Whore Club

Whore Club
by Arkady Gershteyn
 
Jeremy wasn’t having a good day. To be fair, his day was rather shitty. First off, he had a fight with his girlfriend. She said he was too conceited and superficial, “too polite.” And this, after the two years they’d been dating, was too much. He went berserk, told her to grow up, think big and then something else which he’d rather not repeat now. They departed with words of kindness, “go to hell,” and “bitch,” in reply. This was somewhat of a shock to Jeremy; he had always been so polite.

It was now 3 o’clock and he was standing on the intersection of Canal and DeWolfe streets. The three-story brick buildings shimmered in the heat. The stop sign almost swayed under the sun’s steady torment. Jeremy felt the first pangs of hunger.
On DeWolfe he noticed a black-on-white sign: Stuff your belly, fat pig. That was the only restaurant in sight, so he thought, might as well come in. As he approached the restaurant he noticed that it was all made of wood unlike the other houses, and also on the door read “Enter at own risk”; the three-spiked biohazard symbol; and “Fuck you” scrolled in pen. On the window he saw the menu. Anything from the lunch menu is about six bucks, which is OK, he figured, and pushed the door open.

A guy with blond hair and downcast eyes greeted him soberly with disappointment, “Just you?”  “Yes, one.” Jeremy uttered. The waiter was a head taller than Jeremy and dressed in a splendid tux, black pants, and a red bowtie. He threw Jeremy the menu and strutted back to the reception table. As Jeremy carefully opened the menu, he was not aware of all the people surrounding him, nor the waiter’s gruff manner; he was really hungry. “Dinner: Eat before you sleep and don’t wake up again.”
“Excuse me, I’d like the lunch menu,” Jeremy exclaimed firmly and waved to his waiter.

The waiter darted his eyes at Jeremy. They were filled with hate. He sat in his seat for a moment with his hands crossed. Then he slowly approached Jeremy, his face open and blond hair swaying under the fan. He stood within a foot of Jeremy in absolute silence for about a minute.

“Excuse me, but it’s only three and lunch goes until four, so could I please have the lunch menu.” Jeremy pleaded reluctantly, throwing oblong glances at the figure dwarfing him.
“You got a problem kid?” The waiter blurted with impatience. His breath became hard and his face reddened.
“No, but I’d just like you…”
“You fuckin cheapskate,” replied the waiter and shook his head up.
Now everybody was watching Jeremy. Everybody, literally everybody in the restaurant, had their eyes on him – the waiters, the manager, and the customers. Jeremy was always barely noticed at public places, always had to speak loud when ordering and cry out: “Thank you, bye” upon leaving. Now, he was the butt of all curiosity, the centerpiece of the joint. But Jeremy knew how to hold his own.

“What the hell?!” He replied, hurt, and looked at the waiter.
“Here’s your fucking menu, you little shit.” He produced a crumpled paper from his back pocket and stuffed it into Jeremy’s hand, and added with malice: “I might as well spit into your entr;e or shall it be appetizer?!”

Jeremy was dumbfounded; the waiter returned to his seat and started telling a young waitress something. Grinning at Jeremy all the time and ostentatiously pointing his finger at him. The waitress giggled. Everyone was still looking at poor Jeremy; they looked openly, without scruples, some grinned, and others frowned. The dark, bulky manager was grumbling something passionate under his breath. Jeremy looked at the crumpled menu:

Stuff your belly, fat pig
57 DeWolfe St.

Lunch entrees:
Damn beef steak…….…………………..6.99
  Rotten tuna sandwich…………………...5.99
Eggs and onions………………………...5.85
Pukin tomato lasagna…………………...5.99    
Vegetarian fish bone marrow with tofu...5.85

Appetizers
Stick your fishes (fish sticks)……………3.99
Stupid flying buffalo (buffalo wings)…...3.99
Ugly Greek Green salad…………….…..2.99
Chips in blood (Hot)………………….…2.99
Greasy meatballs (high cholesterol)…… 3.99

Drinks
Slutty Mary……………………………..4.99
Urinated Lemonade…………………….1.99
Old, warm beer…………………………2.50
Mate’s whiskey………………………...4.99
Bitchy beach cocktail…………………..3.99

20% Tip charged automatically for all freakin customers.


“I’d like the steak, and a lemonade.” Jeremy said in a loud voice.
The waiter got up and again got in his face.
“Allright, shithead. It’s coming up.”
Jeremy was annoyed. This was too much, enough for a month in fact.
“Damn it, I’d like to talk to the manager.”
“Yeah kid, what’re you gonna say? Like anyone fuckin cares.”
“Just call the manager.” Jeremy articulated clearly and he felt his neck tighten.
“I get it, you don’t like me, do you? Little shit. Fuckin prick. Son of a bitch. Well fuck you, Jane’ll be your waiter. So shut your crap now. She’ll be over.” The waiter tried to appease.

Jeremy was waiting. He crossed his hands and awaited the waitress. He felt some relief after all that humiliation and embarrassment. Oddly enough, the waiter’s speech left him victorious and proud.

Jane was the waitress who giggled. She approached the table with a confident stride. She had a splendid figure, 5 feet 8, wore high-heeled shoes, had a semi-revealing business shirt (several buttons undone), green eyes, and long delicate eyelashes. Jeremy was stunned and felt his heart thunder recklessly. He felt his hands become hot and sweaty and his eyes began to dart: Jane, window, Jane, manager, Jane, waiter, Jane, Jane.

She was now only six feet away from him, four, three, two. His eyes devoured her every move.

“I’m very sorry for Tom, he’s been out of spirits lately. He never knows how to talk to customers. I’ll treat you right. You’re really such a sweet kid.” She purred and ruffled his hair gently. “I’ll be back with your order.”

“Why, thank you” cried Jeremy as she strolled away. He sat there fumbling the crumpled paper which nobody bothered to take away. Jeremy was getting a little impatient after half an hour.

Finally, Jane came with his order on a black tray. She placed the glass of lemonade closer to Jeremy and then put the plate of sizzling steak closer to her. Then she began waving her hands violently, her face was seized by frightening contortions of rage and concentration.

“This beef is forever damned. Let the eater of this beef never grasp earthly pleasure. His health shall be poor, his life wretched, and shall he wander as a beggar in the gutter. All who know him shall turn away and not dare talk to the outcast. Women will have nothing to fear from him for he shall become senile and impotent after long malnutrition.

“Never shall he touch my breast, or thighs. Never will his muscles sore upon touching me, never shall his lips adorn mine, and never shall his fingers caress my neck. While, Tom and I la-la in the corner, he shall forever be a jealous watchdog and miserable drifter.
“So now may you devour this beef of damned spirit, and damn your soul.”
Jeremy was crushed and speechless. Jane stared into his eyes, but he couldn’t make out her expression: “Eat, and enjoy.” she said and walked away.
Was this a nightmare? Did someone announce today “Pick on Jeremy day”?! What had he done? Why him? Why must a stranger damn his soul?! How dare they all trample him, like dirt!

  He picked up the cold glass, it must be soothing. Cold lemonade will refresh me, Jeremy thought. It will clear up my throat. It will calm me and let me act cool and rationally. Just as he was about to bring it to his lips he sensed a strong odor of urine.
 
Jeremy stood up in a single swoop, spilling some of the liquid on the table.
“Manager!” Jeremy hollered so loud that he was shocked himself. Then he energetically waved his hand, gesturing the manager to approach.

The manager was a man of about thirty-five, with short dark hair, a small nose, brown cold eyes, an angular chin, tall, and with large biceps.

“Sir, what seems to be the problem?” the manager inquired tactfully.
“The, the, this is urine! My lemonade is ur, ur, piss!” Jeremy stammered and picked up the glass.
“You have ordered urinated lemonade sir. Is the urine not fresh, as you say?” The manager replied calmly but with concern.
“I ordered lemonade, not urine. Do you see that it’s piss. What the hell, did someone just piss in a cup?”
“Sir, urinated lemonade has two ingredients: lemonade and urine. Both are supposed to be fresh, yet the exact proportions are held in strict secrecy. Company secret, you might say.”
“Is this a joke?! You can have your piss back and take the meat as well. I’m never coming back to this screwed up place.”
“Sir, you must pay for your order. If you wish, we will oblige to offer you a free chips in blood appetizer prepared hot with extra peppers.” the manager cordially informed and tucked at his tie which fit perfectly with the black, classical-cut tuxedo and checkered pants.

Jeremy now felt his breath fasten and his neck stiffen. He was being kicked around like a sucker. Jeremy was chided in a professional manner. He had become the butt of their joke. Jeremy, the scapegoat of the disgruntled food service staff.

He flung the liquid in the manager’s face and added with a smirk, “You try some.”
Immediately a heavy blow forced Jeremy to the ground. In a matter of seconds Tom appeared and held him from behind. The manager stood with a stain around his neck, face calm and brows gathered in a reproachful frown.

“Pay up asshole, and get the fuck outta here.” the manager commanded.
Jeremy bowed his head in accord through clenched teeth. Tom released one hand. Jeremy threw a ten dollar bill.
“Pick it up and give it to me,” the manager thundered.
Jeremy did just that.
“Here is your RSVP card. From now on you shall be addressed as at least an ‘asshole.’
“The wait-staff here would like me to impart their sincere hate and damnation toward you.
“Shall you be screwed some more upon coming to this joint. Fuck you very much,” the manager said enthusiastically.

Someone tapped Jeremy on the shoulder twice as he was leaving. “You’re a true asshole, son. Fuck you for all your life,” then he winked and uncovered his warm grin.
“You’re an asshole yourself,” cried Jeremy and vigorously shook his hand. Then he slammed the door and walked several blocks before looking at the card:

Silver membership to Stuff your belly, fat pig
Rank: Asshole
Age: Young shit.
Show card prior to service.
Should any of the waiters or waitresses address you otherwise or show signs of favoritism please inform the administration.- Manager Tismon.
Upgrade to Gold level, they merit “motherfucker” and Platinum level: “hey you.”

He rang the bell. Rang again, and again. She came down, his beloved girlfriend. She just stood there, opened the door slightly and looked at him askance, as if a passing dog had woofed.
“You whore! I’ve been dating you for two years and you haven’t even kissed me. Damn it, we should have fucked by now. I’d love to smack you up, rough. My kissy.”

She swung the door, hugged him and led him to the bedroom.

© Copyright Arkady Gershteyn 2004