What Happened at the Shrimp Box by Jon Yip (01-23-2003)

            The Shrimp Box Restaurant is one of the most popular places in town. Not a hangout, not a diner, not a formal place to eat; it is impossible to categorize it. It is in its own league, and is simply the absolute best place to go for dining, formalities, and hanging out in general. And the best part is their “bottomless jar of mints” that sit on every table, complimentary with every meal. And they are really good mints.

            So there is this guy name Stephen, and he is on his way to the restaurant right now. With any fortune the place would not be crowded, since it is early Tuesday evening (the masses really hit around eight o’clock, or later, and plus it is Tuesday and Tuesdays never really turn out to be especially hectic days for the staff anyway). His car was crappy and he did not like it at all.

            There is another guy named Dereks (he will never forgive his parents for adding that ridiculous “S” to the end of his name. Oh, and his last name is “Herek.” You can quite imagine the elementary school mockery of which he was the butt). Also on his way to the Shrimp Box, Dereks drives a rather good car, a quality German make; however, like Stephen, he is not fond of his vehicle either. This is not why Dereks is in a bad mood, though. Mostly (he feels) it is everything put together, such as the Shrimp Box being likely to be crowded at this hour, because Tuesday night is “Half Off All Bread Sticks Night.” Sigh. All the crap started when he was born and his parents gave him that moronic name.

            Fortunately the Shrimp Box was not crowded. As it turns out, customers do not find the bread sticks special to be particularly hot. Besides, Wednesday night is “3 for 1 Hot Potato Night,” which greatly surpasses the “Bread Sticks Night” in popularity. Both Stephen and Dereks arrived at the same time, and they parked next to each other (Dereks pulled in backwards. He was one of those people). “I’ll get a table,” said Dereks, “you go wash your hands first.”

            Stephen wondered what the implications of that statement were, and whether they were negative, or plain meaningless, or maybe both. He went inside and entered the restroom to wash his hands. It was a nice restroom; the Shrimp Box staff had taken good note to ensure that the toilets and sinks were impeccably spotless.

            Strained and unsettling noises came from a stall. After three flushes (judging by the sound, the first two were unsuccessful), a strange looking man exited a stall and left the room without so much as a glance in the sink’s direction. Stephen had just finished washing his hands and was drying them on a paper towel. He watched in horror as the man’s odious hand released its grip on the door handle, leaving questionable (and justifiably so) remains on it..

            The door to the restroom was still closing, and Stephen lunged out to catch it with his foot before it shut completely, but instead he knocked into it with his chest and actually pushed it all the way closed. This door opened toward the inside, so he could not kick it open. Heaving a large sigh, he tossed the paper towel in his hand into the wastebasket at the exact moment that he realized that it was the last one and he had just thrown it away. The staff kept the bathroom nice, but they had room to improve on the stockage of the paper towel dispenser.

            Stephen wanted to use a paper towel to grasp the handle with. He peered into the wastebasket. “There is no way in hell that I’m reaching in there,” he thought. He opened the door with his bare hand and cringed, then walked cooly to the table that Dereks had already claimed. It was in the “non-smoking” section. Dereks looked bored, a cigarette protruding from between his lips. Stephen took a seat.

            “What took you so long, man?” griped Dereks, grabbing the napkin (from Stephen’s side of the table) and blowing his nose in it. “Waiter, waiter!” he shouted nasally; he was promptly ignored, so he turned to Stephen. “Hurry up and find something to order.”

            Frequent visits to the Shrimp Box had armed Stephen with an unparalleled knowledge of the menu. He did not even have to look. However, to satisfy the annoying fop sitting across the table, he took the menu and brought it up to his face, saying nothing.

            “Well, I’m going to have the ‘Fish ‘n’ Cheese Sticks,’” Dereks said, throwing his used napkin back over to Stephen’s side. “Why does everything here have to be ‘something-sticks?’ Can’t they think of another way to make their damn food? Waiter, waiter!” A waitress finally arrived, reluctance clearly reflected on her face. “I’ll have the ‘Fish ‘n’ Cheese Sticks,’” said Dereks smugly.

            Stephen observed the waitress. She totally wanted to smack Dereks upside the head. It was that smug, smarmy look on his face. Stephen smiled, trying to be as much unlike Dereks as possible. “I’ll have the Shrimp Box, please,” he said.

            “Thank you, your food will be ready in a minute,” said the waitress. “Oh, by the way sir, could you please put your cigarette out? This is the non-smoking section.”

            “No,” said Dereks.

            The waitress walked off into the kitchen.

            “What a bitch,” spat Dereks. Staring around the restaurant pointlessly, he extinguished his cigarette on the napkin in front of him, then drew a fresh one from his pocket and lit it. “Anyway Stephen, I want to talk to you about your performance recently at work. I’ve been seeing a lot of...”

            That was the moment, triggered by the words preceding it, that Stephen blanked out. A mouth was opening, and words were coming out of it, but he heard nothing. Aimless grins plastered sloppily to his face, Stephen inconspicuously took the filthy napkin before him and started writing on it with his fingernail. “I HATE MY BOSS,” he wrote, leaving indentations in the napkin, but not deep enough to be legible. He wished Dereks could read it.

            Continuing to smile and nod periodically, Stephen reached for the bottomless jar of mints, but Dereks quickly shoved it out of the way with his hand and grabbed a mint for himself. He popped it into his mouth and resumed his rant about work or whatever.

            Stephen reached again to the mints. He stuck his hand in the jar, grabbed a handful, and swished his hand around inside the decorated glass. It was very fulfilling. Then he withdrew his hand and wiped the sweetness and grime from it onto the table place mat.

            Dereks disregarded this, grabbed a another couple of mints, and dropped them into his mouth. Stephen grinned. He also grinned on the inside, but for a different reason. Suddenly he snapped back to awareness.

            “...and I just don’t think that’s good for the company. Do you, Stephen?” rambled Dereks.

            “Here’s your order,” said the waitress, who had appeared out of nowhere. ‘Fish ‘n’ Cheese Sticks,’ and your ‘Shrimp Box.’”

            “Thanks,” said Stephen. The Shrimp Box sure looked tasty. In fact, it was not even shrimp; it was breaded, ground chicken that was molded into shrimp-like shapes and fried. The box came with both a small dish of ketchup, and another dish of tartar sauce. The visual tantalization and the aroma of the food caused Stephen to salivate profusely. On the other side of the table, Dereks was already wolfing down his fish sticks. To one side of his dish he pushed the cheese sticks; he did not like them. He only got the meal because of the fish sticks.

            Stephen took a piece of “shrimp” and dunked it into the dish of tartar sauce, then slowly brought it to his mouth, savoring every moment. Finally he placed it in his mouth and chewed exaggeratedly, letting the taste take its time to sink into his taste buds. It was the most wonderful experience that he had the entire week (since he last came to the Shrimp Box).

            “So think about what I said, OK?” Dereks’ mouth was full. He had already finished his meal (except, of course, for the cheese sticks on the side of his plate). “I’m leaving, see you tomorrow. Be on time, Stephen.” There was not even any eye contact; he just stood up, licked his fingers, and left.

            Stephen saw no reason to remain in the restaurant, so he flagged the waitress back and asked for his food to be put in a take-out box. Promptly, she returned and put his “shrimp” into a little plastic container. Stephen took the food and walked to the parking lot.

            As he strolled to his car, occasionally picking a piece of “shrimp” from the box and gobbling it down, he glimpsed Dereks in his nice car. He had just put the key in the ignition.

            Dereks turned the key and started the engine. He pressed down the brake pedal with his foot and absent-mindedly shifted into reverse, and then immediately a realization dawned upon him (actually it did not “dawn” on him as much as it simply jolted itself into his brain): he was not holding down the brake pedal, but the gas. With a roar, the car surged backward, giving him no opportunity to think. “Shit!!!” he screamed as the car rammed into the side of the restaurant. The wall collapsed and fell inwards, upsetting tables, plates, and customers, and the drapes and tablecloths fluttered about like maddened butterflies. People exclaimed in surprise, fleeing in every which direction, catching in their hands the raining “shrimp” and those delicious little mints that were now flying through the air (along with bits of tempered glass from the smashed rear window). “I hate this worthless piece of crap car!” cried Dereks. There was tartar sauce all over his lap.

            Quietly, Stephen got into his car, and without drawing too much attention to himself, pulled out of the parking lot. He drove home, feeling good about himself.