I feel sorry for you. I really do. My life is just so perfect! I don’t know how anyone else wakes up in the morning not being me. I have the greatest job, I love doing what I do, and I make a lot more money than I need. My accountants told me I should make some investments. I don’t even have to work anymore, but my job is like being on vacation all the time, so I might as well get paid for it, right? It’s embarrassing, really.
My wife and I are the happiest married people ever! Our desire to please one another is so pure, it sickens our friends, but she is so gracious, they can hardly help but love her, too. We throw a party, everybody wants to come, and everybody’s talking about it for months.
Meanwhile, every Thursday night, we go out, just the two of us. We are quite a sight. I used to feel weird about how people would stare and say “Sir!” and step out of the way, marveling at how obviously special our lives were in comparison to theirs. Sometimes we go to a movie or a play, but we always go out to dinner together. Louisville has a great restaurant scene, and, having followed it for so many years, we recognize many of the people who wait on us. They move around from place to place, you know. Sometimes this is because the place where they were working went out of business, but there’s always a new restaurant opening up, so it’s easy for them to find a new job someplace else. They obviously love their work, maybe even as much as I love mine!
I don’t know why I didn’t think about it before, but taking the opportunity to write about the restaurants we patronize turns our romantic tradition into a money-making tax write-off! This just gets better and better! Not that I need the money. Heck, it’s almost more trouble than it’s worth keeping track of the figures.
In any case, last Thursday morning, I was really excited. My wife and I were going to try a new restaurant down on Market Street that night, and I was telling one of my colleagues about it. I could tell that he was pretty much wishing he was me, seriously. And then, as we were talking, this kid was trying to push a cart of file boxes around us. He said, “Excuse me,” and bumped into my elbow and made me spill my coffee on my jacket. He was, like, “I’m sorry, Mr. Curry, I’ll go get a towel,” and he ran off down the hall toward the kitchen.
My buddy, the one I was talking to, said he had some work to do, so he took off, and I was standing there by myself, waiting for the kid to come back with the towel, thinking, if he doesn’t get back here quick, this is gonna stain.
After a few more minutes of waiting, I figured my coat was ruined. I spoke to management and had the little shit fired, but that didn’t really make me feel any better. I was in a bad mood for the rest of the day. When my wife called, I told her about my coat, and she was like, “You can get a new coat!” She totally didn’t understand! She even said I might want to try to get it cleaned! That is, like, so inconvenient! And the fact that she was so unbelievably insensitive really surprised me. I felt like I didn’t even know who she was anymore!
I tried to rally, but it felt like the day was really going in the toilet. I hid my disappointment as we got ready, and watching her dress for dinner nearly brought me back to even, but I was still feeling a little bit anxious about her attitude.
The restaurant was fine. I think it was called Basilisk or something like that. I had chicken, and my wife had some veggie thing. As much as I love her, watching her chew was really getting on my nerves. We didn’t talk very much. Our server kept asking if everything was OK. I was, like, “Yes, everything is OK,” but he was being a total pain. No tip for you, you hovering moron!
After our dinner, I was feeling a lot better. I wonder where we’ll go next week!
*This story is part of LEO's Fake Issue.
