All You Can Eat 3

"I'm Nancy, I'll be your waitress. I mean server. Damn it."

She might as well have said 'undertaker' for all the joy she displayed. Not that I could blame her.

"You folks here for the buffet?"

Like anyone came to this joint for anything else.

"That's right."

"Guess you won't need these, then," Nancy said, flapping a pair of laminated menu cards at us. "Don't know why they have me bring them out every time."

She seemed to be talking to herself but didn't care who else heard. She wore large glasses, had blondish long hair, and was missing a molar on her upper right.

"Drinks?"

Across the booth, Janine was staring at me from under her brow, and I knew what she was thinking:

Why did you pick this place?

"Two bottled waters, please," I said. "No ice in the glass."

"Fancy," said Nancy. "I'll bring those right out. Get started whenever you like." She waved the back of her hand in the direction of the buffet, which occupied the full length of the back wall of the restaurant.

When she was out of earshot, I answered Janine's unspoken question.

"It's all about the fried chicken, remember?"

"Best in fifty miles, you said."

"That's right. What they save on the wait-staff they plow back into their chicken."

"Well if that's the case this is going to be some amazing fried chicken, Freddie."

"If I fail you, I'll walk right out of your life and hide from you in shame forever."

Janine pouted in a mostly good-natured way, sat back against the banquette, and jammed her foot hard up against my crotch.

"If you walk away from me I'll make sure you're disabled first."

"And when we make up again? Where will you be then? You'll have a non-functioning gigolo on your hands. I'll have to apply for a job in the sultan's harem."

"Did you just refer to yourself as a gigolo?"

"I maybe did. I don't remember."

Her smile had been widening all along, but now it split like a blown-out tire as she threw her head back to laugh. I love the sound of Janine's laugh, which was unfortunate for me at that moment because I was attempting to fake a demeanor of moderately-hurt feelings.

I gave up on it.

"We'll never break up, anyway," I said.

"Oh, is that so?" She continued to twist her heel into my balls.

"You have it too perfect with me. Alec gives you the car and the house, the vacations, the

status

. Every couple of weeks or so I give you the fucking of your life and then walk away until next time. No whining, no pestering, no broken hearts."

"I think our arrangement suits you pretty well, too."

"Yes, it does."

"You're free to degrade yourself at every opportunity with any passing bitch in heat."

"And you love the idea of it."

She gave one last sickening crunch to my gonads, then relented.

"Can you imagine," she said, looking off into the distance at some imagined alternate reality, "you and me together all the time?"

"Honestly, I can't. Not that it wouldn't be fun, for a while at least."

"The way things are, we can meet each other's unmet needs."

It wasn't worth correcting her statement. Janine had a romantic side to her which, when I'd first met her, had been in danger of rotting on the vine from lack of attention. It's the same for most marriages, I guess (it surely had been for mine), and at least in their case Janine and Alec shared bonds of other kinds that kept them together. Romance, however, is a flame that burns hot and bright and short; only a fool would expect such incandescence to persist.

Her mistake was in thinking I shared a need for romance in my life. My needs, sexual and otherwise, were well taken care of, for the most part, and romance was not on that list. Romance--if pursued vigorously enough, and if smiled upon by the capricious gods of such things, and most of all if you're not careful--can lead to love. I can't speak for all men, but I only needed to learn that lesson once and I was cured.

And women? I'm not sure women ever fall in love, even for the first time. But they do enjoy the romance, the head-spinning infatuation, the deep, womb-pulsating thrill of it all, and they like to fall for it over and over, never seeming to tire of it. Oh, and they wreck a lot of men along the way, which might or might not be part of the thrill.

So, no, I didn't have unmet romantic needs that only Janine could satisfy. Janine was fun to be with and more fun to be in bed with (or up against a tree in the park or wherever) and that was more than enough for me. But I wasn't going to make such a pedantic point when instead I could just enjoy the sparkle in her pretty eyes.

Nancy returned and placed two plastic bottles of water on our table, the restaurant air already condensing along their chilled sides. She was carrying two tall plastic beakers in her other hand, pinched between thumb and two fingers, which she set down beside the bottles. She walked away without a word.

Janine looked at me wide-eyed.

"Did you see that? She had her

fingers

inside the

glasses

."

I'd seen, but I chose to be unmoved.

"At least she remembered no ice."

"Huh. Well I'm drinking from the bottle."

"Suit yourself," I said. "I think I'll risk it. All part of the experience."

I unscrewed one of the bottles and poured water into the beaker, almost to the brim where I was certain Nancy's thumb had been.

"Now that you've removed your pump from my genitals," I said between sips, "could I ask you to replace it? It was invigorating."

She smiled mischievously. "Any other day, Freddie darling, but you know today's a kiss-and-run. I don't want to be too much of a tease when I can't follow through."

"Well that's some bullshit right there," I said, laughing. "It's not me who texts whenever she feels like it to tell me how wet her pussy is, and wouldn't it be grand if I could slip away for an hour."

She wriggled in her seat. "I guess I do lay it on thick sometimes."

"That you do, Janine. But I love you for it anyway."

"I know you do, lover. That's why it's so much fun to be with you."

"So, would you like to swing that ass of yours over to the fried chicken and get those luscious lips glistening with grease?"

"I would indeed. I'm going to run to the ladies, but you go ahead and get started."

"It's okay, I'll wait for you."

I watched Janine go in her clingy dress, her hips swaying hypnotically towards the bathrooms at the far corner of the restaurant. Then I glanced around and caught sight of Nancy. She was a few tables away in the center of the dining room with her back to me. A couple seated there was receiving the spiel, and I saw Nancy flap the plastic menu cards. The guy was seated facing my way, and there was an expression of concern on his face as he stared up at this new style in table service.

Nancy must have asked for their drinks order then, because the guy turned to his lunch partner with a quizzical look. Meanwhile, Nancy cocked a hip and placed a loose fist on it. The gesture seemed impatient somehow, as though these paying customers were taking her away from the real reason she was here in a restaurant at lunch time dressed as a waitress.

But this movement of hers had caught my attention, and I looked at Nancy now as if for the first time. Beyond her face, and that gap in her teeth, I'd barely registered her appearance when she'd waited on us a minute or two earlier, I guess because I was so distracted by her shocking manners. She was wearing a fitted white button-up collared blouse that ran tight around her bosom and waist, and remained tight as it flared, untucked, down onto her hips. Her waist was accentuated further by the black waiter's apron she was wearing, fastened in back by a black nylon belt that cut the white blouse into two. The belt cinched just above a roll of fat that hovered above her hips like a life-preserver. Down below, I could tell even at this distance that her black pants were cheap and scratchy polyester, and a size or two too small, which had the pleasing effect of calling out her wide hips and substantial ass. Out of habit, but also now out of growing interest, I wondered how that rear would look as those pants were peeled off, what those hummocks of flesh would be like as they were released to their unconstrained natural state. From this distance, at least, I couldn't discern anything to make that an unappealing idea. My interest was becoming curiosity.

As she waited for the couple to decide on their drinks (and by now even I was wondering what was taking them so long) the fist on Nancy's hip unfurled and her fingers began to scratch at her spare tire, absently at first but then with increasing vigor and amplitude. If I were ever fool enough to open a restaurant--put in those grueling hours to satisfy nit-picking customers and reap only marginal returns--one of my first instructions to the wait staff would be Don't Scratch Yourself In Front of the Diners.

I mean, come on.

Whatever was irritating her appeared to be on the move, and Nancy followed the itch above her beltline with a generalized scraping motion. This appeared to be hitting the spot, but had the unfortunate effect of gathering the fabric of her white blouse into a bunch until it was teased out from beneath the belt. Thus was revealed her fleshy overhang, conforming to its skin container like water in a plastic grocery bag. Nancy appeared to be oblivious to her exposure, leaving herself untucked as she once again flapped the menu cards and turned on her heel to leave the table. She was heading back my way with a sour expression on her face. The couple at the table immediately leaned towards each other conspiratorially to discuss the phenomenon of Nancy.

As she was about to pass our table I simultaneously raised my eyebrows and a forefinger.

"Excuse me. Nancy?"

She stopped dead right beside me and heaved in a large breath as if ready to deliver a histrionic sigh.

"Yup?"

"Sorry, I don't know if you realized it, but you've come untucked, round the side there, above your belt."

She looked down at herself, then side to side, and saw the problem.

"Huh. Guess I must have been going at it."

"I thought you might want to know."

"Well I sure as hell don't give a shit, but sure. Uh, thanks. Can't have that in a classy joint like this, huh?"

"It wasn't that so much as I didn't want you be embarrassed. Later on, I mean."

"Cuh. Takes more than that to embarrass me." She looked thoughtful for a moment, as though she sensed something else needed to be said. She actually made brief eye contact with me, which I noticed only because up to that point there'd been none. "Er, I appreciate it, though. I mean you could've said nothing and just had a laugh about it."

"I guess I'd want someone to tell me in the same situation. Golden Rule and all that."

"I don't know about any rule." She looked irritated again, as though in spite of what I'd just said she suspected me of having a laugh at her expense anyway. "Except maybe the rule of minding your own business. That works for me."

"Just trying to be kind," I said, raising my hands in submission, regretting the whole thing.

Behind her large glasses Nancy's eyes grew blurry (it could have been the poor light in the restaurant) and her mouth turned down at the corners. The expression lasted only a second, though, before her jaw tightened and she suddenly met my gaze with what looked to be fury in her eyes. What the hell?

"It's too late for any of that bullshit," she said.

"I don't understand."

"No need to, so don't try. Anyway, I hope you got a good look while you were watching me. Fucking pervert."

"Nancy?"

But she stumped off, yanking at her blouse, angry beyond any reasonable reaction to the encounter.

At first I was eager to tell Janine about this latest development in the ongoing collapse of western civilization, but by the time she returned to our table I was more or less over it. (Janine spends an inordinate amount of time in the bathroom.)

"Let's hit the buffet. I'm starving."

"I told you to go ahead."

"And if I had, I'd never hear the end of what a pig I was, and on and on." I surprised myself with the peevish tone I'd adopted.

"What's the problem, Freddie?" There was a look of genuine concern in her eyes, which I found alarming in turn.

"Nothing," I said. But I wondered about it, wondered what kind of look I was wearing. "Just hungry, I guess. Come on."

In the end, the chicken was mediocre--though we did make three trips to the buffet--and I had to credit Janine for her quip: "I guess the best fried chicken in fifty miles depends on where exactly you're drawing your circle, huh?"

In some parallel future we'll never encounter, Janine and I would take a trip to the deep south and finally hit the fried-chicken jackpot. Ah, well.

But, God, what a sexy woman she is. I was chafing at the idea that today I wouldn't be permitted the thrill of tugging up that dress and forcing her underwear up her chute without so much as a pinched nipple in the way of foreplay. Janine liked to kick things off aggressively, though more often than not by the time we got to round three or four she was playful as a kitten and, sometimes, even loving. A little, anyway; neither of us wanted to make a habit of

that

.

"I guess I'll have to love you and leave you," she said now, "except for the love you part. We'll save that for another time."

"What's your excuse for denying me this time?"

"Dermatologist appointment, like I told you."

"I don't get it. You have perfect skin. How many times do you need to see a dermatologist?"

"Chicken and egg, no? Imagine the crone you'd be taking out to lunch if I didn't take care of myself. In fact, I doubt you'd be taking me out at all."

"You're saying I'm picking up the check?"

"That wasn't what I was talking about, but if you're going to be so cranky about it, yes, it's on you today."

"I didn't know I was being cranky."

She was on her feet by now and collecting her purse from the banquette.

"I'm going to take it as a compliment, because you're sore you can't be with me this afternoon." She leaned towards me and kissed my cheek. "Soon, lover."

"I think I'd flourish as a kept man," I said. "Maybe give it some thought."

She laughed and tickled my chin as if I was her pet cat.

"I wouldn't want to neuter the beast," she said, then turned and left me alone with the check.

I gave Janine a couple of minutes head start, as usual, then drained the last of my water and looked around for Nancy. I didn't see her, but another waitress was a couple of tables away.

"Excuse me," I said, waving the check at her (it read, in its entirety, '2 Buf, 2 Wat'), "do I pay at the table or up front?"

"Up front at the register."

"What about Nancy's tip? Is she still here?"

The waitress looked at her watch. "Her shift ended ten minutes ago. I can see she gets it, or... I guess you could leave it up front."

"Okay, thanks."

I left the tip up front with the cashier.

My car was parked a few rows away from the restaurant, in one of a thousand spaces in a lake of asphalt separating the one-story strip-mall from the highway. A wobbly heat-haze had set up just above ground level, and the mid-afternoon heat and humidity had reached its breath-defying peak. I walked two rows then saw Nancy halfway down the next, standing by the door of an old Ford Ranger pickup. She was smoking purposefully, her head angled down. Her posture was tight, elbows drawn in to her sides, one forearm across her belly; it reminded me of how she'd stood when I'd stopped her to point out her wayward blouse: coiled, ready for a fight. But maybe this was just how Nancy was. She was still wearing her waitress uniform, minus the apron belt.

I changed direction and walked down the row towards her.

"Hi, Nancy."

She looked up sharply when she heard her name, and her grim expression didn't change when she saw who was calling it.

"Hey," I said, "I don't know if it matters but I left your tip with the cashier."

"You did?" Her tone told me that might be a problem.

"Is that a problem?"

She looked thoughtful for a second. In the bright sunlight I could see her makeup was heavy behind her glasses, and her pale-blue eyes looked like ice.

Her shoulders sagged. "If I see any of it, it'll be less than half what you left." She waved her cigarette-hand in the air, writing off the tip with the gesture. "I hope you didn't leave too much," she said with a sardonic drip.

"Just the usual. You weren't exactly working hard for it."

"It's a buffet joint, I bring drinks. Nobody tips heavy, a place like that."

"I get it. So--it's kind of hot to be standing out. You having car trouble?"

"Bastard broke down again. I'm waiting on a guy. Can't even sit in the air conditioning while I do it."

Her brow was damp with perspiration; I could feel the sun on my back like a branding iron.

"How long will it be?"

"Christ knows. Chuck takes his sweet time with everything. He'll get here when he gets here, that's what he says."

"Why not wait inside the restaurant, or another store?"

"Because if I'm not out here when he decides to roll by he'll just fuck off out of here again. I waited four hours last time because I went in to look around the dollar store for five minutes."

"I can give you a ride home. No sense getting poached out here."

"Why would you want to do that?"

"I don't know, Nancy. You're a cantankerous bitch who hasn't had anything nice to say since I met you. Like I said before, maybe you just need some kindness in your life?"

"You left me a tip. That was kind. But I don't need any help. And I don't need any goddamn charity from a strange guy."

As she spoke she'd begun to edge away from me along the cab of the pickup until she stood a third of the way along the empty truck bed.

"That's fine. I can drive away and go about my day. I was only offering. Makes no difference to me." I started to turn away then stopped myself. "Does this have anything to do with calling me a pervert?"

"Fuck, I was hoping you'd forget about that."

"It was a first for me. I'm not likely to forget it."

"You won't tell them about that, will you?" She nodded towards the restaurant behind me. "I need the job. It's a shitty job, but I need it."

"I'm not going to tell anyone. That wasn't what I meant. What I meant was you made an assumption about me. You assumed the worst of intentions when I was only trying to help you avoid embarrassment. Now you're doing it again. Like all a guy could be interested in is sex."

"Well isn't it? Isn't that all men?"

"Holy shit, Nancy. Maybe all the men

you

know."

There'd been a defiant look in her eye but now she glanced away.

"Listen," I said, "I'm not gonna argue with you. I hope Chuck shows up soon. Have a good day."

I was in my own car, cranking up the air-conditioning, wondering if I should step out and wait for the interior to cool, when there was movement beyond the driver's window and I saw a fist knocking on the glass. (I couldn't hear anything above the engine and the fan.) I lowered the window and Nancy gave me a tight smile that seemed to take a lot out of her. Droplets of sweat had formed on her brow.

I waited, forcing her to say it.

"I changed my mind," she said, "if the offer's still good."

"Leave a note for Chuck on the windshield, where to tow it."

"Oh, he knows where to tow it. It's paying for the tow is what he wants."

I let this hang for a few seconds.

"I see. Okay. Well jump in, I guess."

She hesitated, and I figure she'd been waiting for me to offer to pay for the tow (so much for not accepting charity), but she covered it quickly and gave a brief nod before heading around to the passenger side.

She gave me crappy directions to her place, calling turns at the last second that twice caused me to brake sharply and risk a rear-ending. We'd gone about three miles from the restaurant parking lot and were now in the center of the next town down the main highway.