Free Honeymooners A Cautionary Tale by Chuck Kinder Page A

held it above his menu. He frowned and shook his
old, woolly head. —This is all Greek to me, he said, and
chuckled.
     
    I think it’s tres romantic,
Alice Ann said. —Where’s your sense of romance, Ralph?
    What’s this? Ralph said, and
pointed to an item on the menu. —Number six. Under the dinners. I
can’t even pronounce it.
     
    That’s pastitsio, hon, Alice
Ann said. —Which is layers of macaroni, grated cheese, and sauteed
ground beef. It’s topped with a rich cream sauce and baked. It’s
yummy, but you ought to try their souvlakia.
     
    You don’t say? Ralph said,
and looked up at Alice Ann with a frown. —Well, maybe I can just
order me a nice sirloin burnt to a crisp, the way I like it. And a
good old American baked potato. Slavered with sour cream and
chives.
     
    Oh Christ, Ralph! Alice Ann
said. —It’s our fucking anniversary! If you love me, Ralph, you
won’t act like a horse’s ass, and you’ll get into the spirit of an
anniversary evening. If you don’t love me, then you
won’t.
     
    I know it’s our anniversary,
Alice Ann, Ralph said. —You don’t have to remind me of our
seventeen years together for a minute. We have those criminal,
thieving kids at home to do that every miserable waking
moment.
     
    Ralph hides goodies from his
own kids, Alice Ann said. —He keeps a stash of chocolate-chip
cookies in his underwear drawer so he won’t have to share with his
own kids. That’s why they are reduced to thievery.
     
    Those criminal kids can get
plenty of goodies of their own, Ralph said. —All they do is stuff
their greedy little ferret faces with goodies. Then who pays when
their pointy little teeth rot out? Tell me that. And that boy has
taken to stealing my, you know, Trojans. Right from my underwear
drawer, after he’s helped himself to my chocolate-chip cookies. I
know it. I’m a man who keeps count of what’s his. I have that
criminal boy dead to rights. A boy stealing his own old dad’s
Trojans, can you imagine? Is nothing sacred? But, Jesus, what can
I do about it? Ralph said. —I can’t even beat the boy to a pulp,
which, in my book anyway, is the sort of discipline he sorely
needs. That boy is bigger than me.
     
    Ralph, Alice Ann said, is
the one who could use some discipline. If Ralph had a little more
discipline, he’d pay a little more attention to the quality of
women he’s eating out. And then maybe he wouldn’t always be getting
those little, runny sores around his mouth.
     
    Jesus, Alice Ann! Ralph
croaked. (But he covered his mouth with one of his paws like a
reflex.) —Why do you always have to go too far, Alice Ann? Ralph
mumbled through his fingers.
     
    Hey, gosh, come on, you
guys, Judy chirped. —Hey, I know. Somebody should make a toast to
something. To something, you know, romantic, in honor of the
occasion.
     
    How about toasting romantic,
albeit sordid, buying trips? Jim suggested, which was about the
first thing he had had to say that evening, for he’d been basically
just parked there feeling real broody and mean and reconsidering
seriously his promise not to pound the crap out of his first wife’s
latest boyfriend.
     
    Say what? Ralph said, his
own old, furry ears perking up. —What in the world does that mean,
old Jim?
     
    Come on, Jim, Judy said,
eyes like daggers. —Don’t you start up, too, buster.
     
    I know something tres
romantic we can toast, Alice Ann said, and raised her glass.
—Here’s to Ralph’s rubbers.
     
    Holy moly, Ralph lamented,
and shook his head.
     
    Or, Jim said, to love and
marriage. Some fool songster said they go together like a horse and
carriage. So come on, everybody, let’s all ironically bubble up,
Jim said, and tipped his glass against Alice Ann’s.
     
    Oh, why not? Judy said, and
tipped her glass against Jim’s and Alice Ann’s glasses, and then
she uncharacteristically guzzled her drink down. —I just love
champagne to death, Jim’s first wife informed everybody.
     
    Count me out, Ralph