luck be a chicken tonight

There was some time to kill before the show. We went to O’Shea’s and ordered food with quaint names. All the menu descriptions were like:

Lucky Cheeseburger
O’Shea sings: It’s cheesy and delicious/ and fulfills all of your wishes/ it comes with fries or salad/ this is my burger ballad.

And ridiculous, delightful shit like that. But the hair of the dog wasn’t helping me at all. Trevor pointed out it was the wrong dog, not the one that had bit me the other night at all. I switched to coffee.

About that time a blur on my left side handed me a little slip of paper as he evaporated out the door. It said:

Dean
654-9090
Coffee?

On the other side it said:

Lucky Chicken $7.95

I was ecstatic. My first phone number, ever. And at such a crucial time, too. Let’s face it; if a lady ever needed the affirmation of a Mysterious Dean, it was me, now. I was grateful to MD. But there was nothing to hang onto. Not a mental snapshot of his face or echo of his voice; not a whiff of pheromone. Nothing. Just this humble request to meet/declaration of supper. I decided to keep the number and frame it, sort of the way a greasy spoon displays the first dollar it earns. I could attach a little axe to it with a chain, to bust the glass in case of emergency. But for now, Dean had enjoyed all the lucky chicken he was going to at O’Shea’s.

Except, added Allan, for the one he would be choking at home.