I said my last goodbye to people I don't even know and stumbled out the door. It was 2:30 in the morning and the club operators told me in rather specific terms it was time for me to leave. Looking around, it dawned on me that I was alone. I had spent the evening in the company of the Plug, Hooter, Mother Hen, and two additional femaninas. Hooter began suffering from the fear around 1:15 and bounced, while Plug and the femaninas disappeared sometime around 2:00. Once again, I found myself alone and over-served in the Big Funky. It turns out I wasn't to be alone for long though.
The alcohol induced blur effect on my vision was taking its toll and as I walked to my car I thought someone had vandalized it by throwing a pile of trash on my hood. As I neared my unit I recognized the pile of trash as very over-served, very shirtless Hooter smoking a cigarette in quiet revere.
"What the fuck are you doing?", I asked him.
"I'm sitting on your unit", he replied.
"I can see that," I said, "but you've been gone for over an hour!"
"I started walking home and decided it was too far, so I came over here and sat on your unit to wait for you… I was able to get my shirt off.", returned Hooter as he climbed inside my car. Hooter has taken up the rather bizarre habit of walking home from bars by himself. Yes, it is a deathwish. Yes, it is awesome. Yes, his hatepool is deep. I looked at my hood; in the thin layer of dust I could see where Hooter had been making dust angels, or the preferable term 'dust demons' which are naturally more akin to hate.
On to new business, I asked Hooter as we drove down the street, "Taco C or Whataburger?"
"Whataburger", he answered.
I pointed my car towards Whataburger and turned up the new Obie Trice CD.
The drive-thru at the Whataburger was stacked deep. We decided to go inside and order thinking it would be faster than the drive-thru. As we walked to the door I noticed that Hooter was still shirtless.
"You better put that fucking shirt on!", I told him.
"I'm not putting shit on!", stormed Hooter.
"Hooter, I'm not going in there if you have your shirt off! They won't like that shit one bit.", I told him.
Thankfully, Hooter decided to comply although he did mumble some vaguely insulting comments about me and the social establishment of eating out while buttoning up his shirt. The Whataburger was surprisingly full, at least half the tables were taken up by people enjoying varying degrees of inebriation. I use the term 'people' loosely. I could just as easily have said "the Whataburger was empty" because these human shaped shells were soulless. It was disconcerting that most of the people had not gotten their food yet, but that's not something to trouble one's self with when all one's faculties are employed maintaining a rudimentary form of balance coupled with the most basic elements of composure. Hooter and I shuffled up to the register. Arthur, as usual, was the Whataburger associate responsible for taking the early Sunday morning inside orders. Arthur is retarded, and I've had run-ins with him before. For a retard, Arthur is surprisingly competent, in fact, besides the unswerving desire to do everything by the book, the deliberate, methodical pace at which he moves, and his inability to decode sarcasm Arthur's one of the better order-takers in the business. Let me further add, that while Arthur is reasonably good at what he does the job isn't very mentally taxing and it's more of a slam on the fast food industry as a whole when your most competent employee is mentally retarded. Anyway, back to the story. I placed my order to Arthur, followed by Hooter who made his standard late-night order that included 5 milks. Then the waiting began. Waiting in fast food restaurants late-night is bad news. I'm very capable of saying and/or doing something extremely offensive, and Hooter is a legitimate wild card. The tables were already turning against us.
Hooter and I waited directly next to the register, anyone else who came in to order had to crowd up next to us. I'm not sure why we didn't take a seat, I guess it's because we foolishly thought our food would be right out. Looking around, I began to take notice of all the groups of people in the Whataburger. There was a group of 2 chicks and 3 dudes, roughly our age, and apparently led by a brutish Samoan. There were several groups of 2 dudes, all of which were heavily sedated with alcohol. There was an additional group of 3 dudes, all of which were big fuckers, one of which was black. Near the back of the Whataburger were a few other groups skulking around. Hooter and I began to flesh out various insults directed at the individual groups, we thought we were talking quietly until a comment directed at the black guy caused some heads to turn. Even as over-served as we were neither of us had any interest in being shived outside of Whataburger that night, so we turned around and focused our attentions on Arthur. Arthur, without anyone to take an order from, was standing behind the register staring strait ahead. Hooter began inching his way behind the counter. It was almost surreal; I looked around to see if anyone else was watching this take place. There was Arthur staring strait ahead, motionless. Next to him was Hooter, looking completely out of place behind the counter. Arthur seemed not to notice Hooter hovering within inches of him. Finally, the Whataburger associate taking drive-thru orders noticed Hooter and asked him to return to the front of the restaurant and the masses. Hooter did not return empty handed though, he had with him Whataburger's entire ketchup trough. The trough was about 18 inches long, 6 inches wide, 6 inches deep, and literally overflowing with ketchup packets. Hooter told me he intended to keep the ketchup and the trough but he was getting worried that people could see him holding the trough. Hooter's enemies are as numbered as the stars which instills significant paranoia on his part. Holding the ketchup trough was too much for him, so Hooter rushed out the door with the trough and hid it in a giant planter outside the Whataburger. Hooter's attempt at hiding the trough was sub par, it could clearly be seen from inside the restaurant. When Hooter returned and saw that everyone could see his spoils just outside the window he was overcome with paranoia and told me he could no longer stand to be inside. Hooter left the restaurant, presumably to watch over his spoils and smoke cigarettes to calm his nerves.
Two dudes, roughly my age, sidled up next to me to place an order with Arthur. It was evident they were not from America, not because of their obvious Australian accents, but because they were absolutely terrible at ordering. They didn't know what the fuck they were doing. When I roll into a fast food restaurant it's: "number 2, booya sized, mayonnaise, pickles, and extra hate, with a diet coke", easy peasy japanesee. These jimmies were stumbling through the menu like a 13 year old in a Honduran bathhouse, they didn't know what the fuck they wanted or how to order it. Even Arthur asked them what was up and when a fucking retard thinks you're retarded it's time to clean your shit up. The hate these fuckers were stirring up in me was having a sobering effect on my senses. I looked at my watch. Jesus! It was 3:30! I'd been standing at that fucking counter for 45 minutes, Hooter had left me for dead, I was surrounded by retards and Ausies, and I didn't see any reason my food should be ready while I still breathed the free air.
Just as all hope seemed lost, Arthur placed 3 bags of food in front of me. I didn't even look at the contents, I just vamped. I walked out to my car and looked around for Hooter, he was no where to be seen. I started up my unit and drove around the parking lot, still I didn't see Hooter anywhere. Just when I was beginning to think Hooter had decided to walk home, I spied him running towards my car, cigarette in mouth, ketchup trough in arms, with a wild-eyed, half feral look about him. I asked him where he was when I was yelling his name, he told me some nonsense about being "just around the corner" but I could see the leaves stuck to his clothes. We vacated the Whataburger parking lot at speed an hour after we had arrived. Obie Trice was turned back up and the windows were rolled down, two good-ol'-boys rollin' down the IH-59 feeder street tempting the fates once more. Since Hooter was of the opinion people were waiting to jump his ass at his apartment, we headed to my apartment to consume our Whataburger perishables. Thoroughly enjoying myself, I looked over to see Hooter with the trough in his lap laughing and tossing handfuls of ketchup packets out the window. "Jesus", I thought, "we're fucking doomed."
Somehow we made it back to my apartment complex without being arrested. As we walked towards my apartment I noticed that Hooter was, again, leaving a trail of ketchup packets. "Man, you'll lead them right to us with that shit!", I told him. Hooter chuckled and tossed a handful of ketchup at somebody's door saying, "the trail will die here." How appropriate.
The Whataburger trough sits now in my apartment, a trophy designating the ruthless tenacity and dedication to hate exhibited at all times. There were dozens of soulless nothings that ate their Whataburger sans ketchup that night and I laughed myself to sleep thinking about them.