"Wait a minute!" cried Douglas. "We haven't had the song yet."
"All right, do the song and then shut up," said Minnie. She turned back to the chili and resumed dipping it out into the bowls, muttering all the while, "... drive away my customers, spitting all over, breaking glasses on the floor ..."
"Whose turn to start?" somebody asked.
The mechanic rose to his feet. "I choose the tune."
"Not opera again!"
"Better than opera," said the mechanic. "I choose that pinnacle of indigenous American musical accomplishment, the love theme from Oscar Meyer."
The boys all whooped and laughed. The man next to him rose to his feet and sang what must have been the first words that came into his mind, to the tune of the Oscar Meyer weiner jingle from -- what, twenty years ago? Rainie had to laugh ironically inside herself. After all my songs, and all the songs of all the musicians who've suffered and sweated and taken serious drugs for their art, what sticks in the memory of my generation is a song about a kid who wishes he could be a hot dog so he'd have friends.
"I wish I had a friend in my nostril."
The next man got up and without hesitation sang the next line. "In fact I know that's where he'd want to be."
And the next guy: "Cause if I had a friend in my nostril."
"Cheat, cheat, too close to the first line!" cried Tom.
"Bad rhyme -- same word!" said the mechanic.
"Well what else am I supposed to do?" said the guy who sang the line. "There's no rhyme for nostril in the English language."
"Or any other," said Douglas.
"Like you're an expert on Tadzhiki dialects or something," said Tom.
"Wastrel!" shouted the mechanic.
"That doesn't rhyme," said Douglas.
"Leave it with nostril," said Tom. "We'll simply heap scorn upon poor Raymond until he rues the day."
"You are so gracious," said Raymond.
"Dougie's turn," said the mechanic.
"I forgot where we were," said Douglas, rising to his feet.
The mechanic immediately jumped up and sang the three lines they had so far:
I wish I had a friend in my nostril, I know that's where he'd really want to be, Cause if I had a friend in my nostril ...
Rainie happened to be passing near the Boys' Table at that moment, and she blurted out the song lyric that popped into her mind before Douglas could even open his mouth:
He could eat the boogers I don't see!
Immediately the men at the table leaped to their feet and gave her a standing ovation, all except Tom, who fell off his chair and rolled on the floor. The only people who didn't seem to enjoy her lyric were Minnie, who was glaring at her, and Douglas, who stared straight ahead for a moment and then sat down -- laughing along with the others, but only as much as conviviality required.
I'm sorry I stole your thunder, Rainie said silently. Whenever I think of the perfect clincher at the end of a verse, I always blurt it out like that, I'm sorry.
She went back to the counter and got the chili, which Minnie had already laid out on a tray. "Are you trying to make my customers get indigestion right here in the diner?" Minnie hissed. "Boogers! Eating them. My land!"
"I'm sorry," said Rainie. "It just came out."
"You got a barnyard mouth, Ida, and it's nothing to be proud of," said Minnie. She turned away, looking huffy.
When Rainie got back to the table with the chili, the men were talking about her. "She got the last line, and it was a beaut, and so she's first," said Tom. "That's the law."
"It may be the law," said Douglas, "but Ida Johnson isn't going to want to feed the baby."
"Maybe I do and maybe I don't," said Rainie.
Douglas closed his eyes.
"Dougie's just sore because he could never think of a line to top Ida's," said Raymond.
"Retarded parrots could think of better lines than yours, Raymond," said the mechanic.
"Retarded parrot embryos," said another man.
"What baby do you feed, and what do you feed it?" asked Rainie.
"It's a game," said Tom. "We kind of made it up. Dougie and I."
"All of us," said Douglas.
"Dougie and me first, and then everybody together. It's called `Feed the Baby of Love Many Beans or Perish in the Flames of Hell.'"
"Greg had the idea in the first place," said Douglas.
"Yeah, well, Greg moved to California and so we spit upon his memory," said Tom.
At once everybody made a show of spitting -- all to their left, all at once. But instead of actually spitting, they all said, in perfect unison, "Ptui."
"Come on, Ida," said Tom. "It's at Douglas's house. The game's all about karma and reincarnation and trying to progress from primordial slime to newt to emu to human until finally you get to be supreme god."
"Or not," said the mechanic.
"In which case your karma decides your eternal fate."
"In Heaven with the Baby of Love!"
"Or in Hell with the Baby of Sorrows!"
"I don't think so," said Rainie. She was noticing how Douglas didn't seem too eager to have her come. "I mean, if Douglas's wife leaves town whenever you play, then it must be one of those male- bonding things and I've never been good at male bonding."
"Oh, great," said Tom, "now she thinks we're gay."
"Not at all," said Rainie. "If I thought you were gay I'd be there with bells on. The refreshments are always great at gay parties. It's you pick-up basketball-game types who think beer and limp pretzels are a righteous spread."
Raymond rose to his feet. "Behold our nuncheon feast, your majesty," he said. "Do we look like the beer and pretzels type?"
"No, you actually look like the boys who always made disgusting messes out of the table scraps on their school-lunch trays."
"That's it!" cried Tom. "She understands us! And she put a brilliant last line on the song. Tonight at seven, Idie Baby, I'll pick you up."
From the look on Douglas's face, Rainie knew that she should say no. But she could feel the loneliness of these past few weeks in this town -- and, truth to tell, of the months, the years, before -- like a sharp pain within her. Being on the fringes of this group of glad friends made her feel like ... what? Like her best days living on the street. That's what it was. She had found the street after all. Grown up a little, most of them wearing suits, but here in this godforsaken town she had found some people who had the street in their souls, and she couldn't bear to say no. Not unless Douglas made her say it.
And he didn't make her say it. On the contrary. She looked him in the eye and he half smiled and gave her a little shrug. Suit yourself, that's what he was saying. So she did.
"OK, so I'll be there," she said.
"But you should be aware," said Tom, "we probably aren't as fun as your gay friends' parties."
"Naw," she said, "they stopped being fun in the eighties, when they started spending all their time talking about who had AIDS and who didn't."
"What a downer," said Raymond.
"Bad karma!" said the mechanic.
"No problem," said Tom. "That just means she'll end up in Hell a lot."
"Do I need to bring anything?" asked Rainie.
"Junk food," said Tom. "Nothing healthy."
"That's Tom's rule," said Douglas. "You can bring anything you want. I'll be putting out a vegetable dip."
"Yeah, right," said Raymond. "Mr. Health."