Boss of Me

Her eyebrows shoot up. “This is a family restaurant, Mr. Fletcher.”

Sitting back, I give the menu one final sweep. “I’ll help you with your pancakes.”

Just then the entire restaurant changes. Pink and purple strobes hit the chickens lining the walls, and the lights dim. The animatronic chickens all around us start doing The Chicken Dance in jerky, flappy movements. It’s like we’re caught on some freakish Disney World ride… Small World gone fowl.

My wide eyes meet Raquel’s, and we both start to laugh. “This is nuts.”

“You picked it.”

“I wanted you to have a memorable experience.”

“Mission accomplished.”

Our server appears, and we place our orders. The chickens finish their dance and a comfortable lull falls between us.

“Your parents took you to get pancakes in Pigeon Forge when you were little?” She lifts her coffee cup to take a sip. “That must’ve been nice.”

I know she’s referencing what I told her at my apartment. “My childhood wasn’t all bad.”

“You don’t say.”

“How about you? What did you do as a child? Besides play at the free beach.”

She slides her eyes to the side as if she’s thinking. “Well… there was something.” Then she shakes her head. “I can’t tell you that. It’s too embarrassing.”

“Spill it, Morgan.”

She laughs, ducking her head. “Oh, man. It’s just… so silly.”

I put my coffee down and give her a stern look.

“Okay! Okay…” She holds up her hands. “My dad would take me to see those wrestling matches. You know, the ones John Cena does? And The Rock? Or did, I guess.”

I was just about to take a sip of coffee, but I have to pause for this. “You went to Wrestlemania?”

She ducks, and her cheeks flush. “I did. My dad even called me Rocky. It kind of stuck. Now all my family calls me that.”

“Rocky wasn’t a wrestler…”

“Yeah, but I was always trying to fight him.”

“You boxed with your dad?” This is better than I expected.

“I didn’t box. I tried to wrestle like those guys. It was really just me jumping on his back and making a lot of noise.”

I have to sit back and chuckle now. I’m picturing a pint-sized version of the very attractive woman across from me behaving like a member of the World Wrestling Federation.

“So you’ve always been a fighter?”

Our server appears, placing a huge stack of pancakes covered with whipped cream and cinnamon and oozing with butter between us. We unroll the paper napkins from around our silverware, and Raquel pours the syrup. A sad little side of oatmeal is quickly forgotten next to the golden mound of sugary goodness between us.

“What does that mean, Fletcher?” She speaks around a bite of pancake.

I do the same. “It means you’ve been fighting since you arrived in my office.”

“I’m sorry.” She pauses, putting her loaded fork on her plate and looking down. Her remorse doesn’t last two seconds before her eyes snap up to mine again. “But seriously, ‘Are you going to a funeral?’ Really?”

I just shake my head at her poor impersonation of me and grin, taking another bite of the fluffy, doughy dessert passing for a real meal. “Rocky. It’s perfect for you.”