Breakfast Monday:
Waitress: "Ready to order?"
Me, handing menu back: "I want two eggs, over medium, with grits, ham, whole wheat toast dry."
George: "I want the same thing."
Waitress, looks at me with eyebrows slightly raised. Knowing pause before writing.
Me: "He wants two eggs, sunnyside up, with hash browns and onions, sausage, and whole wheat toast with butter."
George, scowling and shoving the menu at waitress. "I already said, the same thing as you're getting. That's the English teacher, always trying to correct me at everything."
Me: "Yeah, I know, I suck."
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Breakfast Tuesday at Mexican restaurant where waitress barely speaks English.
George, spreading hands to illustrate some point: "Do you have a regular breakfast?"
Waitress, flushes and taps fingernail on menu. "Uh…"
George: "No, a regular breakfast. You know, eggs and bacon, like that?"
Waitress makes sign indicating she'll be right back. Returns with manager. "Can I help you?" he asks.
George: "We want a regular breakfast. We just wanted to know if you served regular food."
Manager, looks at menu, perplexed. "We only have what's on the menu, sir."
George looks at me. "A reg-u-lar break-fast."
Me: "What's a regular breakfast? Do you want bacon and eggs? Pancakes? Scrambled eggs?"
George: "Why can't you ever take my side?"
Manager, brightening: "Pancakes?"
George, angry now: "No, goddamnit, not pancakes, I want eggs and sausage."
Me: "Chorizo is Mexican sausage. You can get that in your scrambled eggs."
George: "I'm just trying to do you a favor; I just wanted to get you a regular breakfast because I know you don't like Mexican food."
Me: "Oh. Sorry."
George: "I can order for myself, you know. I don't NEED you always telling me what to do."
Me: "Right, okay. Sorry."
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Magic beans at the Dog Show
Me: "Okay, George, there are almost a hundred vendors in the Main Hall. I've already made the rounds, now it's your turn. Your job is to go in your electric wheelchair up and down the aisles, looking for free samples. Most dog food places will have them, and you can get free sample bags of dog food and treats and candy and all sorts of things. You can have all the candy and nuts and stuff. I just want anything free related to dogs. See all the people with their big yellow bags? They'll give you one of those and you can go around and fill it up. Almost a hundred vendors. Plenty of people to talk to, an easy roll around in your electric wheelchair, lots of dogs to see. Okay? Got it?"
George: "I'm on a mission from God!"
Me: "I'll be here. Go have fun."
George rolls off eagerly, scattering a few dogs and owners as he flits by the ring where people are waiting in line to go in. I wince as I hear yelping in the distance. the show goes on, I talk with friends, I show Flash in Rally, go back to corner where I keep my crate so Legend and Flash can sleep quietly. About an hour and a half goes by, and George comes flying along in his wheelchair, beaming from ear to ear. Notably, he has no big plastic yellow bag of loot in his lap.
Me: "Hey! What'd you get?"
George: "I got you a present!" Beaming proudly. "I met this guy on the second row—we've been talking all this time—and he's an old school guy, a true artist. He—"
Me: "Wait, you only made it to the second row?"
George: "Hear me out! You're gonna love this. He saw my Korean War hat and his dad was a vet and he knew where Korea was! He's like a whole earth guy, a hippie, and he makes his own pots BY HAND! He sells them for fifteen to fifty dollars apiece. He's one of those true old fashioned artists."
Me, uneasily: "Like statuettes and stuff?
George, excitedly: "NO! Much better! He makes these pots, like canisters and stuff, and –THIS!" From the side pouch on his wheelchair he whips out a small object with a flourish and holds it out to me. "TA DAH!"
It's a blue ceramic coffee cup with sort of a tan band around it. Walk into any thrift shop and there will be a dozen just like it hanging from hooks. Usually twenty five cents, maybe half a dollar.
Me, not taking it: "A coffee cup?
George: "He charges FIFTEEN DOLLARS for these things, but he gave this one to me for free. I told him all about you and how you train dogs and everything like that, and he GAVE it to me for nothing. So I'm giving it to you."
Me, unable and unwilling to hide my annoyance. "George, that coffee cup is worth about a dollar. You can get the exact same thing at the dollar store. Look at it. It's not the work of an artist. He was probably drinking his coffee out of it before you came up to him."
George: "You always think the worst of everyone. How could you possibly know that?"
Me: "Well, for one thing, you can see the coffee stains still in it. But mainly, for God's sake LOOK AT IT."
George, looking at it. I can see something flicker in his face as he realizes I'm right. "Well, he was a really interesting guy and liked my war stories…"
Me: "But there were rows and rows of vendors. Didn't you go look at the shoeshine place to get your special polish? Didn't you go by the massage table guy and get your neck rub? Didn't you see the people who had your floor wax that you've been looking for? Or all the free things they give away, the dog treats, the samples, the bags of dog food and coupons and..."
George, now crestfallen: "No…"
Me, sighing, once again the bad guy. "Well, why don't you take it up front where the judges' tables are, and they'll give you some free coffee to go in it."
George: "Okay." He backs up and turns around.
Me: "Wash it out first, though."
George, muttering: "You always ruin everything."
It's true. I do.
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Lunch Wednesday, actually before lunch, when I drive over to get him.
George, grinning broadly. "Boy did I get you a present!"
Me, feeling a shiver of dread. Yet another opportunity to become the bad guy. "Really? Cool. What is it?"
George: "You said you wanted a dog crate? I got you a dog crate!"
Me, brightening a little. "Really? I do really need one."
George: "I got it at the flea market for only ten dollars. He wanted twenty but I jewed him down."
Me, wincing: "George, when you say that, it---"
George: "What?"
Me: "Don't say 'jewed him down.'"
George: "Why not? That's what I did."
Me: "Because…"
*****Flashback to dinner with JD and George at Gabby's, after we finish eating. Waitress: "Is there anything else you need, sir?" George, big Republican good old boy booming voice, "Nothing else, unless you have a good cigar and a whore somewhere on the menu!" Hardee har har. Remembering JD's quick look down at her plate, the flush high on her cheekbones. And at the dog show, a professor I know came over to chat, met George, and said to me she we'd all have to get together with the other women she was with.
George: "Maybe you women can get a quilting circle going and get a good gossip going."
This is why I have no friends.*****
Me: "Never mind. I'm happy to have a crate for the dogs. I really need one."
George: "Here you go." A moment passes while he studies my face. "NOW what?"
Me: "Uh…George, have you SEEN my dogs?"
George: "What do you mean?"
Me: "I, I, uh…I don't think even Legend is going to fit in there."
George: "Oh, bullshit. There's no making you happy, is there?"
Legend: Ahoooooo!
Thursday Morning phone call
George: "Do you want to go get some breakfast?"
Me: "Well, it's almost ten. I had breakfast when I got up. I'll wait until lunch to eat again."
George: "Well, I need to go eat. My blood sugar is down and I'm getting dizzy."
Me: "Oh, they didn't give you anything to eat at the VA this morning?"
George: "No, that's why I need to eat."
Me: "But you usually get breakfast there, don't you?"
George: "Well, yeah, I had a couple of tiny little eggs, no bigger than pigeon eggs."
Me: "Just eggs?"
George: "Oh, you know, they give you a spoonful of hash browns, and a couple of skinny little strips of bacon. You can hardly see them on the plate."
Me: "No toast?"
George: "Yeah, but it was white toast."
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George's Compliments:
George, looking at internet pictures: "Man, you used to be good looking."
Me: "Yeah, thanks, I guess."
George: "No, I mean it. You used to be so pretty. You used to have that great long hair. You were like a young Jody Foster."
Me: "Yeah, okay."
George: "What's wrong? Compliments embarrass you?"
Me : "Yeah, that's it."
George: "Well, they shouldn't. Only a few years ago you used to look really nice."
Me: "Okay. Great. Thanks."
George: "No need for false modesty. Anyone who was once as good looking as you used to be should be proud of it."
Me: "Fine."
George: "Leave that picture out. I want to look at it awhile, and remind myself of the days when you were so pretty."
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George stories people are reminding me about:
Golden Corral, coming out from eating dinner. I see movement in the bushes and stop to watch. A little brown rabbit peeks through the leaves.
Me:" Oh, look, George, a rabbit."
When George goes to a buffet style restaurant, he always pauses on the way out the door, when he thinks I'm not looking, and stuffs his pockets with cookies. He can take out a whole tray of them by taking off his hat and stuffing it with cookies, too—unless there is something else he wants more. Today it was roast beef, so he has a hat full of roast beef, a little juice running down the side of his ear.
George: "Where? That's a pigeon. There aren't any rabbits around here."
But sure enough, the rabbit, which must be a lost pet, pokes his nose out and wiggles his whiskers at us. Something brown whizzes by my ear and lands by it, and the rabbit bolts and vanishes back into the bushes, running around the corner of the back wall. I see a chunk of meat on the ground.
Me: "Did you just throw roast beef at that rabbit? Why'd you do that?"
George: "He's probably hungry."
Me: "George, rabbits don't eat roast beef."
George: laying a finger aside his nose (a gesture I still don't understand) and nodding sagely. "He will if he gets hungry enough."
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Stories I've told before:
We're at Pepper's, where I've taken George for his birthday lunch. He is grumpy and out of sorts; he hates his birthdays and blames them vaguely on me.
Me, hinting at the nice watch I got him for his birthday: "So, George, what time is it?"
George, glancing at the watch and making a face. "I told you I couldn't wear watches."
Me: "Yes, you can."
George: "My body has some kind of magnetism from all the shrapnel I got in the war. They must magnetize them somehow. Watches stop working the minute I put them on. Unless—" He makes a big show of looking at his watch and smirking at me. "Unless it really is seven at night, which I very much doubt, your fancy watch stopped this morning. I know you think I make up half of this war stuff, but the fact is, you don't know a damn thing about it. I was there, and only someone who was there can understand what went on, what it was like. That hand grenade went off not ten feet from me and if another guy hadn't taken most the blast I wouldn't be sitting here today. Women can't possibly know what it's like to have to fight for their honor and their country. They--"
Me: "George."
George: "What?"
Me: "Which side of the watch is the button on?"
George, frowning down at his wrist: "What?"
Me: "Are you sure you didn't put the watch on upside down?"
George (both arms under the table, moving furiously). "Unnh."
Me: "George?"
George: "What?"
Me: "What time is it?"
George, looking at nice watch I bought him for his birthday. "Eleven thirty."
_________________
PUDDING!
When buffet style restaurants first opened, twenty five years ago, there was one called "People's" in South Houston. George, Bill, and I went there. George was so excited because he'd discovered the place and wanted to show it off.
George: "They have the best pudding in the world here, and you can eat all you want!"
He and Bill go off for dessert, and Bill brings back chocolate pudding; George brings back what looks like banana pudding.
Me, tasting Bill's. "Good,"
George: "Wanna taste mine, too? It's so rich and delicious."
Bill is grinning so hard his face is red. Bill loves to encourage George.
Me, after a tentative taste: "George, where did you get this? Not in the dessert section?"
George: "No, over there, by the bread. That's the beauty of it. I always get as much as I want, I think people haven't figured out where it's hidden over there That's why you never have to stand in line for a bowl of it."
Me: (glaring at Bill) "No, the reason you never see anyone else with a bowl of it is because it's frickin' MARGERINE."
_____________________________________________
Bill, George, my best friend Dennis, and I are at Louis on the Lake, known for their fabulous spread. Like Bill, Dennis loves to rag on George, especially over his little vocabulary issues.
George: "There's one of those cars with the new radical (RADIAL) tires.
Dennis: "Yeah, I heard they only turn to the far right."
George: "Don't give those guys (people in phony uniforms waving coffee cans at our car windows at an intersection) any money. They don't really work for the Salivation (SALVATION) army."
Dennis: "The Salivation Army? Is that the organization that calls its band 'The Drool Team?:"
George: "Jordan never talked to me about her "marsh-an" (marital) issues."
Dennis: "That's because women are from Venus but Jordan is from Mars."
(Because martial arts is pronounced "marshall arts" he thinks marital is pronounced "marshan." Don't think about it too much ; it's George-logic.)
Biggest fight we ever had in a (CHINESE) restaurant:
Location: Dim Sum Restaurant
Waitress: (very strong accent, Vietnamese, barely speaks English.) "Can I get you?"
George: "Nobody gets us!" Hardee har har har.
Me: "Cashew Chicken, please." Tapping menu by picture. "Number six lunch."
Waitress: "Ah. Numma seeks. Yes. Suh?"
George: "Do you have any wild rice?"
Waitress: "Wile ice?"
George: "Wild. Rice."
Waitress points at menu. "Have brown rice. Also whi' rice.."
George: "Wild rice."
Me: "George, it's a Chinese restaurant. They don't serve wild—"
George: "Did I ask you? Just shut up and let me talk to the waitress."
Me: "Fuck you. They don't have wild rice here."
George: "You don't know that."
Me: "Any fucking IDIOT knows you don't get wild rice at a Chinese restaurant that serves a lunch menu like this."
George: "I've been coming to this place a lot longer than you have."
Me: "And still you haven't figured out they don't serve wild rice?"
George: "I never asked before."
Me: "Well, they don't have it."
Waitress: (looking around like a horse in a barn that has caught on fire) "You wanna brown rice?"
George: "You think that PhD means you know everything."
Me: "I know they don't serve brown rice here, but any idiot with an elementary school education knows that."
George: "So now I'm an idiot."
Me: "No…in all fairness…You were an idiot before now."
George: "You always interrupt me when I'm trying to order. That's why I never get what I want."
Me: "You never get what you want because you always want what *I* get."
George: "Not…always…"
Voice of man: "Excuse me please?"
We glare up to see the manager standing there with the menu, the little waitress literally hiding behind him.
Manager: "You want brown rice?"
George: "I want to know if you have wild rice."
Manager: "Brown rice?"
George: "You know, WILD RICE."
People turn to look at us. George loves attention. I do not.
Manager says patiently, "We have brown rice, we have white rice. No other rice."
George. "Fine. Was that so hard?" Smirks at me and waves menu at Manager. "I'll have—what's that?"
Manager: "Special emperor chicken." (Indicates dish with a little chili pepper symbol over it, followed by three more, and then a little skull and crossbones)
Me: "No, he can't eat that. It's too hot for--"
George: "WILL YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP?" Hands menu back to manager. "I'll have that, then."
Manager: Nods once, Asian style, does not look at me, backs away slowly.
Me: nothing. Thinking of George being dead, me inheriting, which dance should I do on the grave? The funky chicken, or something more formal, more dignified? Oh, wait, he wants to be cremated. Focus, don't lose temper, focus, focus…Okay, how many flushes will it take to get the ashes down?
George: "Oh, so now we're going to play that game, are we?"
Me: (still mentally flushing) "What?"
George: "That's fine. Two can play at that game."
Me: "Okay."
Silence. Apparently that's the game. The food comes. They set a plate of the red chili pepper dish that will injure George severely if he eats it. I begin eating silently. He takes a taste of the food, his jaw quivers, and he begins to drink in big gulps from the ice water in his glass.
Me, casually: "Food a little hot for you?"
George: "No, I don't know what's wrong with these goddamn Japs. I am not eating penguin."
Me: "You won't eat what?"
George: "God damnit, don't start in on me again."
Yeah, it took me awhile to figure it out too.
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