Fine Dining

The retarded people at the next table have no small talk. It takes all
their concentration to answer the many quizzes the waitress puts to
them, and when they laugh, rarely, it’s in a group guffaw, and then an
affable silence reigns. Still, they look apologetic simply to be here, to
order with many mistakes and to need everything explained. “Duck,”
is that like turkey? “Mozzarella,” is that a kind of sauce?

They glance at the other diners shyly, coyly, their slow gazes like
lighthouse beams moving from face to face.

When one woman stirs her non-alcoholic daiquiri with a spoon, the
others stir theirs, together, with a gentle clinking sound, like the percus-
sive section of a school band. It takes a long time to eat each course
and sometimes they yawn and get tired or silly, half falling asleep over
their spoons. Very nicely dressed in this expensive restaurant and many
fine choices, but they’re told they can’t have lobster. This is charity.

One man begins talking in unintelligible hoarse blurts, and when he
gets raucous all the others laugh—frightened—and say, shh! They
know their job is to eat so no one will look up, no one will even notice
they are here.