More Than a Kiss

Zombie at the Restaurant

P.C.’s turned out to be housed in what was once a car dealership. The entire front of the restaurant was glass and there was plenty of parking. This was a bonus in a city with parking issues. Amy wondered if that wasn’t the big draw to the place. They’d taken Jeremy’s Buick Le Sabre, inherited from his grandmother. They’d popped Jordan’s bike in the humongous trunk.

“I mean I love this car but I can hardly park it anywhere,” Jeremy said, sighing with relief as they parked easily. “One of the bonuses of this restaurant. Miles and miles of parking. Who knew?”

“Yeah, but is the food any good?” Amy asked.

“We’ll soon find out,” Jeremy said. They all got out of the car. Jeremy lovingly patted the hood of the Buick.

Jordan said, “There are a lot of cars. The food must be pretty decent.”

“There are a lot of BIG cars. Doesn’t that sort of defeat the purpose? An organic restaurant that attracts gas guzzlers because it has a huge parking lot,” Amy replied, as they walked to the restaurant which seemed to be a half a mile away from where they were parked.

“Not necessarily. If the food is all sustainable and does positive things for the environment then the carbon footprint with the car thing brings it to the level of a Burger King,” Jordan said, as they passed into the slide glass doors. “It’s kind of a wash.”

“I like how you think,” Jeremy said.

Jordan thought that the inside was exactly how you would expect a used car dealership turned restaurant to look – all chrome, glass and plastic. Jordan took one look at the booths and chairs and joked, “You know how many naugahydes had to die to make this place?”

Amy giggled and put her hand over her mouth like a little kid in church. Diners stopped chewing and scowled at them.

Jordan marveled about how everybody in the whole place was so solemn. Obviously, being P.C. was serious business. She set her face to serious mode and scowled back at the patrons. Amy giggled again, then snorted behind her hand.

“Sorry,” Amy said. “That happens sometimes when I laugh.”

“No snorting allowed,” Jordan said. “Didn’t you see the sign?”

Amy snorted again. Jeremy moved several feet away, trying to appear as if he didn’t know them.

A hostess rustled up to Jeremy. She was wearing a plastic mini-dress that crinkled when she moved.

“Can we have one of those big booths?” Jeremy asked. “In the back? Far away from other diners?”

“Of course.” The hostess grabbed three menus and said, “Follow me.”

“With pleasure,” Jeremy said, following her swinging hips and barely managing to keep his eyeballs in their sockets.

The hostess showed them to an oversized booth – the kind where seventeen people could sit comfortably and still have elbowroom. As Jordan scooted in, Amy asked the hostess, “What sort of a car dealership was this place?”

“Hummer,” the hostess said. “The owners, Labia International, wanted to take the worst possible place and transform it.” When she said the word transform, she waved her arms up and down her body in an imitation of Vanna White.

Amy said, “Excuse me. Did you just say Labia?”

“Yes. It’s an acronym. It stands for Lesbians Against Brutality In Animals,” the hostess explained.

“So then, this is a vegetarian restaurant?” Jordan asked.

“Oh no,” the hostess said. “Dead animal flesh is served as tasty entrees, but during the animal’s life it is given a name and treated as part of a family. All our meat has died a natural death. The animal has not been brutally killed for its flesh to be devoured by consumers. Its life was not cut short during its prime, but it was allowed to live to a ripe old age.”

“I see,” Jordan said. “So, if I order a hamburger, it comes from a really old cow who died of old age.”

“That’s correct. Today’s bovine was Sonja. She lived her life with the Johannson’s of eastern Nebraska. She loved hay and sunny days and standing in the pond.”

“I’ll have a salad,” Amy said.

“Would you care to hear the bio of our chicken, Florence?”

“No, thank you. But I do have one more question,” Jordan said. “Is that a plarn dress you’re wearing?”

“It is. Do you like it?” the hostess asked, evidently very impressed that Jordan knew what plarn was. “I crocheted it myself.”

“I love it,” Jordan said. Actually, she didn’t love it at all. She thought it looked scratchy. And how would you clean it? You could wash it, but wouldn’t it melt if you put it in the dryer? And if you hung it out to dry, there was the possibility of it molding. Jordan thought she would stick to cotton.

The hostess stuck her ample chest under Jeremy’s nose. “Wanna touch it? It’s softer than you’d think.”

Jeremy was more than happy to oblige. He ran his palms up and down her front. Bliss was written all over his face. Amy stuck out a tentative finger to touch next. Jordan laughed and swatted Amy’s hand away.

Jeremy was in complete and total lust. “Do you want to go out sometime?” he asked.

“Love to. Here’s my card.” The hostess pulled a business card out of her plunging plarn neckline. It appeared to be made out of ordinary card stock.

How very un-P.C., Jordan thought.

The hostess rustled her way back to the front. “Wow, this place truly rocks,” Jeremy said, studying his newly and unexpectedly given phone number.

“What is plarn exactly?” Amy asked.

“It’s plastic bags cut into strips, knotted together into one long string and then crocheted or knitted together to form whatever you want,” Jordan said.

“Do you have any plarn clothing?” Amy asked.

“No, nor do I intend on getting any,” Jordan replied. “It’s too loud for my taste. Just like those wind pants people wear. You can hear them coming a mile away.”

Jeremy was checking out his silverware, which appeared to be fashioned out of cut up tin cans wrapped with duct taped handles. “How very dystopian,” he said.

Jordan examined her fork. “It’s like something Tina Turner would use in the Thunderdome.”

“My mother would love this place,” Amy said. “She upcycled before upcycled was even a word. How did you know about all that plarn stuff?”

“I downloaded this video from Norway. It was a knitting show where you watched people knit for nine hours. It was called Slow T.V. and it’s a big hit with the Norwegians. They have other videos where you watch a fire being built and burn for twelve hours, a constipated dog doing circles for commercial breaks which are five minutes long, a three hundred and seventy eight hour documentary of looking out a train window. You get the idea,” Jordan said.

Dumfounded, Jeremy and Amy stared at her until Amy asked the million-dollar question: “Why?”

“I don’t think there is a reason. It just is. When I get stuck writing I watch these videos because they are so incredibly boring that it inspires me to do something. I watch for as long as I can stand it. Then I can work again because nothing I do can be as dull as that. I haven’t had to watch since you came along. You truly are my muse.”

Amy blushed.

Jordan turned to Jeremy and said, “You do realize that a woman who hands out business cards for dates might be a bit on the odd side, right?”

He nodded. “It says here she also sells Herbal Life supplements.”

“I’d stay away from that if I were you,” Jordan said.

“You’ll have really icky stools,” Amy added. “Remember when Veronica and Valerie got into that stuff?”

“Oh, yeah,” Jeremy said. “It was like a full-on biohazard hit the place.”

“The housekeeping staff threatened to go on strike if the twins continued to drop stink bombs,” Amy said.

“The maintenance department was right behind them. Remember they kept clogging up the toilets,” Jeremy added.

“I can’t believe you’re small-talking about stools. Is that what doctors do?” Jordan said.

The waitress, tall, blond and stacked, appeared at their table. She was wearing a maxi-dress made out of potato chip bags. “What can I get you to drink?”

“Are those potato chip bags?” Jordan asked.

“Yes, this dress is made from snack sized chip bags,” the waitress said proudly. “My entire wardrobe is made from my neighbor’s trash.”

“Hmmm. If I did that with my neighbor’s trash I’d be wearing a Budweiser can suit with Spam can earrings,” Jordan said.

Amy laughed. “I’d be dressed in Lean Cuisine.”

Jeremy got in on the joke. “If my neighbor orders one more pizza, I’ll have a car.”

The waitress frowned. “Are you making fun of me?”

“Noooo,” all three said at once.

The waitress seemed satisfied with that answer. She pulled out her order pad. “What can I get you to drink?”

“What is there?” Amy asked.

The waitress pointed to the menu with her pen. “The drinks are on the back.”

Jordan flipped over her menu and studied the drink list.

Jeremy ordered first, citing the first thing on the list. “I’ll have Horchata with lime.”

“What is that?” Jordan asked.

“I don’t know but it’s fun to say,” Jeremy said.

“What’s this Tofurky?” Jordan asked.

The waitress said, “It’s thanksgiving in a bottle. It smells and tastes like turkey and gravy, but it’s really meatless. Made out of tofu.”

“Liquid turkey and gravy,” Jordan mused. “No, thanks. I’ll have this Chari-tea instead.”

Amy asked, “What’s the Real Eel?”

“Just what it says,” the waitress said.

“Okay, I’ll have a Lemon-Aid.”

“Good choice.” The waitress and her potato bag dress crinkled away.

“If the drinks were that difficult, how is figuring out what to eat going to be?” Amy said.

“Good question,” Jordan said. She pointed at the menu, “Do you want to split the deer penis appetizer? I’ve heard it’s good for the libido.”

Quicker than Samantha Stephens could wiggle her nose there was a flash of white and Petronella was sitting in their booth. “Stay away from anything with squirrel in the name,” she said.

“Petronella? How did you… Where did you…” Jordan stammered. “What are you doing here?”

“I am here celebrating with Irma,” Petronella said. She gestured to the other side of the room. Irma, sitting at a table, had a big smile on her face. She waved. Jordan limply waved back.

“What are you celebrating?” Amy asked cheerfully.

“Our anniversary,” Petronella said.

Jordan said, “Your what?”

Petronella smiled. “We have been together for nineteen hours. We are deliciously happy. We are in love.”

Jeremy piped in, “Sex is a mood enhancer. It raises your serotonin levels and causes you to think you’re in love.”

Petronella glared at him. “Men,” she scoffed. “They know nothing of the heart. Only the penis.”

“I beg your pardon. My penis is quite romantic,” Jeremy said.

“As I was saying,” Petronella said to Jordan, throwing Jeremy one last scalding look, “I want to thank you for introducing me to Irma. She is amazing. She has helped me realize my potential as a woman, a feminist, a poet, a teacher and now as a performance artist. She has made me realize how extraordinary I am.”

“I had no idea that you didn’t realize you were extraordinary,” Jordan said.

“I didn’t know my full potential until I was drowning in paint, on the edge of a nervous breakdown. Then along came Irma,” Petronella said. She actually had glistening eyes.

Jordan handed her a napkin. Petronella dabbed at her happy tears.

“All this in only nineteen hours?” Amy said.

Jordan explained, “Nineteen hours in lesbian time is like three years in normal time. They’ve probably already moved in together.”

Petronella nodded. “We adopted a kitten this morning.”

“Holy shit,” Amy said.

“You don’t like kittens?” Petronella said, aghast.

“It’s not that. It’s him.” Amy pointed to the entrance just as Chad stumbled through the front door. “I have to hide before he sees me.” Amy slipped under the table and hid in the first place she could find – under Petronella’s skirt.

“Oh!” Petronella said.

“Sorry,” Amy said, burrowing further between Petronella’s thighs. “Pretend I’m not here.”

Petronella giggled.

“Since when did you become a giggler?” Jordan said.

Chad lurched up to their table. He was wearing only his hospital gown, which was flapping open in the back. His hand was bandaged and tubes were sticking out of both arms. His hair was standing on end and he had a glazed, feral look in his eyes.

“Where is she? Where have you taken her?” Chad pointed a finger at Jeremy. Then he realized his bandage didn’t allow for pointing. He lifted his other hand and pointed that finger. “Tell me what you’ve done with my Amy,” he threatened.

“Dude, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jeremy said. “You shouldn’t be here. Your finger can’t take the stress.”

Chad leaned over the table and waved his bandaged hand around. “You know where she is!” Jordan, Petronella and Jeremy had to bob and weave to keep from getting bitch-slapped. Chad leaned closer, pushing his nose into Jordan’s face. He slurred, “She’s mine. Where have you taken her, you, you, Lezebel? I’ve warned you. Stay away from her. She’s mine.” He straightened up and thumped his chest like Tarzan, yelling, “Mine, mine, mine!”

“Who is this madman?” Petronella said, patting Amy’s head to reassure her.

The waitress in the crinkly dress flew over with a man dressed in an Astroturf three-piece suit.

“Sir, you can’t be in here,” Astroturf said. He pulled Chad by the arm, trying to guide him toward the door.

Chad stumbled and jerked his arm away. “And why the hell not?” Chad spit. “I’m a customer. Customers are always right.”

“You don’t have any pants on and we have very firm rules about that,” Astroturf said.

“She isn’t wearing pants,” Chad said, pointing at the waitress.

“Yes, sir, but her dress is covering her butt. Your dress, sir, does not,” Astroturf said.

Chad looked over his left shoulder in an attempt to see his own butt. He spun in circles like a dog chasing his own tail. The spinning made him dizzy and he was flung out of his own orbit and onto the next table. Dishes and silverware and chairs clattered and crashed to the floor. Chad toppled on top of two diners and they all fell to the floor in one giant heap.

Jeremy said, “I think we should leave. Now.”

“I agree,” Petronella said.

“But how are we going to get Amy out of here without her being seen by him?” Jordan whispered conspiratorially.

“Yeah. How?” came Amy’s muffled response.

“Under my skirt,” Petronella said. “Amy, stay as low as you can, hold on to my thighs and walk with me. You two,” she nodded to Jeremy and Jordan, “walk with me also. And act natural.”

They began a slow, plodding march to the door. Petronella walked with her back arched, her legs splayed far apart and her skirt billowing out in front of her where Amy’s head bobbed up and down with each step. Jordan and Jeremy held on to Petronella’s elbows steadying her.

“Make way,” Jeremy said. “She’s having her baby.”

“Good cover,” Jordan whispered. She said louder, “Watch out. Pregnant lady coming through.”

More crashing sounded behind them as Chad got up and pinged off tables and diners like a pinball.

The waitress opened the front door for them. “Oh, I am so sorry about this. Please do come back when we don’t have a Zombie on the premises,” she said.

Amy laughed from under the skirt. Petronella thunked Amy on the head.

The waitress looked at Petronella’s baby bump. “Did your baby just laugh?”

Petronella smiled and said, “My baby is very advanced.”

At that moment, Petronella’s white Mercedes skidded to a stop right in front of them. Irma smiled from behind the wheel. Jeremy opened the back door and Amy and Petronella jumped inside. No sooner had Petronella pulled her door shut than Irma mashed her foot to the gas and the car squealed out of the parking lot.

Jordan and Jeremy were left staring after the disappearing car.

After a heart-thudding turn onto the main road, Amy poked her head out from under Petronella’s skirt. She crawled into the seat and peered out the back window. “But what about the others?” she said.

“No worries.” Irma drove with one hand and dialed a cell phone with the other. After a moment, Irma said, “Agent Jordan, this is Black Bishop and Ice Queen. We have your package.”

After a brief pause, Irma said, “Black Bishop will take care of package. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to lead Madman in Dress on wild chase of goose.”

Another pause then, “Black Bishop signing off. Over and out.”

Amy stared wide-eyed at Irma. “Who are you?”

Irma winked at Amy in the rearview mirror. “Irma is Black Bishop, a sleeper agent for Mother Russia. Do not worry. You are in good hands.”

Petronella stared adoringly at Irma. She whispered to Amy out the side of her mouth, “Isn’t she thrilling?”