“Yeah, but is the food any good?” Amy asked.
“We’ll soon find out,” Jeremy said. They all got out of the car. Jeremy lovingly patted the hood of the Buick.
Jordan said, “There are a lot of cars. The food must be pretty decent.”
“There are a lot of BIG cars. Doesn’t that sort of defeat the purpose? An organic restaurant that attracts gas guzzlers because it has a huge parking lot,” Amy replied, as they walked to the restaurant which seemed to be a half a mile away from where they were parked.
“Not necessarily. If the food is all sustainable and does positive things for the environment then the carbon footprint with the car thing brings it to the level of a Burger King,” Jordan said, as they passed into the slide glass doors. “It’s kind of a wash.”
“I like how you think,” Jeremy said.
Jordan thought that the inside was exactly how you would expect a used car dealership turned restaurant to look – all chrome, glass and plastic. Jordan took one look at the booths and chairs and joked, “You know how many naugahydes had to die to make this place?”
Amy giggled and put her hand over her mouth like a little kid in church. Diners stopped chewing and scowled at them.
Jordan marveled about how everybody in the whole place was so solemn. Obviously, being P.C. was serious business. She set her face to serious mode and scowled back at the patrons. Amy giggled again, then snorted behind her hand.
“Sorry,” Amy said. “That happens sometimes when I laugh.”
“No snorting allowed,” Jordan said. “Didn’t you see the sign?”
Amy snorted again. Jeremy moved several feet away, trying to appear as if he didn’t know them.
A hostess rustled up to Jeremy. She was wearing a plastic mini-dress that crinkled when she moved.
“Can we have one of those big booths?” Jeremy asked. “In the back? Far away from other diners?”
“Of course.” The hostess grabbed three menus and said, “Follow me.”
“With pleasure,” Jeremy said, following her swinging hips and barely managing to keep his eyeballs in their sockets.
The hostess showed them to an oversized booth – the kind where seventeen people could sit comfortably and still have elbowroom. As Jordan scooted in, Amy asked the hostess, “What sort of a car dealership was this place?”
“Hummer,” the hostess said. “The owners, Labia International, wanted to take the worst possible place and transform it.” When she said the word transform, she waved her arms up and down her body in an imitation of Vanna White.
Amy said, “Excuse me. Did you just say Labia?”
“Yes. It’s an acronym. It stands for Lesbians Against Brutality In Animals,” the hostess explained.
“So then, this is a vegetarian restaurant?” Jordan asked.
“Oh no,” the hostess said. “Dead animal flesh is served as tasty entrees, but during the animal’s life it is given a name and treated as part of a family. All our meat has died a natural death. The animal has not been brutally killed for its flesh to be devoured by consumers. Its life was not cut short during its prime, but it was allowed to live to a ripe old age.”
“I see,” Jordan said. “So, if I order a hamburger, it comes from a really old cow who died of old age.”
“That’s correct. Today’s bovine was Sonja. She lived her life with the Johannson’s of eastern Nebraska. She loved hay and sunny days and standing in the pond.”
“I’ll have a salad,” Amy said.
“Would you care to hear the bio of our chicken, Florence?”
“No, thank you. But I do have one more question,” Jordan said. “Is that a plarn dress you’re wearing?”
“It is. Do you like it?” the hostess asked, evidently very impressed that Jordan knew what plarn was. “I crocheted it myself.”
“I love it,” Jordan said. Actually, she didn’t love it at all. She thought it looked scratchy. And how would you clean it? You could wash it, but wouldn’t it melt if you put it in the dryer? And if you hung it out to dry, there was the possibility of it molding. Jordan thought she would stick to cotton.
The hostess stuck her ample chest under Jeremy’s nose. “Wanna touch it? It’s softer than you’d think.”
Jeremy was more than happy to oblige. He ran his palms up and down her front. Bliss was written all over his face. Amy stuck out a tentative finger to touch next. Jordan laughed and swatted Amy’s hand away.
Jeremy was in complete and total lust. “Do you want to go out sometime?” he asked.
“Love to. Here’s my card.” The hostess pulled a business card out of her plunging plarn neckline. It appeared to be made out of ordinary card stock.
How very un-P.C., Jordan thought.
The hostess rustled her way back to the front. “Wow, this place truly rocks,” Jeremy said, studying his newly and unexpectedly given phone number.
“What is plarn exactly?” Amy asked.
“It’s plastic bags cut into strips, knotted together into one long string and then crocheted or knitted together to form whatever you want,” Jordan said.
“Do you have any plarn clothing?” Amy asked.
“No, nor do I intend on getting any,” Jordan replied. “It’s too loud for my taste. Just like those wind pants people wear. You can hear them coming a mile away.”
Jeremy was checking out his silverware, which appeared to be fashioned out of cut up tin cans wrapped with duct taped handles. “How very dystopian,” he said.
Jordan examined her fork. “It’s like something Tina Turner would use in the Thunderdome.”
“My mother would love this place,” Amy said. “She upcycled before upcycled was even a word. How did you know about all that plarn stuff?”
“I downloaded this video from Norway. It was a knitting show where you watched people knit for nine hours. It was called Slow T.V. and it’s a big hit with the Norwegians. They have other videos where you watch a fire being built and burn for twelve hours, a constipated dog doing circles for commercial breaks which are five minutes long, a three hundred and seventy eight hour documentary of looking out a train window. You get the idea,” Jordan said.
Dumfounded, Jeremy and Amy stared at her until Amy asked the million-dollar question: “Why?”
“I don’t think there is a reason. It just is. When I get stuck writing I watch these videos because they are so incredibly boring that it inspires me to do something. I watch for as long as I can stand it. Then I can work again because nothing I do can be as dull as that. I haven’t had to watch since you came along. You truly are my muse.”
Amy blushed.
Jordan turned to Jeremy and said, “You do realize that a woman who hands out business cards for dates might be a bit on the odd side, right?”
He nodded. “It says here she also sells Herbal Life supplements.”
“I’d stay away from that if I were you,” Jordan said.
“You’ll have really icky stools,” Amy added. “Remember when Veronica and Valerie got into that stuff?”
“Oh, yeah,” Jeremy said. “It was like a full-on biohazard hit the place.”
“The housekeeping staff threatened to go on strike if the twins continued to drop stink bombs,” Amy said.
“The maintenance department was right behind them. Remember they kept clogging up the toilets,” Jeremy added.
“I can’t believe you’re small-talking about stools. Is that what doctors do?” Jordan said.
The waitress, tall, blond and stacked, appeared at their table. She was wearing a maxi-dress made out of potato chip bags. “What can I get you to drink?”
“Are those potato chip bags?” Jordan asked.
“Yes, this dress is made from snack sized chip bags,” the waitress said proudly. “My entire wardrobe is made from my neighbor’s trash.”