Amy
giggled and put her hand over her mouth like a little kid in church.  Diners
stopped chewing and scowled at them.

Jordan
marveled about how everybody in the whole place was so solemn.  Obviously,
being P.C. was serious business.  She set her face to serious mode and scowled
back at the patrons.  Amy giggled again, then snorted behind her hand.

“Sorry,”
Amy said.  “That happens sometimes when I laugh.”

“No
snorting allowed,” Jordan said.  “Didn’t you see the sign?”

Amy
snorted again.  Jeremy moved several feet away, trying to appear as if he
didn’t know them.

A
hostess rustled up to Jeremy.  She was wearing a plastic mini-dress that
crinkled when she moved.

“Can
we have one of those big booths?” Jeremy asked.  “In the back?  Far away from
other diners?”

“Of
course.”  The hostess grabbed three menus and said, “Follow me.”

“With
pleasure,” Jeremy said, following her swinging hips and barely managing to keep
his eyeballs in their sockets.

The
hostess showed them to an oversized booth – the kind where seventeen people
could sit comfortably and still have elbowroom.  As Jordan scooted in, Amy
asked the hostess, “What sort of a car dealership was this place?”

“Hummer,”
the hostess said.  “The owners, Labia International, wanted to take the worst
possible place and transform it.”  When she said the word transform, she waved
her arms up and down her body in an imitation of Vanna White.

Amy
said, “Excuse me.  Did you just say Labia?”

“Yes. 
It’s an acronym.  It stands for Lesbians Against Brutality In Animals,” the
hostess explained.

“So
then, this is a vegetarian restaurant?” Jordan asked.

“Oh
no,” the hostess said.  “Dead animal flesh is served as tasty entrees, but
during the animal’s life it is given a name and treated as part of a family. 
All our meat has died a natural death.  The animal has not been brutally killed
for its flesh to be devoured by consumers.  Its life was not cut short during
its prime, but it was allowed to live to a ripe old age.”

“I
see,” Jordan said.  “So, if I order a hamburger, it comes from a really old cow
who died of old age.”

“That’s
correct.  Today’s bovine was Sonja.  She lived her life with the Johannson’s of
eastern Nebraska.  She loved hay and sunny days and standing in the pond.”

“I’ll
have a salad,” Amy said.

“Would
you care to hear the bio of our chicken, Florence?”

“No,
thank you.  But I do have one more question,” Jordan said.  “Is that a plarn
dress you’re wearing?”

“It
is.  Do you like it?” the hostess asked, evidently very impressed that Jordan
knew what plarn was.  “I crocheted it myself.”

“I
love it,” Jordan said.  Actually, she didn’t love it at all.  She thought it
looked scratchy.  And how would you clean it?  You could wash it, but wouldn’t
it melt if you put it in the dryer?  And if you hung it out to dry, there was
the possibility of it molding.  Jordan thought she would stick to cotton.

The
hostess stuck her ample chest under Jeremy’s nose.  “Wanna touch it?  It’s
softer than you’d think.”

Jeremy
was more than happy to oblige.  He ran his palms up and down her front.  Bliss
was written all over his face.  Amy stuck out a tentative finger to touch
next.  Jordan laughed and swatted Amy’s hand away.

Jeremy
was in complete and total lust.  “Do you want to go out sometime?” he asked.

“Love
to.  Here’s my card.”  The hostess pulled a business card out of her plunging
plarn neckline.  It appeared to be made out of ordinary card stock.

How
very un-P.C., Jordan thought.

The
hostess rustled her way back to the front.  “Wow, this place truly rocks,”
Jeremy said, studying his newly and unexpectedly given phone number.

“What
is plarn exactly?” Amy asked.

“It’s
plastic bags cut into strips, knotted together into one long string and then
crocheted or knitted together to form whatever you want,” Jordan said.

“Do
you have any plarn clothing?” Amy asked.

“No,
nor do I intend on getting any,” Jordan replied.  “It’s too loud for my taste. 
Just like those wind pants people wear.  You can hear them coming a mile away.”

Jeremy
was checking out his silverware, which appeared to be fashioned out of cut up
tin cans wrapped with duct taped handles.  “How very dystopian,” he said.

Jordan
examined her fork.  “It’s like something Tina Turner would use in the
Thunderdome.”

“My
mother would love this place,” Amy said.  “She upcycled before upcycled was
even a word.  How did you know about all that plarn stuff?”

“I
downloaded this video from Norway.  It was a knitting show where you watched
people knit for nine hours.  It was called Slow T.V. and it’s a big hit with the
Norwegians.  They have other videos where you watch a fire being built and burn
for twelve hours, a constipated dog doing circles for commercial breaks which
are five minutes long, a three hundred and seventy eight hour documentary of
looking out a train window.  You get the idea,” Jordan said.

Dumfounded,
Jeremy and Amy stared at her until Amy asked the million-dollar question:
“Why?”

“I
don’t think there is a reason.  It just is.  When I get stuck writing I watch
these videos because they are so incredibly boring that it inspires me to do
something.  I watch for as long as I can stand it.  Then I can work again
because nothing I do can be as dull as that.  I haven’t had to watch since you
came along.  You truly are my muse.”

Amy
blushed.

Jordan
turned to Jeremy and said, “You do realize that a woman who hands out business
cards for dates might be a bit on the odd side, right?”

He
nodded.  “It says here she also sells Herbal Life supplements.”

“I’d
stay away from that if I were you,” Jordan said.

“You’ll
have really icky stools,” Amy added.  “Remember when Veronica and Valerie got
into that stuff?”

“Oh,
yeah,” Jeremy said.  “It was like a full-on biohazard hit the place.”

“The
housekeeping staff threatened to go on strike if the twins continued to drop stink
bombs,” Amy said.

“The
maintenance department was right behind them.  Remember they kept clogging up
the toilets,” Jeremy added.

“I
can’t believe you’re small-talking about stools.  Is that what doctors do?”
Jordan said.

The
waitress, tall, blond and stacked, appeared at their table.  She was wearing a
maxi-dress made out of potato chip bags.  “What can I get you to drink?”

“Are
those potato chip bags?” Jordan asked.

“Yes,
this dress is made from snack sized chip bags,” the waitress said proudly.  “My
entire wardrobe is made from my neighbor’s trash.”

“Hmmm. 
If I did that with my neighbor’s trash I’d be wearing a Budweiser can suit with
Spam can earrings,” Jordan said.

Amy
laughed.  “I’d be dressed in Lean Cuisine.”

Jeremy
got in on the joke.  “If my neighbor orders one more pizza, I’ll have a car.”

The
waitress frowned.  “Are you making fun of me?”

“Noooo,”
all three said at once.

The
waitress seemed satisfied with that answer.  She pulled out her order pad. 
“What can I get you to drink?”

“What
is there?” Amy asked.

The
waitress pointed to the menu with her pen.  “The drinks are on the back.”

Jordan
flipped over her menu and studied the drink list.

Jeremy
ordered first, citing the first thing on the list.  “I’ll have Horchata with
lime.”

“What
is that?” Jordan asked.

“I
don’t know but it’s fun to say,” Jeremy said.

“What’s
this Tofurky?” Jordan asked.

The
waitress said, “It’s thanksgiving in a bottle.  It smells and tastes like
turkey and gravy, but it’s really meatless.  Made out of tofu.”

“Liquid
turkey and gravy,” Jordan mused.  “No, thanks.  I’ll have this Chari-tea
instead.”

Amy
asked, “What’s the Real Eel?”

“Just
what it says,” the waitress said.

“Okay,
I’ll have a Lemon-Aid.”

“Good
choice.”  The waitress and her potato bag dress crinkled away.

“If
the drinks were that difficult, how is figuring out what to eat going to be?”
Amy said.

“Good
question,” Jordan said.  She pointed at the menu, “Do you want to split the
deer penis appetizer?  I’ve heard it’s good for the libido.”

Quicker
than Samantha Stephens could wiggle her nose there was a flash of white and
Petronella was sitting in their booth.  “Stay away from anything with squirrel
in the name,” she said.

“Petronella? 
How did you…  Where did you…” Jordan stammered.  “What are you doing here?”

“I
am here celebrating with Irma,” Petronella said.  She gestured to the other
side of the room.  Irma, sitting at a table, had a big smile on her face.  She
waved.  Jordan limply waved back.

“What
are you celebrating?” Amy asked cheerfully.

“Our
anniversary,” Petronella said.

Jordan
said, “Your what?”

Petronella
smiled.  “We have been together for nineteen hours.  We are deliciously happy. 
We are in love.”

Jeremy
piped in, “Sex is a mood enhancer.  It raises your serotonin levels and causes
you to think you’re in love.”

Petronella
glared at him.  “Men,” she scoffed.  “They know nothing of the heart.  Only the
penis.”

“I
beg your pardon.  My penis is quite romantic,” Jeremy said.

“As
I was saying,” Petronella said to Jordan, throwing Jeremy one last scalding look,
“I want to thank you for introducing me to Irma.  She is amazing.  She has
helped me realize my potential as a woman, a feminist, a poet, a teacher and
now as a performance artist.  She has made me realize how extraordinary I am.”

“I
had no idea that you didn’t realize you were extraordinary,” Jordan said.

“I
didn’t know my full potential until I was drowning in paint, on the edge of a
nervous breakdown.  Then along came Irma,” Petronella said.  She actually had
glistening eyes.

Jordan
handed her a napkin.  Petronella dabbed at her happy tears.

“All
this in only nineteen hours?” Amy said.

Jordan
explained, “Nineteen hours in lesbian time is like three years in normal time. 
They’ve probably already moved in together.”

Petronella
nodded.  “We adopted a kitten this morning.”

“Holy
shit,” Amy said.

“You
don’t like kittens?” Petronella said, aghast.

“It’s
not that.  It’s him.” Amy pointed to the entrance just as Chad stumbled through
the front door.  “I have to hide before he sees me.”  Amy slipped under the table
and hid in the first place she could find – under Petronella’s skirt.

“Oh!”
Petronella said.

“Sorry,”
Amy said, burrowing further between Petronella’s thighs.  “Pretend I’m not
here.”