The Tasteless Family

June 19, 1987

At Roy Rogers restaurant. They came in talking loud like they’re the only ones here—as if the clangor of the crowd is the sound of unseen animals and wind and water in some weird indoor picnic spot. They’re all fat. She’s got a bag with a thermos of something, a red-checkered skirt, sky blue slippers, and a cherry-red straw garden hat. She’s got the gay manner of a young girl in town with her parents and all dressed up to be seen by boys.

The two sons seem mildly retarded or terrifically obtuse. They have a wolfish anticipation on their faces while mom and dad order the foot Must be about 16 and 20. Later, when they have satisfied their chomping hunger a bit, they look around at people with shy interest—as if they’re not used to seeing strangers other than on the TV. Dad is round shouldered, as if to make wolfing his food easier. Blue shirt, dark blue poly slacks, gargantuan black shoes. Keeps barking loudly about how chap the meal was. Wolfs it within five minutes, then stands in the middle of the walk area with a  transistor radio—a cigarette-pack type—held to his ear, rolling the dial with a practiced forefinger.

“Just a minute!” He snarls at one the boys, his throat still phlegmy from eating. “Just a minute.” Snarling as if it’s his own garage.

One boy a gauzy blond goatee, Mets t-shirt, cherry red sneakers.