Page 3 of Sizzle

“Hey Steve,” I say.

“Hey loser. You done for the day yet?”

“Not even close, man. What’s up?”

“Aw, fuck. My dick neighbors are throwing together a game and I could use a point guard. These jackasses can’t shoot for shit.”

My brother is a thirty-nine-year-old insurance salesman with a pretty wife and two young kids. He’s no longer allowed to use swear words at home, thereby forcing him to use them all on me.

It’s hilarious and sad and, naturally, I make fun of him for it every chance I get.

“What day is it?” I ask. Sue me, I run a restaurant.

“Friday, asshole,” he says.

“Yeah, sorry bro,” I tell him. “I’m here for at least another couple hours and I open in the morning.”

“You ever think about hiring more managers? Because I hear there are people you can pay to do work for you,” he says.

“You’re hilarious.”

Steve must hear something in my tone, because he gets serious.

“What happened?” he asks.

I tell him about the call with my landlady, and Steve immediately cuts loose, cussing a blue streak. By the time he stops, I’m laughing for what might be the first time in days.

“I’ve never heard the anatomy of cats dissected in quite that way,” I say, catching my breath. “Where the hell do you get this stuff?”

“Have you seen what passes for Saturday morning cartoons these days, man? Shit’s absolute garbage compared to what we used to watch.”

“So you use the time productively,” I say. “Inventing cuss words like a twelve-year-old.”

“Bet your ass,” says Steve. “So what are you going to do?”

“Hell if I know,” I tell him, checking over my shoulder to make sure nobody followed me out. I don’t want to give them any reason to worry before it’s necessary. “I’ll think of something. Obviously I need to shake things up. At least it’s the holiday season. It’s always our best time of year. If I take advantage of it, we stand a chance of keeping the doors open a while longer.”

“That’s not a plan, bro.”

Don’t I know it? But Steve’s not done.

“When was the last time you changed your menu?” he asks.

“You mean, aside from when I wrote it?”

“Well there you go,” he says. “Time to try something new.”

“You want me to rewrite the menu,” I say.

“Why not? You got nothing to lose at this point. Maybe it’s time to try something different. And I’m not talking about selling tacos or something, so don’t even start that shit. What is it that Duckbill sells?”

“American comfort food,” I say, giving him the sales copy from that advertising intern I’d hired when I started. “Staples. Homestyle cooking just like grandma used to make.”

“There you go,” he says again. “That’s part of your problem right there.”

“What are you talking about?”

“People are getting health conscious these days, going vegan, gluten-free, all that millennial crap.”

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