The door chimes. I look up.
In walks the fattest man I’ve ever seen.
“Holy shit!” I whisper, “Its Mr. Creosote!”
Creosote lumbers down the aisle and plants himself on a dainty chair. I feel bad for that chair.
“Oh my God,” Monique whispers back, “He’s huge.”
“Better warn the kitchen,” I snort, “They’re gonna be busy.”
Creosote picks up a menu and starts downloading its contents into his brain.
“Good afternoon sir,” I say greeting my new arrival, “Can I get you something to drink?”
The man forgoes a cocktail and gives me his order; a salad, a bowl of pasta, a steak, and the grilled salmon.
“What do you want first?” I ask, “The steak or the salmon?” I’m tempted to ask if he wants me to mix it all up it in a bucket and place a fried egg on top.
“Bring em’ both at the same time,” Creosote replies.
And don’t skimp on the pate.
“Very good sir.”
“”And I want my steak rare,” the man adds.
“But of course sir.”
I place the order. The food comes out. The man shovels it into his mouth while poring over some legal briefs. Yes folks, this guy’s Perry Mason cubed.
The man polishes off his entire meal and emits a loud belch.
“A bucket for monsieur,” I say to Monique.
“What the hell are you talking about?” my newest server asks, not getting my little omage to one of greatest comedy troupes of all time.
“Haven’t you seen Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life?”
“Monique,” I ask, “Aren’t you in film school?”
“And you’ve never seen The Meaning of Life?”
“Like I said the first time – no.”
“How about the The Life of Brian?”
“Monty Python and The Holy Grail?”
“Jesus Christ,” I say, “Aren’t you studying British absurdist humor?”
I throw my hands up in frustration. It’s not Monique’s fault. She’s a bright girl but she was raised on stuff like The Surreal Life.
“If I was your father I’d ask the University for my money back,” I say.
“Those movies must be really good,” she says.
“Round out you education,” I reply, “Rent them.”
The man orders two desserts and drinks half a pot of coffee. Finally, he signals for the check. I print it up. It’s over eighty bucks.
The man hands me his credit card without looking at the bill.
I run the bill and return it to Mr. Creosote. After a few minutes Creosote struggles to heave his rotundity out of his chair. It’s not unlike watching a Sea Lion wallowing on the beach. As he walks out the door I watch in amazement as Creosote turns sideways to get out.
I pick up the check holder and peek inside. The jerk left me five bucks. Fat or thin – bad tippers are assholes. I go to the window and watch Creosote waddle down the street.
I really wish I had a wafer thin mint right now.