They may have been brothers, I thought so at first but that was not true. The long-haired one said “my mother and father,” so they weren’t brothers; they looked alike is the reason for the assumption. Both them were fat and wore their shirts unbuttoned to their sternums; I could see the underflop of the long-haired one’s man-titty. Short-haired guy most likely had his boob sticking out, too, but they were at the table next to me and he was on my side, so it would have been obvious I was titty-staring. Long-hair was opposite me, and thus his titty was in my peripheral.

Long-hair was aggressively on his phone the entire time, and had calves the size of softballs: his ankles were oddly delicate and the massive spheres stood out over them, and over the white Crocs he was wearing. Shirt-hair had on flippity-flops, (also known as “Florida combat boots”). This may be the first time in recorded history that the guy wearing the flippity-flops had the best shoes.

I think they were from Palm Beach.

“She asked me about the benefit. This is her now, ‘how much are you getting?'”

“She said that?”

“It’s the season. The season is…Mar-A-Lago.”

“You don’t see what that is?”


“What she’s saying is ‘Are you working or are you going. Going.”

“Oh. Is she?”


“I was invited!”

“But that’s what she’s saying.”

“It’s networking.”

“But that’s what she was asking you.”

“You’re right.”

2016, it seems, will follow one to small diners, where you have brought a book and left your phone in the car, and bray allusions to the Devil right next to your eggs and bacon. Fuck you, 2016. Let me enjoy my breakfast.