Free Less Than Hero by S.G. Browne Page B

Sophie. I’m waiting for the right moment. I just haven’t figured out when that will be.
    “I don’t see any dishes with meat,” Frank says.
    “That’s because this is a v-v-vegetarian restaurant,” Isaac says.
    “Vegetarian?” Frank turns the menu over. “Are you fucking kidding?”
    “Mostly vegetarian,” Randy says. “No pork, beef, or fowl.”
    “Why didn’t we pick someplace that serves meat?” Frank asks.
    “They have tuna burgers,” Charlie says, trying to be helpful. “And fish and chips. And salmon croquettes.”
    “Fish isn’t meat,” Frank says. “In order to be meat, it has to have legs.”
    “Yeah,” I say. “I think they have that listed on the FDA labels.”
    “Did you guys know that in addition to food and drugs, the FDA handles sanitation requirements on interstate travel and disease control on products from household pets to sperm donation?” Blaine says.
    Randy nods toward a pair of twenty-something women who walk past our table. “I can get behind the idea of sperm donation.”
    “Well,” Vic says. “I guess I won’t be ordering the rice pudding.”
    “Can we please have a meal where you don’t talk about anal sex or body fluids?” Frank says.
    “What about s-s-snakes?” Isaac says.
    Everyone looks at Isaac, who doesn’t provide any additional information.
    “Is that supposed to be a metaphor for something?” I ask.
    Isaac looks at Frank and tilts his head. “S-snakes don’t have l-legs.”
    It takes us a moment to realize he’s referring to Frank’s definition about what constitutes something being meat.
    “When was the last time you saw me eat a fucking snake?” Frank asks.
    “Hey Frank, have you considered anger-management classes?” Randy says. “Or maybe meditation?”
    “Have you considered kissing my ass?” Frank says.
    “There’s a lot of it to kiss lately,” Vic says. “Can you narrow it down to a longitude and latitude?”
    The waiter approaches our table. “Are you gentlemen ready to order?”
    Everyone looks at Frank, who stares at the menu like it’s written in Hatfield and he’s a McCoy. “Goddamn it!”
    The rest of us place our orders while Frank tries to make up his mind. He finally decides on the smoked-whitefish sandwich with a bowl of vegetarian chili, but isn’t happy about it. When the waiter leaves, I figure this is my chance to bring up my newly discovered ability to make people fall asleep, but Charlie starts asking questions about his upcoming clinical trial for an experimental drug to combat seizures and the conversation inevitably turns to business.
    “What are some of the side effects?” Blaine asks.
    Charlie reads off the list of more serious ones, which include mood and behavior changes, depression, thoughts of suicide,muscle pain, weakness, tenderness, easy bruising or bleeding, swelling in the hands or feet, and rapid weight gain.
    “Hey Frank,” Vic says. “Did you take this medication?”
    Isaac lets out a snort and Frank silences him with a glare.
    We spend the next fifteen minutes talking about other upcoming clinical trials and sharing information about which ones to volunteer for and which ones to avoid; then our food arrives and we all dig in. Even Frank, though he complains the whole time about how he was in the mood for a bacon cheeseburger.
    While we’re eating lunch, a fat guy in a Hawaiian shirt who weighs at least two-eighty walks past us and sits down at a table with his buddy, who’s wearing a Sex Pistols T-shirt and playing Laurel to the other one’s Hardy. The skinny one lets out a yawn that I catch, which prompts Frank to ask if I’m still having trouble sleeping.
    “Not lately,” I say. “But I think I’ve figured out what was causing it.”
    “Sorry to eat and run.” Blaine tosses his napkin on his plate and a twenty on the table. “I’ve got a two o’clock in the Bronx.”
    “Is that the trial for the West Nile virus vaccine?” Charlie asks.
    “Irritable bowel