Apparently, even though it’s really illegal to have your own particle accelerator in a regular American basement, no laws exist clearly stating this fact. So my friend Alan spent a few weeks at a military base while it was decided what would happen next. Of course, none of us knew what was happening at the time because Alan was not allowed to be in touch with anyone. I guess they thought Alan might be part of some larger conspiracy and they didn’t want him conspiring while they figured out what was going on.
After all the activity died down at Alan’s house , I began to worry about him. Would we ever see Alan again? Finally, one day I got a call from someone who sounded like Alan, but not exactly. It was his voice I thought, but something was missing. Usually, in everything Alan said you could hear a constant sort of questioning – almost as if he wondered whether you believed him when he simply was telling you something normal, such as how much he liked a movie he just saw or the fact that he was planning to take up a new hobby such as model rocketry. But this familiar quality was missing in the Alan who called me several weeks after the particle accelerator incident. We made arrangements to meet at the TGI Fridays at the mall.
The guy I met looked like my friend Alan and sounded like my friend Alan, but he certainly didn’t act like my friend Alan. What first concerned me was that we always ordered the large beers at TGI Fridays. They have a couple of sizes and we always ordered the ones that are like almost two beers, but in one glass. But this time Alan ordered something called an Arnold Palmer. He just said to the bartender, “Arnold Palmer, please.” I said, “What?!” Alan said, “I just ordered an Arnold Palmer.” “You mean the golfer? You ordered the golfer?” I asked. “No, it’s a drink called Arnold Palmer. It’s got lemonade and iced tea in it,” Alan said and turned to look at me in way that made me shudder.
I turned and looked back at the bartender and he was mixing an Arnold Palmer with zero concern. It was as if people came into TGI Fridays and ordered Arnold Palmers everyday. I asked, “How do you know what’s in an Arnold Palmer?” The bartender looked up and said, “I’m sorry?” I asked again, “How do you know what’s in an Arnold Palmer? Do a lot of people order Arnold Palmers?” “Sure,” he said and shrugged. “It’s a popular drink.”
I looked at Alan who was looking straight ahead and then back to the bartender who had returned to his drink making. Suddenly I felt as if I was in a movie and that I had cotton in my ears and that I was weightless. How could I not know about a popular drink called Arnold Palmer? “Okay,” I said, “Are you guys putting me on?” Alan turned and said, “About what?” “About Arnold Palmer being a drink!" I said beseechingly, "How could I not know that there was a popular drink called Arnold Palmer?!” Alan and the bartender looked at each other and shrugged. Alan said, “Maybe you just missed it.”
Something had happened while Alan was away. Something had happened to Alan and to me and to the whole world and to everything. "Alan," I said. "What's happening?" "We're having a drink at TGI Fridays, just like always," he said. "Oh no. This isn't just like always. Don't try to tell me that this is just like always. Everything is different. You've never ordered a drink called Arnold Palmer. And you've never just sat there and looked straight ahead at a bar. Something is going on. Something has happened."
4 comments:
I do something similar to look all cool sometimes, especially when I'm in a snooty establishment. All I do is think up any foreign sounding artist from the early 20th century and order his name as a drink. "I'll have a Marcel Duchamp, please," I'll say. The snooty waitress has to ask what's in it, and I just smugly grin at my tablemates as if to say, "I guess this place isn't all that great, now is it?" and say, "A Diet Coke will be fine, thanks."
I feel like it's okay, because I always tip well.
You see, at first, that's exactly what I suspected Alan to be pulling; he so often wants to impress people.
But when the bartender knew the drink "Arnold Palmer" and began mixing it in the most mundane fashion, I knew something was somehow different.
And besides, everyone knows that a Marcel Duchamp has peepee in it. So maybe whenever you order the Marcel Duchamp the waitress is just politely making sure you know what's in a Marcel Duchamp so that you won't take a sip and spit it out yelling, "This is peepee!!"
That always will reflect badly Fodors.
You know, it's funny how things get muddled over time. I should know...that drink started out as a draft beer mixed with Coca-cola (a damn fine way to relax on a hot day), and now somebody wussed it up into iced tea.
I mean, what the hell?
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