Free Sh*t My Dad Says by Justin Halpern Page A

behold, Hooters was looking for cooks and hired us. Contrary to what a teenaged guy might think, it quickly became the worst job I’ve ever had. As soon as you get over the fact that you work around a lot of boobs, you realize the job entails a bit of cooking, a ton of cleaning, and trying to meet the needs of insecure women yelling at you to make their fries faster. I spoke openly—and frequently—about my hatred for my job to everyone I knew, always comforting myself with, “But it could be worse. I could be the dishwasher at Hooters.”
    So when Evan asked me, “Hey, could you get me a job washing dishes at Hooters?” I knew he was in a bad place. Even though he’d heard me vent endlessly about working there, he still wanted the job. So I got it for him.
    Five nights a week, he would come from his volunteer internship at a sleep therapy lab and go straight to Hooters, where he’d start washing dishes in slacks and a dress shirt. Then he’d head home to sleep, and do it all over again the next day.
    My dad was concerned that Evan seemed lost and unhappy, and even more concerned that he wasn’t meeting any women.
    “He’s a fine-looking young man. Your twenties is a time for screwing and so forth. He needs to meet some women,” my dad told my mom after dinner one night while Evan was scraping buffalo sauce off of plates at Hooters.
    In an effort to liven up Evan’s romantic life, my dad decided to step in.
    “I got a woman for you, big dude,” my dad said to him one night after he came home from work. (My dad calls Evan “big dude” since he’s the tallest in the family.)
    “I’m pretty busy, Dad,” my brother responded.
    But my dad had already set up a blind date, and my brother, unlike myself, rarely puts up a fight.
    “You’re going to like her,” my dad said, and Evan nodded warily.
    I was shocked that Evan didn’t ask our dad more about her, but that’s not his style. Later, when I questioned his reticence, he explained, “I sort of do what Dad says. You get mouthy with him, and then he yells at you. I always figured if you could stay the kid he yelled at, I wouldn’t be that kid.”
    So, the next Saturday night, Evan asked to get off early from his dishwashing shift at Hooters. I was working in the front of the kitchen and spotted him on his way out. He was covered in dishwater and looked like he had fallen on a grenade filled with hot sauce and blue cheese dip.
    “Dude, you going on the date with Dad’s lady?”
    “Yeah,” he replied, half asleep. “I smell, like, really gross. I should probably shower,” he added. And off he went.
    When I got off work a few hours later, I crawled out of my disgusting Hooters uniform and drove home shirtless, in an effort to prevent my car from smelling like chicken and hot garbage. I jumped in the shower and, when I came out, found my dad sitting in his recliner in the living room, asleep. Then I heard the front door open and saw Evan walk into the hallway and tiptoe toward his bedroom like a cat in a cartoon trying to sneak past a sleeping dog. Unaware that he was trying to go to bed without talking to anyone, I immediately jumped in.
    “How was it, dude? Was she hot?” I shouted excitedly.
    My dad snorted himself awake, and a look of fear shot over Evan’s face.
    “Big dude, how’d it go?” my dad asked, closing his robe back up.
    “It was okay, but I’m tired,” my brother said, trying to slip off to his room.
    “Bullshit. Get back in here, let me know how it went.”
    Although Evan is quiet and demure most of the time, every once in a while he snaps. This was one of those times.
    “She’s a resident in neurosurgery who used to be Miss Oklahoma or something!” Evan screamed, his eyes suddenly venturing into angry crackhead territory.
    “I know—good stuff, right?” my dad said, confused as to why Evan was upset.
    “NO! I’m twenty-eight, and I live at home! I wash dishes at FUCKING
    Hooters!”
    Evan rarely cursed, and never,