[fact or fiction]

The Hook Café:
Where pretention and animosity go hand in hand

By: Elizabeth Dougherty

“Look how far you have come,” Mercedes said, holding out an empty wine glass for Isabella to refill. The regrettably impressive rock perched on Mercedes’ hand drew Isabella’s attention away from the task at hand. While her eyes remained locked on the ring and her thoughts on the mysterious ways of Karma, a scarlet trail of wine streamed down the floral print of the bride-to-be’s gown and a shrill wail filled the room. “You ruined my dress!”...

The busboy reached for the cord and turned off the light, and Peter Long sauntered out of the coatroom. Much to the dismay of his fiancé, the soiled gown failed to warrant his concern, and he quickly dismissed the damage.

“Baby, it’s just a dress.”

Mercedes parted her wine-stained lips, preparing to release another string of wails, as Peter’s son interjected with a more important issue at hand. “Daddy, we didn’t order these drinks,” Timmy Long said, sulking at the sight of an untouched Shirley Temple seated before him on the table.

Peter Long drew a manicured finger an inch under his nose, missing the mark: a distinct coating of powder encircling the nostril closest to the coatroom entrance.

“Oh my,” he said, basking in instinctually fake concern. “Then what did you order?”

 “Tommy and I ordered O’Doul’s,” he said, glaring regretfully at Isabella Dubois.

“Isabella, please, tell me exactly why they didn’t they get what they want?”

The silence of the impromptu waitress remorsefully caught the governor off guard. 

“Boys,” Peter said, loosely slinging an arm around her shoulder, nearly dismantling the tray of champagne perilously balanced on her shaky right hand. Peter leaned forward and pressed a tight fist onto the tabletop for stability’s sake.

“Boys!”

Timmy looked up obediently while Tommy hesitantly paused the battle engaging beneath the screen of the Nintendo DS gripped in his hands.

“Boys,” Peter continued once confident of his children’s full listening attention. “Now this is the kind of girl you want to marry.”

Biting her tongue, Isabella Dubois smiled stiffly and remained silent, charitably excusing the impaired coordination of the bride-groom on the eve of his wedding celebration. “But for your part, Isabella, please tell me why the boys did not receive the drinks they ordered?”
“The bartender said I can’t serve underage kids beer.”

“But O’Doul’s is a non-alcoholic beverage, dear.”

“Obviously.” She rolled her eyes. “I was just trying to not get fired—again,” she said, glancing at the clock and praying the night would end. “So they don’t want these Shirley Temples?”

“Of course not,” Peter said with a dismissive laugh. “They have never tried them.”

In a move of surprising obedience, Isabella Dubois retreated behind the bar and extracted two beers from the unattended cooler. After several moments, she located a bottle opener behind a stack of dirty ashtrays. Immediately upon hearing the first pop off the bottle neck, the cap text cruelly reminded her it was a twist off. As she crossed the room, careful not to collide with any cliques of tipsy revelers, a photographer from the local paper snapped a picture. Isabella shot a livid glare in the direction of the camera, which the man was holding at an odd angle; she quickly took it to be a consequence of the three empty flutes of champagne sitting on the bar behind his back. She placed the O’Doul’s on the table for the Long children, sighed loudly and looked up, just in time to realize the owner witnessed the whole transgression of events. George stormed across the dining room, nearly knocking over several incoherent guests along the way, and seized the beers.

“I don’t care if this is your rehearsal dinner or your funeral, Peter, but I’ll be damned before I permit innocent children to join in the debauchery of the Hook Café.”

“Oh, relax, Georgie,” Peter said with an emphatic slur. “We’re not breaking any rules here; we’re just having some fun before the big day.”  
   
“Fun? This is not fun. This is illegal.”

The surrounding chatter subsided as the café owner circled the table, the skin in his face turning an increasingly deep shade of red. Peter’s expression quickly switched from jovial to serious. He set his glass on the table and crossed his arms in front of his chest, winking at his sons. 

“No, George,” he said firmly. “The law prohibits children under 21 from consuming alcohol in public. And this is a private party.”
A loud bang sounded outside, and the glare of car headlights flooded the room. Isabella squinted and hobbled over to the window, the pain caused by her ruby shoes intensifying as the night wore on. The car reversed, peeling the front bumper off the parking meter and throwing it onto the pavement.

The driver slowly exited the car and stumbled onto the sidewalk. In one hand, she carried an instrument of some kind. In the other hand, she clutched a half-empty bottle of tequila. Greatly relieved for an intervention, Isabella pulled open the front door to welcome Marilyn Somers into the Hook Café.
      
“Marriage, Peter, marriage?”

Her ex-husband raised his eyebrow and for several seconds admired the scandalously low-cut dress grazing far below her tan line, a relic of weeks in the Mexican sun. Mercedes started sobbing again at the sight of Marilyn Somers. Her shoulders sagged as she stared down at her wine-soiled gown. Her hand went limp, and her glass dropped onto the marble floor, splitting into as many pieces as her heart upon realizing she was no contender in this battle.  
   
“Look, Daddy,” Tommy said, tugging on the sleeve of his father’s tuxedo. “I’m sipping!” He proudly displayed the half-consumed beer for his father to admire. Peter patted his son’s head and sighed, undeniably disoriented by the arrival of his former wife.

“Very good, Tommy. Looks like your mother could learn a lesson from her son.”