Stutter
The couple entering Hooters expected
wings, a big salad, a bacon-cheese or maybe
the turkey-burger with the heart
in front of it on the menu, one or two beers
(they had had one or two
at home, it was later established),
and girls wearing camo-patterned
(“Military Monday”) spandex above their shorts.
The husband, a contractor, gray
pony-tail bobbing over
his MC colors was in a good mood
because of an upcoming rally. His wife
(and always his main squeeze) enjoyed
the Hooter-girl repartee,
and didn’t mind the tits unless
they came too close to his face.
Then she and he could drive home and fight
and fuck like crazed bunnies. But that night,
from the moment they sat down
until the check arrived, they were two other people:
he an accountant, consciously, self-
acceptingly nerdy, a fan of Women’s Hockey;
the wife liked “Antiques Roadshow,”
had a master’s, and was indefinably weird.
Same income level. (But what if they hadn’t
been white? If they’d been illegal immigrants??)
It wasn’t clear if the accountant
and his wife became the contractor
and his; wherever they were,
they never made a stink about it. Churchier,
maybe, or with AA in the background,
they sat discussing trivia
with long silences and some sort of
undertone – not even
at Hooters, but some snootier, quieter chain.
But the contractor and his wife sued
the restaurant for mental anguish
and identity theft. The judge
didn’t throw the case out immediately;
had a hunch he was setting precedent.
“Your clients,” he said, “weren’t damaged.”
– “They feel insecure, Your Honor,”
said their lawyer. “They suffer
from a reduced sense of selfhood.
I refer you to the statement by the therapist.” –
“I’ve read it. I’m not convinced,”
said the judge. Tempted to add something
about the miracle of understanding,
of *knowing, he was discouraged
by the continual movement
of the wife’s nails in and around her hair.
“There was no harm or foul here.” Or improvement.
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