I’m spreading on a sticky wood bar stool, under hanging fluorescent lights, at my happy place, Hooters, listening to country music. It’s a muggy summer night, like a hundred-ten percent humidity, and the air-conditioners can’t keep up. I’m wearing shorts, both backs of my thighs plastered to the stool. I’ll admit it: I’ve got pasty thighs. Fat, hairy, white. Runs in the family. That, a Mr. Potato head, no neck, lot of sweat glands. It’s on account of the genes, just like my brothers (although they don’t seem to want to talk to me anymore. Their loss).

I’m waiting for Kyle, because, in my humble opinion, he needs to get some–as soon as possible. I’ll tell him about the Brazil girls. Show him pics. Hook him up. Nice girls–know what I mean? All from Brazil. They’re everywhere around town (Brazilians). We’re practically drowning in them. Don’t know how they all got here from Central America. Must’ve been trucked up.

Kyle seems sad these days. Like I said, he needs to get some. I could say it’s because he needs love. Yeah, right. I could say that. Wife bailed a few months back, just like mine did. Mine is a waitress. Kyle’s is an actress, like Shakespeare-type shit. Real hoity-toity. Ran off with some other actress. All of Kyle’s exes ran off with other women. Gotta hand it to him.

’Course, Kyle’s not gonna score here, not at Hooters. Not Kyle. It’s not that it’s a skank-hole or anything like that. Far from it. It’s just that Kyle, well, he dresses eloquent. He’d have to go to one of the swanky joints in Boston for a hook-up. You know, some French shack that charges twenty-five bucks for a shot of crap well vodka because they concoct some fancy-ass drink they call Ooo-la-la, in some hole-in-the-wall they call a bistro, to get away with charging suckers like Kyle. I love the French girls, of course, but the food–give me a break. Then they give you some tiny piece of poo-poo on a stick they call New-vell Cuisine, and they charge you fifty-five bucks for the poo-poo, and probably another fifty for the stick. Plus, Kyle’s all liberal and PC and woke, which won’t fly at Hooters, at least not this one, in Oxtail. This is a meat and tomatoes town, know what I mean? Ooo-la-la.

At first Kyle refused to meet me here on account of the Hooters uniforms–can you believe that?

“Offensive to women,” he said on the phone last week, “my daughter would be horrified.”

“No, really, are you kidding?”

He wasn’t kidding.

“I know a bunch of Hooters girls,” I said, “they think the outfits are cool. I don’t go to gawk. I just like the all-you-can-eat deal. I mean, I even take my mom there on Mother’s Day for the chicken.”

“Yeah, right,” Kyle said, “I bet you go to check out the chicken legs.”

“Not legs. Wings. I just like Hooters for the wings, Kyle. Even my mom likes them. What? No, Ma, I wasn’t talking to you. What? No, I can’t help fish out your hearing aid from the toilet, I’m on the phone with Kyle. What? Wings? No, we’re not going for wings now, Ma. What? We’ll find your hearing aid later. I’m on the phone, Ma. Yeah, the tele-phone. That’s right, just like in the old days. Paper? Yeah, there’s another roll in there, somewhere, look in the closet, wouldya? No, I can’t now. What? Wings? Look, Ma–”

“Lloyd?”

“Sorry, Kyle. Mom’s lost her hearing aid, probably flushed it down the crapper again. But like I told you, Kyle, it’s just for the wings special on Thursday, OK? Yeah, Ma, I’m coming, for Christ’s sake! No, Ma, there’s no snake. What? Wings? Look, Ma–”

Kyle said he didn’t buy any of it, but he’d meet me at Hooters this one time, and one time only, after I got him to admit he’d never actually been inside a Hooters.

“You shouldn’t judge a book by its cover,” I said.

“Or a chicken shack by its uniforms,” he said.

Not sure what he meant. Kyle can be a strange bird.

Five bucks a bucket at Hooters on wings night–can you beat that? They’re kick-ass wings, too. And things are tight. I don’t mean the uniforms. I work for Kyle at his company, a livery service. I’m his top driver. But it’s been tough, what with the inflation. We do weddings, mostly. Kyle’s a Justice of the Peace, too. You probably heard of him or maybe you’ve seen the billboards: Kyle Moor–Moor the Marrier.

Anywho, here it is, Thursday–wings night–and I’ve got a bucket in front of me. I’ve already drained my first Bud, waiting for Kyle. There are a few girl bartenders buzzing like bees behind the bar, but mine must be a new bee, ’cause I haven’t seen her here before, and I’m here all the time. Like I said, my happy place.

I lift a finger at Newbie when she glances my way, then I point to my empty bottle, to let her know I’ll take another (I got the spicy wings–they make you thirsty as all get-out). She’s a little chunky, with shoulder length black hair, brown skin, milky-white teeth, and a nice broad soft-looking dumper. She’s got the classic Hooters tee, white with the big owl in front right where it should be. Those two big owl eyes burning into my brain, and beyond. The bottom of her skin-tight orange Hooters shorts rides up just enough to reveal two thin crescent moons of lighter skin.

I’m sure she’s from Brazil. She’s got that look, and I heard her mumble something in Portuguese. I say “obrigado” when she gives me the Bud, and she says, “de nada” and gives me a little smile. I’m in. Brazil girl alright.

I’ve been practicing Portuguese on my app because I like to learn new stuff–I’m a knowledge sponge–and, like I said, we’re practically swimming in Brazil girls around here. They like me, these Brazil girls. For some reason, I never get anywhere with the American girls. But the Brazil girls–they love me.

Anywho, I chomp on another juicy wing while dreaming about those crescent moons. I imagine what’s behind those round orange shorts, where the sun never sets. Newbie is busy–the place is full as a favela–and she’s talking (in decent English) to some guy in a cowboy hat a couple of stools over. Maverick’s gotta be wearing at least a gallon of cologne because even from where I’m sitting all I can smell is whatever skunk-piss brand it is. Probably Moldy Saddle or Old Boot or maybe Spittoon. Anywho, I’m going to chat my girl up a bit and ask for her number when she comes back. The way she smiled at me, the bit of Portuguese we shared–I’ve got a good shot, know what I mean? Oh, those moons! Then I end up lost in a weird daydream (I’m an astronaut standing on those crescent moons, looking for a place to plant the American flag. I’m even in one of those moon suits). I’m so lost in the dream I don’t see Kyle walk in until he’s standing right next to me and says, hello. He’s so out of place. Tall, gawky. Tan chinos, white polo shirt, leather slip-ons, fancy wristwatch. Gucci at a hootenanny.

My girl walks over to us, asks me if I want another, and when she asks Kyle what she can get him, that’s when the trouble begins. I can see Kyle’s already got his haddocks up. He eyes her up and down, then says, “Are you good wearing that?” I can tell from her little smile, and the way her eyes get big, that Newbie’s already uncomfortable. She avoids looking at Kyle, says she’ll give us a few minutes, scoots over to some customers at the opposite side of the bar.

“Kyle, what are you doing? You can’t talk to the girls like that.”

“That’s right, Lloyd. Girls. What is she, barely eighteen? They’re all girls, not women. She’s old enough to serve, but not to legally take a drink.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

“Jesus, Lloyd, let’s just be honest. You’re a middle-age divorced man ogling a kid barely out of high school. Why don’t you just ask them to install a pole on the bar?”

“Kyle, look,” I say, holding up a wing as brown juice dribbles from my fingers onto the paper napkin on my plate, “I’m just eating wings. You could loosen up. These are nice girls. I know these girls, some of them. I thought I’d show you a few pics. Maybe introduce you if there’s one you like.”

“Lloyd, you know I have a daughter. I know you know that. But what you apparently don’t know is that it just so happens that, coincidentally, like my sisters, my mother, my exes, and half my friends, clients, and, well, half the planet, she’s a woman.”

I shake my head a little then eat another wing. Some people just don’t understand things.

Newbie is back, asking Kyle what he wants as she leans over the bar. What a view.

She asks what he wants again, and he asks if her mother and father know she’s here. Do they approve of the uniform? Is she forced to wear it? Is she given a choice? What else is she forced to do? Newbie’s blushing now, which I can see even on her brown skin. But Kyle’s not done. No, not by a long shot. Is her family OK with a lot of middle-aged and older men staring at her body? Men old enough to be her father? Men thinking about what they’d like to do to her. Yes, you need a job, I understand. But there must be something else, some other way.

Yeah, Kyle’s really got his haddocks up alright. I can see Newbie is starting to tear up as Kyle continues. Kyle just does that to people. Now she’s flat out crying. The other bartenders come over to us. They’re asking what’s up, what’s wrong? Then Midnight Cowboy from a few stools on my other side comes over and says hey little lady is this guy giving you any trouble? The manager is behind the bar now, and here comes the owner. They’re Brazilian, too. A three-ring circus. The cowboy is getting red in the face, the manager and owner raising their voices. Everyone talking over everyone else. I see John Wayne’s open shirt move enough to catch a glimpse of his holster. In a minute it’s gonna be the WWF Smackdown in the Favela or Gunfight at the OK Coral. So, I make a decision. Why, I don’t know.

“I quit!” I shout.

“What?” Kyle says.

“I quit!”

The boys from Brazil, the waitresses, and the cowpoke all go quiet, looking at Kyle and me. I fish the limo keys from my front pocket. They jangle on the key ring as I hold them out toward Kyle. I know I’m gonna regret this. Rent is due in two weeks. And Kyle gave me a shot. Not everyone will hire a guy with a record.

“You want to think very carefully, Lloyd,” Kyle says. “You’ve put in a lot of hard work. I don’t think you mean this.”

“No, I do. I do mean it. You can’t treat people like this, Kyle.”

“What?”

“With disrespect. You can’t disrespect them. I quit. It’s final.”

Kyle shakes his head, says fine, I can have it my way, then heads to the front door. He’s just out into the parking lot when I realize he didn’t take the limo keys from me, so I scoot after him. I catch up to him by his car and go to hand him the keys, but my hands are so sweaty they slip to the ground.

“Lloyd,” he says, “How can you hit on girls half your age at this watered-down version of a strip club, then quit your job on principle?”

I hear his words, but they don’t register. I’m already dreaming about my lunar landing, looking for a place to plant my flag.

“I don’t know, Kyle. You just can’t treat the girls like that. She was real embarrassed. And it’s my happy place, know what I mean? You just can’t piss on another man’s happy place.”

I’m thinking about how Newbie will react to my standing up for her as I walk back inside Hooters. Now I’m really in with her. I’ll get her number and find out when her shift ends. Ba-da-bing, ba-da-bang, know what I mean? I find my way to my stool, but some other guy’s thighs are already glued to it. I look around, can’t find Newbie. Another Brazil bar girl comes over and asks what I’m drinking.

“Can you send over the Newbie? I’d like to order from her if that’s OK.”

“She scrammed,” the bartender says. “Quit, right through the back door, cryin’ all the way.”

“Wow. No kidding?”

“So, what’ll it be?” the bartender says.

She’s thinner than Newbie. A delicate nose and face, soulful eyes. Brazil girl, though her dumper is smaller than most of them. Maybe a mutt. Brazil, yes, and maybe some European, could even be French. The French girls have small dumpers, right? I order a Bud, and she says sure with those pouty lips. Yeah, I’m in.  Ooo-la-la, know what I mean?