Copyright 1992(c)
                        WHAT THE HEAD WAITER SAID
                            by Franchot Lewis

          Oh? You didn't know? Well, my buddy, Bubba, and his
     wife, Sissy, went to New York. Bubba won a contest by a fluke. He
     was in a bar, after work, with a few of his buddies. I was one of
     them, and he was cutting up the fool. He was talking to himself,
     I thought, but he was reading from a match book. He was talking
     about this contest for a trip to New York. He scribbled on the
     back of that match book, in twenty-five words or less, I guess,
     why he wanted to go to New York. What he wrote on that match book
     is not important. He told me that he made up his reason why. He
     was half-way done with a bottle of Jack Daniels. Anyhow, his
     reason for going ain't important. What's important is that he
     went, and what is more important is what happened to him and his
     wife while he was there.
          Bubba told me that he wasn't all that set on going, but his
     wife insisted. She was home when the mail man came with the
     letter from the contest's people. The envelope was addressed to
     Bubba, but his wife understandably opened it because the envelope
     had written on it in big red letters the provocative phrase
     "CONTEST WINNER, OPEN NOW". Bubba said she screamed with joy and
     jumped about like she was on a game show. The letter said that
     Bubba had won an all expense paid trip to New York City for two:
     air fare, meals and lodgings at the TRUMP PLAZA! She knew that
     lodging at the Trump Plaza was a prize given away on the WHEEL OF
     FORTUNE, so she knew that the place had to be first class.
          Anyway, now picture Bubba and his madame in New York at
     the Trump Plaza. Bubba said that she was goggle-eyes, and that he
     had never had a more miserable time, except when we were both
     back in the marines and we had this sergeant who was insane.
     Anyhow, Bubba said that his madame stayed on his case. She
     wouldn't let him smoke in the room. She wouldn't let him do his
     manly thing. He said that he thought that she thought that the
     people who ran that expensive place didn't want to get their nice
     sheets messed up that much. Bubba said that he don't know how he
     restrained himself. He put up with his madame acting crazy for a
     week. He said that it must have been love or something, and help
     from the Daniels's boy, Jack, who gave him several double shots
     of fortitude.
          During that week in New York, they ate at the Trump Plaza.
     They saw musical shows on Broadway. They even went to mid-town
     Manhattan and watched one of those game shows being taped. On
     their final night in New York they decided to wander a little bit
     from The Plaza, and found themselves in an even more expensive
     part of town. Around the corner from the Upper Commonwealth Club,
     they entered the Edgar Club. Bubba said that they went into this
     place because his lady spotted a man in tails leave the club and
     climb into a limousine parked in front, and the man waved to them
     as his chauffeur drove him away. Bubba's wife thought that the
     man looked an awful lot like somebody who she had seen on
     television. She wasn't sure if he was an actor in one of the
     soap operas, a news person or a politician; but she was sure
     that he was somebody important. She felt that there were people
     in that club who were important. She and Bubba had been in New
     York for nearly a week, and had gotten glimpses from afar of
     maybe five important people. But only five. They met up-close the
     contest's organizers, and the sponsors and a deputy mayor. But
     those folks weren't important enough for coming all the way to
     New York. Bubba's wife had come to New York so she could return
     home and brag about her trip, and who bragged about a trip on
     which you only met a deputy mayor?
          "I got to go in," Bubba said his madame said. Her face was
     all red, her lips puffy, excited, and ready, in case he offered
     an argument.
          Bubba said, he growled. "I ain't dressed for this place,
     Honey."
          Bubba's wife supposedly used her right hand to pat the
     left side of her head to make sure her hair was neatly in place.
     She rummaged through her pocketbook a minute, searching for that
     old worn rabbit foot trinket she had brought from Wal-mart when
     she was a little girl, nearly twenty years ago. She found it, and
     held it tightly in her hands, closed her pocketbook and pulled
     the straps tight in her hands, and started for the door of the
     Edgar Club in a half-running trot.
          Bubba said, he said damn to himself. I suspect that he
     followed meekly behind.
          You know how Bubba's madame is? You know she hates us,
     Bubba's buddies. Before Bubba got married, there were five of us
     who would hang out together. We were tight. Bob Johnson, Willie
     Lee, Sherman and myself. You know, Sherman's gone. A girl's
     husband shot him. The rest of us still hang together.
          Back then, in the old days after work, the five of us
     would go bar-hopping. From bar to bar, we went. We got drunk,
     chased girls  and got into fights. I mean, we were big boys and
     that was how we played. We got drunk and fought. On pay day, we
     left a lot of our pay in bars and with the girls.
          Well, after Bubba got married, his wife tried to keep him
     away from  us. She told Bubba that we four were undesirables, a
     bad influence on him. She tried to keep him home. Well, to play
     the devil, we used to go over to their house and stand outside
     their window and sing, "Bubba, Bubba, can you come out tonight?
     Can you come out tonight? Oh, oh, will your new wife, let you
     come out tonight?"
          The first few times she came to the window, looking all
     evil, with her bottom lip poked out, and said, "No. Bubba is
     busy! Why don't y'all go away?"
          We stopped singing and solemnly asked if Bubba could come
     out and play. She poked that lip out farther. "Humph," she said.
     "I told you, Bubba is busy."
          The first couple of times Bubba came to the window grinning.
     "I'm busy fellahs,' he said. We said, okay, and started singing
     again. "Bubba, Bubba, won't you come out and play,  won't you
     come out and play? Oh, oh, little wifey won't let you come out to
     play, won't let you  come out to play... Oh, oh?"
          Pretty soon we heard her loud voice fussing, "You better not
     leave this house. If you leave this house, I'm locking the door
     and I'm not letting you back in."
          We sang louder, "Bubba, Bubba ..."
          Before long we heard, "Who you talking to, girl? I'll go
     where I want. You ain't going to regulate me."
          "See if you get back in here if you go with them."
          "I"m going out for a little while, I'll be back."
          "No."
          Then we heard the door open, and her saying, "Please,
     Baby."
          We sang louder.
          The door slammed shut and Bubba came running down the
     stairs. She poked her head out the window and gave us the evil
     eye. We laughed and started to run down the street. Bubba looked
     back for a long moment and then joined us. This is the way it
     went until Sherman got killed, and she wouldn't let him out of
     the house without tagging along, and that about killed it. What
     killed it was that we got older. While she tagged along, he
     fussed with her, saying that he was a big boy and could go out on
     his own. He never stayed out with us long. That suited us because
     there is no fun when a one of the boy's brings his wife along. As
     we got older, we slowed down. All of us got married. She stopped
     fussing when he went out with us. Maybe she trusts her husband's
     friends just a little bit more, but I bet she hates us no less
     than before.
          The point I'm making in this diversion from the account of
     Bubba's trip to New York is that boy loves his wife. He followed
     her into that Edgar Club because even after all the years he's
     been married to that woman he's still in love.
          Bubba said that he stood in the doorway and watched his wife
     as she got wound up by all the glitz of that place. The place was
     posh. There were a dozen crystal chandeliers hanging from the
     high ceiling, dozens of ladies in silk dresses, dangling pearls
     from their white necks, and dozens and dozens of gents in tuxes,
     all looking like they'd just stepped from the top of a wedding
     cake. Bubba's wife's face froze in a grin. Bubba said, he saw
     goose bumps run up her arms, and that her chest kept going up and
     down like she was blowing up a balloon. The way her chest and the
     rest of her must have stuck out, I'm sure the sight she was
     putting on was grating down Bubba's spine.
          Bubba said he stayed in the doorway and whispered to his
     wife, "Honey, we ain't dressed for this place, let's go."
          He said that his madame didn't hear him, or pretended not
     to, but I think her mind was somewhere distant. Her mind was
     working altogether different from his. She was where she had come
     to New York to be, and the thought of leaving was not to be
     borne. Bubba decided to leave her alone until somebody asked them
     to leave.
          An alert waiter soon drew Bubba's attention, but the waiter
     took his time to stroll over to where Bubba was standing. Bubba
     said that he mumbled, "Shucks," and the waiter gave him a sharp
     look. But fifteen minutes passed before the head waiter came up
     to Bubba and said, "Sir, this is a private club."
          Bubba said, "Oh, you want us to leave?"
          Bubba's wife stepped between her husband and the head
     waiter and, with a nervous whine, inserted a plea, sounding
     like a little girl wearing white cotton socks who has just
     turned sixteen.
          "Oh, do we have to go?" she asked.
          Bubba took his wife's arm. "C'mon, we better deposit our
     country tails back at the hotel before he calls the police."
          The head waiter looked puzzled. He paused as if he had a
     thought.
          "Since we're here, can't we look around?" whined Bubba's
     wife.
          "C'mon, the man's doing his job, and --" Bubba was
     saying when the head waiter cut him off.
          "Sir, madame, you misunderstand. I was about to say that
     this is a private club and smoking is permitted here."
          "We don't mind smokers," said Bubba's wife, sounding very
     relieved.
          Bubba looked annoyed.
          "Here we are concerned about protecting the rights of
     others. We have many prominent members," said the head waiter.
          Bubba's wife was happy, almost laughing freely. "You
     certainly ought to be commended," she said. "I don't smoke
     myself, my husband does occasionally, and we believe smokers have
     rights, don't we, Honey?"
          Buddy said that he mumbled something dirty, but he wouldn't
     tell me what.
          The headwaiter led Bubba and his madame deeper into the
     club. Bubba's madame's eye-balls were shining white, her chest
     was jiggling, and little puffs of air kept bursting from her
     mouth. Bubba said her heart had to be pumping a mile a minute,
     and he swore he thought he saw the sheen of sweat on her cheeks,
     as she goggled at everything that could be seen. "Lovely, lovely,
     lovely," she said.
          Bubba said his jaw got tight.
          All along the headwaiter was talking. "We have a nonsmokers
     section."
          "We don't care where you put us," said Bubba's wife.
          The waiter continued, "We have a farter section and we
     have a non-farting ..."
          Bubba stopped walking along. He glanced at the waiter, and
     he made a sideways glance at his madame who was still walking
     along with the waiter, nodding like she had smoked a ton of
     reefer. Bubba said he was thinking that maybe she didn't hear
     what the waiter said. Maybe the waiter was joshing them. He was a
     country boy and maybe he didn't get this New York City humor, he
     thought. He picked up his feet and kept pace with the waiter and
     his wife.
          The waiter said, "The only table we have available for
     two is in the farting section."
          He said it again, Bubba said to himself. His red neck
     jerked up, his blue eyes instantly intense.
          "Thanks, for seating us," Bubba's wife said as she sat
     at the table and whispered to her husband, "Give the man a
     tip."
          "Madame. Please, Sir, the gratuity will be included on
     the check."
          Bubba's wife replied, "I'm sorry." She whispered to
     Bubba, "Honey, put your wallet away."
          He sat down and up pulled the chair. The waiter had
     seated him and his madame in the rear, at a table next to an
     ugly old man and a fat, ugly old woman. The were dressed in
     fine evening clothes and looked like they belonged to be dining
     in a plush New York City club. To shorten this story and to
     proceed with the conclusion, Bubba and his madame weren't
     seated five minutes before they heard the sound of a loud fart
     coming from the table where the ugly people were seated. This
     sound was followed by the stink of a most obnoxious odor.
     Naturally, Bubba summoned the waiter, demanding that he and
     his madame be moved to another table.
          The waiter looked puzzled.
          Bubba's wife looked as if she was about to push the panic
     button. There was no way that she could stomach the odor coming
     from the other table, but she didn't want to offend the waiter
     and be thrown out of the club.
          Bubba held back the force of his outrage and asked again for
     another table, but this time he asked quietly. As he did another
     burst of fart rose from the table where the ugly couple were.
     Bubba jumped away from his table in disgust, his wife bravely
     followed. Bubba pointed excitedly at the old man from whose
     bowels Bubba was sure the burst of fart had emanated. With pent
     up frustration, he shouted, "Him!
          The head waiter tried to hush Bubba. "Sir," the waiter
     explained, "In this section farting is permitted."
          Bubba began to curse, and the headwaiter began to motion
     Bubba and his madame to get out. There was no profanity section
     and the head waiter made it clear that cursing was not allowed.
          Bubba's wife shuffled reluctantly toward the front door, as
     Bubba began to make a scene.
          "What kind of place is this? You let people fart in here?"
          The old man who was doing the farting butted in, "So?"
          "Where's your shame?" Bubba replied. "You're stinking up
     the place."
          "My right," said the man. "I've a right to fart, it's
     natural."
          The waiter said to Bubba, "Sir, you must leave, but
     first, the bill."
          "What bill? We didn't order anything?"
          "Sir, there's a minimum charge, and the gratuity."
          "I ain't paying, you fart," Bubba said.
          Bubba saw a bulk blocking his view. He tried to push
     his way past. There was a fight with four bouncers, he said.
     There was a trip to a jail cell, and a fine.
          The moral of this story, Bubba said, is that New York City
     is the only place in America where they'll lock you up if you
     care enough about a fart.
                                    END