Hooters is maybe my favorite place, because I am a man of simple pleasures. My favorite meal is good-old homestyle cooking: fried chicken or even better, turkey, and mashed potatoes, dear God! But a close second, and I mean slim margin, is hot wings! I love a big ol’ basket of hot wings drenched in electric-orange buffalo sauce. The shit that’s so orange it glows. So orange you know there’s nothin’ natural in it. Delicious!
I also enjoy taking in a sports game. Hooters is clearly quite partial to a football game, and don’t get me wrong, I’m a fan, too. Something about the way those players move when you’re on your third pitcher of beer. But speakin’ of pitchers, the best game on God’s green earth is America’s favorite pastime: Baseball. All the other sports move so fast. And baseball players are easier on the eyes.
And the music! Back when I’d come with my buddies, they’d always play this strip club dad rock crap. But nowadays, I come in on the downtimes, afternoon on the weekdays, and I ‘spose one of the girls takes control of the speakers cuz it’s always some sort of underground folk or old old country. Kind your grandpa would listen to.
A strumming guitar crackles over the P.A. and I audibly gasp. “Everything okay, sir?” A passing waitress asks. “The song!” I respond, a grin plastered on my face. “It’s Tia Blake!” “Who?” “She’s this folk singer from the seventies.” I kick my legs under the table. “She’s soooo cool!” “That’s nice.” She offers me a quick smile and continues on her way. She’s wearing just this itty bitty little number, you know? It’s cold as hell outside, I’m shaking in my boots which are too big for me, my ass is just barely starting to warm up pressed against the lovely wooden bar chair. You’d think they could wear pants or a jacket at least. Stacy saddles up to the table, not even bothering to pull out her pen and pad. She folds her arms. “Hi, Jimmy.” “Howdy!” I tip the brim of my cowboy hat. “The usual?” How cool is it to have a usual? I always wanted to be a guy who can get ‘the usual!’ I shake my head. “You know, Stacy, I might do my usual in a bit, but I’d like an appetizer.” I pointed at the menu that I had practically memorized. “Lemme try the Hooters Original Buffalo Shrimp please.” Her lips pull into a smile. “I’ll be honest, Jimmy, that sounds fucking disgusting.” “You ain’t tried it?” She shakes her head. I stroke my chin. “Well, I’m feeling adventurous.” “And a Pepsi?” “You know it!” I prefer Coca-Cola to tell the honest truth, but everyone knows that Hooters only carries Pepsi brand soft drinks. She takes my menu and saunters off. I noticed something recently that I didn’t favor, you know, I didn’t feel proud of myself for thinking it. I noticed earlier that the girls, now that most of them know me, they don’t peacock with me like they do with the other gentlemen. They don’t puff their assets out or nothin’. Hands cover my eyes. “Guess who?” Rings a voice behind me. “I didn’t know you were on shift today!” Amanda drops her hands and comes around to the side of the table. “I’m not supposed to, I’m covering for Kelly.” “Again?” She rolls her eyes. “They better can her ass soon.” I lean forward, resting my head in my arms. “Hey, Amanda, can I ask you somethin’?” “Sure, baby.” “It’s maybe a bit inappropriate.” “I’m used to inappropriate at this job.” “Why don’t… uh,” I hush my voice a bit. “Why don’t the girls show off for me?” “Show off?” She giggled. I lean back and mime grabbing my own tits. “You know why!” “I most certainly do not.” “You’re not gonna tip us any more.” “Wha?” She leans in and speaks with a flirty tone. “You’re a nice guy, Jim. You’re not going to tip us more for showing off.” “I feel it important to tip twenty percent no matter the service…” “We appreciate it!” “You know, Amanda.” I try to steady my dorky ass voice. “I think you look very pretty.” “Aw, thanks!” She flashes me her nails. “What do you think?” They’re cherry red, probably a full inch long. “They’re gorgeous!” “Just got them done. Seventy dollars.” “Jesus! Aren’t those hard to work with?” She twirls her fingers like girls who just got their nails done do. “I know what I’m doing.” I giggle. She is on her way to wait on one of her tables. Flirtatiously, she bounces boobily for the other guys. Yep, they’re horn dogs for sure. They’ll tip more for her because of it. There’s a certain look in the eye, an underlying smell to them. It makes me a bit repulsed to see that look on a man’s face, well, at least when he’s not looking at me. It’s practically villainous, it’s decadent without taste, it’s the arrogance of never bein’ told ‘no' or in the very least not respecting the word ‘no’. MMA is on the TV, so I gaze with my jaw dropped at the interplay of muscle and sinew underneath the men’s sweat-drenched skin. I sometimes get a giddy feeling. I sometimes allow myself the joy of the little things, and live in the moment without effort. Stacy sits the pepsi and shrimp in front of me. The smell is immediate, burning my nostrils. “So you want the usual?” My gaze sits unfocused on the platter. “Jim?” “Oh, I’m sorry. Um. I’ll have the usual.” “Is everything okay?” My voice deepens to the point that you can barely hear it. “Yeah, I’m good.” The shrimp is okay enough for me to finish it, but it really is a weird combination of flavors. Besides, it could never stand up to the main event. My usual is the Hooters Daytona Beach® Style Wings and a side of tater tots. Stacy places them on the table with a certain dexterity that comes from experience and care. “I’ll make sure to get you some more napkins,” and she was off. I touch the seared, crispy, sauce-coated skin of a wing to my tongue and feel the euphoric rush. The interplay of flavors and textures, from the tangy hot umami of the wings to the crisp and refreshing sweetness of the Pepsi, there really is nothing on Earth like it. And that, combined with the calm buzz of the restaurant interior, contributes to an experience of peace not unlike that of a cozy living room, the closest thing to the sense of home I have found in this state. The wings sit warm in my belly. My eyeline falls amongst the other male clients of this fine establishment. I want to see us as sharing some sort of communion. I want to recognize myself in their fumblings, but I can’t. There’s nothing relatable in their stares falling to the waitresses’ chests. There’s really nothing I can identify with in the close camaraderie they share. I’m on an ocean, really. Stacy finally returns to my table with my card and receipt. “You can stay as long as you want, hon. Thank you for coming in.” I nod. “Yeah, uh, thank you for making me feel welcome.” She smiled. The heat of the meal provides a residual warmth that protects me a small bit from the frigid temperature outside. Amanda takes a drag. “Leaving already?” She asks. “Yeah. There’s TV on at home I wanna watch.” Each puff of breath I exhale matches the smoke pouring from Amanda’s mouth. “You seem a little bummed out,” she says. I lean against the wall. “Do you like the attention, Amanda?” She held her cigarette out like a starlet. “It’s a living, Jim.” She has a devilish look on her face. “Would you like it?” I have this weird feeling in my gut that has nothing to do with the copious amounts of spicy shrimp and chicken I’ve consumed. “I mean…” I try to weasel out. “I never got attention like that before, so I wouldn’t know.” “Do you want it?” My steel toe boot digs into the dirt. “I wouldn’t mind it.” Amanda leans in and kisses me on the cheek, and I can feel a mark of lip gloss that she leaves behind. She always treats me like a boyfriend or something, not that I’d really know. “I think you’re a really sweet guy, Jimmy. Next time you're in, I’ll make sure you’re in my section. There’s so much I want to talk about.” THE END