Hot Sauce and Cigarettes

Reeves

"I bet his breath stinks. I bet he's gonna put something in your drink. And like, you'll wake up in a basement and he'll have facepaint on and turn out to be some kinda ..a serial killer weirdo guy. Like that one movie, you know The Da--"

"SID. Stop it." I commanded.

Sid was laughing, leaning his whole body forward and jumping backwards on one leg. His cigarette jumped between his fingers and ash fell to the cobblestone sidewalk of our outdoor break area. When I commanded him to shut up, he stood up straight, messing with his leather jacket a bit. Sara didn't look up, she kept watching her foot. Her legs were crossed and she kept moving one foot in little circles. She was dressed up--a nice floral print dress with a jacket, it was colder out. I didn't understand why she was dressing nicely, you'd think she'd want to do everything wrong.

But then again, I'm old and kids' fashion is all messed up these days. Boys are dressing like girls and girls are dressing like cupcakes vomited all over them. Maybe the opposite is good. Ah well. That's why the best thing to do most times is just to sit back and let things work themselves out. Like this Crazy Guy thing. I refused to get myself in the middle.

Sid started up with more immature notions and Sara just kept weening off a cigarette, watching her foot, blocking out everything else around her.

"Doesn't Joseph need you, Sid? The dinner rush isn't over yet."

"C'mon Reeves, I just wanna watch--"

"No. Inside." I got up, "Let's go, I'll buy you a doughnut."

"Marvin always gives me moldy doughnuts." Sid whined.

"Maybe it's because you're mean to him."

"I ain't mean, that's just what everyone sees." And he spat in one of the flower pots on our way inside.

It's these opposites here, they just don't make much sense to me.

Demeter

The sun was burning in the sky, and so was the end of my cigarette. My "date" was late.

I sighed, inspecting my outfit. I couldn't believe I'd even bothered trying. But hell, If I was going to do this, I was going in style and class. Because that's how real ladies did everything.

When he finally did show up, he was wearing a thermal shirt and overalls. Overalls! One of the demin straps was hanging off his shoulder. I shook my head in slight disbelief as he skipped forward confidently, smiling like the idiot he really was. A perfect representation of the male race, and yet, nothing like any other male in exsistence.

I shook my head again as he waved at me, holding out a little slip of paper. I took it--frowning--told him I'd read it later, and followed him to his smelly little car.

I could feel everyone in the store watching me through the glass, and held my head up a little higher.

Georgie

I yawned and slumped my head forward onto my desk. Writing 101 was an exceptional bore. Partly the subject, mostly because the classmate beside me was an ass with a head full of air and a heart full of pride. He wore a beret to class. A beret! Usually some lame indie band no one listened to marched across his shirt. He knew more about literature than me and more about video games and more about tea and fashion. He didn't like me because I didn't know anything. I didn't like him because he thought he knew things. Really, he knew nothing.

After he blabbered on about the meaning of this poem we just read, my professor called on me.

My professor thought I was some reincarnation of a genius. In class I was dangerously quiet, but if I wrote a paper I was suddenly the next Johnathan Swift. It was a huge reality that hit me low in college--people will have expectations and put you on a pedestal--even if you're not trying. So when the lady asked me what I thought the poem meant I smiled and said,

"I don't know."

My professor sighed, "Please?"

I hardly ever reject manners.

"I-I think the speaker's mad at his dad," I stuttered over the words. I was a terrible speaker. Sometimes I forgot to breathe or swallow and everything came out like I was choking on my thoughts, "...But who are we to say? It's kind of ironic--"

"Nothing's ironic. You don't know the meaning of ironic." The boy with the beret hmphed, spitting the last word between beaver teeth.

Everyone in the room turned to stare at me. I could feel their eyes pinching into my skin. College is different from high school in that usually students will not taunt you further or tear you apart for immature reasons. However, staring pupils still have the ability to burn just as much as insults.

I sunk low into my fall jacket, chewing away at a hangnail embedded in my left thumb until it bled. Like a turtle or armadillo, escaping hastily from a threat. A rollie pollie, saving herself from the child with the poking hand.

My professor moved on to force feed us--telling us the meaning of water in books, the meaning of mirrors and carpets and other unworldly little things. Why did everything have to have meaning? Why couldn't a writer just write about a carpet, because that's the type of floor a man should walk on? I rolled my eyes, stared on at the huge glaring clock centered above the white board. 7:30 pm.

I missed Riley and Sid and everybody then. I wondered how Rose was doing.

Rose

Tim was a nice boy, a lively boy. Despite his awkward appearance and Leave it to Beaver sense in clothing, he was confident and comfortable in his person. I didn't know if I'd go on a second date, I hardly did, but I was away from work and that was good enough for me.

Some jobs are "fun". Some jobs are pure hell.

Unfortunately, I possessed the latter.

But here was this nice boy in his grey suit, and I'd escaped from that nasty little cafe for now.

"My apologies, we had to go here. It seems to be the only place open after seven anymore, other than the pubs."

I smiled and Tim smiled back politely, assuredly. We ordered some food (I can't remember what it was, the menu wasn't exactly up to par anyways). Al's Texas Grill was the worst foreign restaurant to ever attempt U.S. cuisine, and really put into perspective what the natives here thought of Americans in general. The decor was rustic and cowboy themed, with stuffed snakes and cut-out cacti hanging in every alcove. The walls were a burnt and stinging orange, covered with beat up license plates and paintings of dirt-dusted cowboys.

You get the picture. Everyone in America lived in the desert, wrestled snakes while watching reality television, and we all talked like John Wayne.

The reality tv part was a shameless truth, I realized, when the guy I knew as Abraham and Georgie's supposed femme fatale of a boss sat in the booth next to ours.

Tim and I stared at them over the rims of small drinking glasses, readying ourselves for drama, entertainment.

Demeter

I scowled, staring at the menu. They served nothing remotely edible. Al's idea of pizza was bar-b-que sauce topped with corn. According to the locals, the burgers were burnt and tasted like roadkill, and soups were mostly comprised of sausage gravy.

"Do they have salads?" I asked myself aloud, flipping the menu upside down and craning my neck to see if they were hiding in fine print.

Abraham's voice, giving me a headache, "What's a s'lad? Is that french?"

I was about to call him an idiot when my menu was snatched away roughly. I stared up at the infamous Al, proud owner of the ugly little establishment. He had a gut the size of two basketballs, an accent thicker than his arms, and a greasy beard that made me even more apprehensive to order something. Everyone knew him by name, for he was the nicest guy in the city. I mocked him often for it. As far as I knew, visible kindness was a sign of weakness.

Al slapped Abraham on the back so hard that he coughed, spitting some pepsi up on his chin. A small smile graced my face, but I hid it quickly by sipping some lemonade a little waiter had brought seconds earlier. It was very bitter, sour. Barely any sugar in the mix. The way I liked it.

I realized everyone around was staring at us. Why were they staring?

Al said, "Abe, m'boy! Who is dis ladyfriend?"

"Oh this--"

"No." I said sharply. There was no way he was introducing me as his ladyfriend.

Awkward silence.

"It's been long time since you visit, you know. I cry like a horse. You vant me to should bring out... two plates for your favorite?"

"Yeah. Thanks man. Appreciate it."

And Big Al left, lumbering slow down the aisle of low-lit booths.

"For your favorite?" I scoffed.

"The guy's german, ya'know." The fool shrugged, "He meant, 'what I usually order'."

"What do you usually order?" I crossed my arms. He didn't answer, just hummed a tune lowly and played with his thumbs.

A few very stiff minutes of me thinking about my boyfriend and looking at my nails, and suddenly a plate was set in front of me. Some kind of mutated brick of bone and fat coated in a disgusting, grisly sauce stood out next to some half-cooked fries.

"Ribs!" Abraham announced, and dove into his own plate like a hyena does to a fresh kill, "They taste like meat, if meat were a candy."

I didn't imagine so. To be honest, I'd dined at some pretty high class places--tasted calamari, snail, meats that looked like catfood and served in very tiny portions. But I'd never eaten ribs, burgers, or any of those strange comfort foods. Also, there were no forks around, anywhere! Where... how...?

"Are you gonna eat or are you gonna stare?"

I looked up slowly, looked around shyly (imagine that, me, shy) and leaned forward with my hand half-covering my mouth,

"I've never... I don't know..."

He dropped an already clean bone to his plate, "You've never eaten ribs? Seriously?"

I nodded, suddenly embarrassed for no reason. I rubbed my hands together.

"Well.. just..." He motioned with his sauce-covered hands, "Pick it up and bite into one, that's all."

I grimaced, taking one of the grilled things up carefully. He nodded like a caveman, oily blondish hair dropping in his face and shoulders slouching lazily. I took a bite. He smiled.

"Ta DAAAHH. Greatest meal in the whole world!"

Okay, so maybe it tasted alright. Good. No, great. These things did taste great.

I looked up at the ceiling for a moment, and noticed all the pretty little white christmas lights--strewn among silk, shadowy leaves and tiny white, fake flowers. They looked like a dark green night sky, a fairy meeting place. Beautiful, but really unorthodox and strange.

I pointed upwards, "The ceiling. It looks so out of place."

"Do you like it?"

I looked up again, "Yes. It's pretty."

He beamed suddenly, and it took me by such surprise that I almost choked on a rib. Then he said,

"It was my idea."

"Bullshit. Really?"

"Yeah, I even helped set it up. That's why Al likes me so much." Abe suddenly picked at his back tooth and chewed his thumb for a second, mumbling, "But I'm glad you like it. Nobody here looks up. Hardly anyone ever sees it..."

I didn't know how to respond to that, and apparently he had nothing more to say. We just ate, and for the first time, we didn't look like enemies sitting across from one another in that tiny booth. For a good minute or so, we could pretend we were friends. There were no jabs, no jeers, no heated staring contests.

Well, until I tried wiping rib sauce from my face with a napkin...

"Don't do that, it won't work. It'll just get everywhere. Actually, that's a good thing. Cause then you'll taste like bar-b-que when..."

My inner feminist--the loudest voice within my head--screeched, mortified.

"Oh, so now you're going to turn me into nothing more than an object? A plate of food? You're a pervert."

"Hey, at least I'm honest about it, unlike your stupid man-boyfriend-thing. He's a real douche--" He sipped his pepsi, nonchalant and smirking.

That made me very, very upset.

"Excuse me? You don't even know my boyfriend, or me, and... and.." My angry voice was tinged with sarcastic laughter, "I don't know why I'm on this stupid date because you're stupid, and this place is stupid and that ceiling is the stupidest thing I've ever seen! Leaves and flowers with little lights? Huh? Idiot."

I stood up at full height, throwing my drink in his face.

"Ow...! That's... ugh. That's... wow.. lemon."

My own face was hot with anger and my hands were rolled up into fists again. I turned sharp, marched down to the front doors of the place, not caring what other people were saying. I was content with walking home from here. By myself. Because that's all I needed. Myself.

Rose

We had no time to check if Abraham was alright. He got up quickly after rubbing away at his face, carrying an extra purse with him. Apparently in her state of emotion, she'd forgotten to grab it. He whizzed by everyone, even the sympathetic Al. But he would find no success. She would be long gone by the time he reached the doors. Timothy offered to buy him a drink but he refused, so we left him there.

Rib sauce all over his face and lemonade dripping off the ends of his hair. A purple purse on his shoulder, an animal print bag dangling in his hands.

Tim summed the night up well with a, "Oh, dear. She has a good arm, though, really."

I told Georgie everything I saw once I got home (after tiredly spilling the details of my own date, of course) and she seemed satisfied.

"I just didn't want them to end up falling for each other or something. That would have been horrid. It's not cool to mess up a perfectly good relationship, you know?"

"Do we really know?" I remembered how angry everything became. So angry, so fast. All over a boyfriend who nobody had ever really met.

"No." She suddenly said, "We think we know things. But really, we know nothing."