I took a window seat and peered into the Chili’s parking lot. First to enter the crystal automatic doors of the establishment was a rather suave John Wilkes Booth, sporting an outfit straight out of a pile of leaves. Slipping into the other window seat across from me, he began with a decree, “You know what,” he told me, “I hold nothing dearer to the bile inside me than those who take the seat of another man.” What a way to begin conversation. I assumed then that he had arrived first to ensure none of the others left him with the terrible seat. “A while back, I leisured at a theater to pass the anger of losing the civil war to the North,” Hardly knowing what he was getting at, I nodded on, “And to my vexation, a dastardly man in an uncomfortably high brimmed hat swindled my seat before I had arrived! And even worse, in my theater booth—my family’s namesake! I very much unleashed my temper on him for that, I tell you.”
Behind our conversation, Jon Arbuckle, the second to arrive, as timid if timid grew like grass, nestled onto the seat beside me. Dressed in a baby blue collared shirt, ugly pants, and a foul-of-fashion polka-dot tie, this man was undeniably the Jon Arbuckle. From his lap, a really fat orangish cat hopped down to the tiles, scurrying past a waitress and advancing into the kitchen. I swore, under his breath, I thought I heard him murmur “Garfield!” before directing back to the table.
Last of our group was John Pork; fashionably late as always—classic John Pork. He greeted us each with an oink or two. Circling in on the seat nearest to the bathroom, John Pork strategically collapsed his rear into the overly cushioned chili’s seat. The chair precariously shook, bearing John Pork for a second or two, before collapsing in on itself. John Pork, unabashed, asked the waiter to get him another chair—classic John Pork.
As we all settled, our banter remained light. Between “How are things?” a waiter dealt us our menus. Like lightning, I requested the Triple Dippers—all for myself I might add, but that doesn’t make me big, right? Arbuckle skimmed over the lasagna section. Eventually, he ordered pepperoni pizza (I didn’t know Chili’s offered lasagna or pizza, but this is what writing a piece at 2 am gets you, so “whayagonnado?”); for Booth, the soggy curds. John Pork looked up to the waiter, “I think I’ll have the ham sandwich.” The silence was caught by everyone around the table. “I uh b-b-bu-bu-bu…” Arbuckle clamored over his words, his two dot eyes dilating almost cartoonishly to emphasize his distress. “What’s up, guys?” John Pork finally picked up on the intensity in all of our compositions. “You’re a pig!” Arbuckle jutted out. “Well, I’m also a man! Check and mate, dude!” John Pork leaned back in his distressing chair. “Everyone, silence,” Booth startlingly shouted.
Jon Arbuckle hastily interjected, “Can’t any of you see this man is made of ham!” Booth, furious, asserted himself against Arbuckle, “Pardon me but this is a free country! Any man can eat ham if he so chooses.” Booth seethed, “And this is no country of mine where man must starve because of your democracies!”
“Please,” John Pork, released a lamenting sigh, “It’s a pig-eat-pig world around here,” snout tensing. The height of the dispute lifted Jon Arbuckle and John Wilkes Booth from their seats. The tension rose above the ceiling between those two. John Pork remained in his seat, a sweatless look of worry dosing him. However, I noticed his snout wiggling ever so slightly in the direction of John Wilkes Booth’s soggy curds. I guess the threatening atmosphere that encompassed our Chili’s booth grew too heavy for John Pork’s stomach, as he lunged egregiously at Booth’s curds. Booth, somehow, anticipated this maneuver, drawing an old fashioned, rusty dueling revolver from his coat, and smiting the hog then and there. The blast sunk all of us back into our seats; my Triple Dippers just arrived so call it convenient timing. I heard a faint whisper emanating from John Pork, “What is this? Some kind of John junction?” He resigned into his seat, which then succumbed to his slouched body and collapsed in on itself—classic John Pork.
Booth returned the dueling revolver to his breast pocket, “I think we’ve had enough of this buffoonery for one show.” “I’ll say,” Arbuckle agreed. The meal eased back into friendly banter, as all good dinings out should. Only, one thought trailed in my mind, like the segments of splattered bacon freshly sprinkled over my almost finished Triple Dippers: something felt a little off, “You know what’s weird.” “What?” said John Wilkes Booth. “I don’t think I’ve ever met any of you before.”
“Harrison, you brought us here because our names are all John.” Booth asserted, “Could you have written about Harrisons, maybe?” “Yeah!” said Jon Arbuckle, “Like it could’ve been you, Harrison Ford, that kid from Dexter, and I don’t know…William Henry Harrison?” I said nothing. The hilarity now lost all absurdity, and therefore the hilarity disappeared as well. Leaving a crisp one-dollar bill on my 16 dollars worth of cleared Triple Dippers, I stoically walked out.
Overall, ★★★★☆