Author's Note: I suppose most of these notes are self-evident, but I include them here to circumvent getting comments about them later. I've read many a story where the comments section has left me scratching my head; it's always a good reminder to me that, just because an author puts something in a story, it doesn't mean (s)he endorses or agrees with it.
All characters engaging in any funny business are over the age of 18, as well as the age of consent in the (fictional) areas in which they reside. The characters are human beings and do not, therefore, always act with the highest moral integrity; this does not reflect my own views, nor do I personally endorse any of their actions. On the contrary, I may privately outright disagree with them, but the following is their story as they have told it to me-over coffee. This is, after all, a work of fiction but also their collective autobiographies. Exercise your own good judgment when out in the world, and for goodness' sake: play nice with others.
Oh, and I know there are glaring grammatical and idiomatic errors in the prose (i.e., subject-verb agreement, English idioms used incorrectly). They're all as intentional as they are flagrant. This story is told in the first person, and the narrator's register reflects his upbringing. No need to point them out; each was placed there with tender loving care for a particular reason.
Just sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride. And leave me a comment! I love hearing from you!! Thanks to all the kind folks who've left me a word or two in the past. Rest assured I've read each and every one of your wonderful notes. Much obliged.
P. Alinea
*****
Learning the Ropes: Chapter 1
So I'm at work on a Saturday night. It's this sit-down burger joint: family-friendly, I guess, but popular enough with the high school and college crowd that it's a go-to spot for proms and other get-togethers in the area. Anyways, so I'm finishing up my shift when in comes these two guys, and right away, they're turning heads.
Partly, it's because they're dressed pretty flashy. Mostly, it's because they've got their arms slung over each other's shoulders. And that's not all: their opposite legs are so close, they're practically joined at the hip before they've taken two steps in through the front door.
They come in and sit down next to a family of six: Mom with bangs curled up in a ski slope and a backcomb to make 80s Cher jealous, Dad in matching royal blue track suit and baseball cap. The local team. From the looks of it, he either plays for them or has season tickets. Anyways, their four kids are fidgeting and screaming, but soon the two of them are the ones looking antsy on the wooden bench in the waiting area.
The two young men next to them are sitting on each other's hands. It's totally obvious and intentional. Never seen anything like it around here. I mean, a guy and a girl, sure. Two guys? Well, you obviously haven't been to these parts.
One of them's got sandy blonde hair, same color as mine but with bleached tips. Think late 90s boy band and you've got the right idea. Tight white shirt with open collared button-down over it. Ripped, faded boot-cut blue jeans and shades. White sneakers tied up real loose. About 15 years too late, but he doesn't seem overly concerned.
His partner - that what you're supposed to call it? - is Latino with closely cropped hair all gelled up. He's wearing khaki cargo pants and a black button-up. He's built, a bit heavy in the middle, with broad shoulders and thick forearms. This guy's stereotype macho while Mister Backstreet is a pretty boy.
Their hands are slipped in each other's back pockets now. Mister Backstreet is whispering something into his bronzed boyfriend's ear to which the more athletic man smiles and returns with a whisper and a pinch to his round ass. He squirms in his seat, and Mother of Four gives them the stink eye. They're oblivious, though.
"I'll get this one, Erin," I say, my eyes never leaving their rambunctious forms. I grab a couple of our tall laminated menus and clear my throat.
"Thanks, Will. You know I can't deal with that."
I turn to grin at the pudgy blonde standing next to me and pulling her hair back in a ponytail.
"What, the flirting? I guess it is a bit raunchy."
"Nah," she replies, smacking her gum. "That kinda stuff happens in here every Saturday night. It's the faggotry."
Ouch. I hope she's joking. Who says that? Is it even a word? I resist the urge to tell her where she can stick the homophobia and put on my most hospitable smile before walking over to my overeager customers.
"Welcome to the Roadhouse. My name's Will. I'll be your server, but seeing as we're short on staff this evening, I'll also seat you and bus your table. Tips welcome."
The boy band boy flashes me his bleached whites and giggles. "You're pretty funny."
"Well, I've been trying to get 'em to agree to let me do some stand-up on Saturdays, but it's Saturday and, well, here I am. You can guess how well that went."
"Oh, stop... Baby, isn't he funny?"
The guy next to him smirks at me. I notice his eyes are looking me up and down a few times before he turns to kiss his companion on the cheek.
"Uh, can I show you to a booth?" I offer.
"We don't mind a table," Backstreet replies.
"Nah. I'm sure you wanna sit together." I pause here and throw a glance at their hands, which are still going to town. "Anyways, I opened a booth for you." I stop myself from telling them the booth is in a corner where they might not be on full display.
"That's sweet. Isn't that sweet, baby?"
"Fuckin' faggots."
I turn to see Father of Four chewing on a toothpick and scowling at us. I'm sure my eyes must be as wide as the dinner plates on all the tables. Is this guy for real?
"Ugh..." Backstreet groans. I'm sure this isn't the first time he's had that kind of language slung at him. He's pretty femme.
"'Scuse me, sir: We're a family establishment. Now, I don't know what kind of language you use at home in front of your kids, but around here, that's not gonna fly." I'm trembling even as I hear these words come out of my mouth.
What the hell am I doing? Since when do I make waves? Everybody knows you don't make tips trying to play the hero. I don't even know what my own deal is, but I grip the menus tight to my chest with both hands as a shield. I set my jaw, gritting my teeth and trying to look like I mean business. I narrow my eyes and flare my nostrils. That's right, asshole: I'm in attack mode.
"Who you think you're talkin' to?" Mister Baseball says, standing up and turning red in the face. What a douche.
Then, he lurches forward a step in my direction. Oh, shit.
