My Evening with Flanigoons

So yesterday I go out with my friend Jo Beth for one of our girly days. We have fun just bouncing around; it usually involves food, spending money on chatchkes from Home Goods - stuff which I always return the next day - it's like do I really need a fake cockatoo perched on a wood book that doesn't open? Yes! For a day anyway.

But that's not what this is all about. We went to see Julie & Julia the new movie about Julie Powell and Julia Child and her famous book Mastering the Art of French Cooking. After the movie, which was excellent (I grew up in the suburbs of Boston watching Julia on TV) we were both enormously hungry. Then I remembered I had gotten a $10 coupon in the mail for Flanigans's, so that's where we went. But first I had to drive home from the theater to get it (10 minutes away).

As we're driving back to my house, I tell Jo Beth, "I want to do something really great - really meaningful - but I don't know what. I want to write about something really good." Let it be known, that I have no less than four writing projects I'm working on and I can simultaneoulsy procrastinate on all of them.

Jo Beth says: "Collins, why don't you write about all the men you dated?"

I ponder this. There's been a few. All right - many. But we're going to eat and I really don't want to think about it while I'm eating. I trust the Universe will send me the answer for my special mission. Or at least a clue.

Now we're at Flanigan's; early evening - 7-ish and the place is fairly full of diners; locals and bar flies. Which is the same really. And one or two literal flies because someone left the door open. It's dark in here. Which is good if you're drinking at 11 AM - a dim interior always gives the illusion that it's an acceptable time to get hammered - even if you're on the surface of the sun. But enough of my Zen inebriation awareness - I'm starving. We each order half a rack of ribs.

Halfway through the half rack, we hear a full commotion behind us. I turn to see a dark-haired, good-looking man in his mid-thirties, accompanied by a young girl, about 3 years old. The man is pointing and shouting at the booth in front of him. He's quite angry. Livid, actually.

In the booth in front of him sits a family fresh out of Darwin's waiting room. On one side sits, what seems to be the father; a portly man in his forties, wearing a dirty t-shirt and a dingy baseball cap, sitting next to his equally expansive wife, who looks like she hasn't washed her hair since the Clinton Administration. And what lovely stretch pants. Across from them, sits the rotten fruit of their loins; a tattooed, pierced, bolted, bleached, made up like a Kabuki mask daughter, of about 13 or 14. Ans sitting next to her, is the son; the Urban Dictionary definition of "wigger."

Wigger-son, about 15 or 16 years old, was wearing the Mr. T starter kit of several heavy, cheap silver chains, a black t-shirt with the face of some rapper, and a baseball hat twirled to the side. The side. That is one of my pet peeves. Every time I see that baseball hat worn to the side, I want to go up to the punk and spin that fucker around! Unless you're 5 or under - the bill goes in the front, dillweed.

Anyway, the wigger is saying something unintelligible to the dark-haired man, who is shouting at him. I hear the dark-haired man has an Aussie accent. He's now half way out of his seat and he's bellowing. "Next time be prepared to have it crammed up your ass!" He says to the wigger. Actually he said arse. He was threatening an arse-cramming; right there, on the spot, at Flanigan's. Shielded by his family, the kid said something mumbly back.

Oh! I was so curious! What were they fighting about? Without even knowing what the beef or the boeuf (a word from Julia) was, I immediately sided with the Aussie.

The greasy-haired, beach-ball-with-arms-and-legs looking mother whispered (loudly) to her son not answer the man and be quiet. To which the wigger said something like: "Yo-yo, yo, yo, don't mess with me - I'm a yo-yo." or something like that.

After a few more minutes, the shouting subsided. Which probably had something to do with a manager coming by.

Finally, the family finished their meal and lumbered out (the wig sandwiched between his Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum parents) and the daughter, as she passed by, stuck her skanky butt at the Aussie and gave him a wink. I thought I'd lose my dinner. The little girl, put her mouth in the "O" shape and rolled her eyes. I swear to God.

We finished our meal without further incident and asked for the check. As I was adding my tip to my bill - I realized - I hadn't used the coupon! I swear, I have no memory. I went all the way home to get it for crissakes - and there it sat - right next to my pocketbook - mocking me. I asked the bartender if it was too late to void the first check and get a new one, adding the coupon. He gave me that pained look - like someone had just asked him if it was OK if they gave him a colonoscopy, right there behind the bar. "Never mind," I said, "I'll use it another time."

"Great!" he says, "I'm here every day. Wait! No, Wednesdays I have off. Every day but Wednesday." Yeah, thanks Captain Important. Let me just jot that right down on my Critical Things to Remember list.

On the way out, we had to pass the Aussie's table. "I gotta know - what was that all about?" I asked him.

"I couldn't believe it!" said the Aussie, grateful to talk to someone about his trauma. "I sat here with my ldaughter and that fat hog turned around in her seat and says, 'Mind your child, or don't bring her out.' I told her to turn around, my child wasn't bothering anyone!" (To be honest, I never even heard the kid make a peep. I believed him.)

"So," the Aussie continues, "That little punk picks up the knife from the table and holds it at me and says he'll cut me for talking to his fat fucking mother like that. Pardon my French..."

(Again..French is the theme of the day.)

"If my daughter hadn't been here - he'd a been right through the window!" His little daughter, who looked like a vintage Armand Marseilles doll (another French reference) looked at me with huge blue eyes and grimaced at his words, in apparent agreement, but still - not a peep.

"How much is your bill?" I asked him.

"Twenty-three dollars," he said. I produced my $10 coupon.

"Here," I said, handing it to him. "At least enjoy the rest of your evening."

"Thank you! That is so nice! he said. He pronounced it noice.

"That guy was an arse-hole," I said.

"Tank yew," said his little girl. The first words I had heard her utter all night. Then she held out her little hand - and I shook it.

And that's my Flanigoon's story.