Lead Story

The $9.00 Burger

All eyes converged accusingly upon the unassuming box of Little Debbie Oatmeal Cream Pies. “A dollar fucking nine? $1.09?” Chowhound could barely contain himself. In a wink he danced his widening shirtless frame, light as a feather, giggling into the kitchen.

There was a rustling sound. Things being moved. A kitchenoscopy, Hauser style.

Vibrating in delight he emerged, disappeared, and re-emerged, each time with another incriminating article in j’accuse of Lymie’s accounting. “Salad: $2.87,” he said, holding an empty container. Moments before this violation, Lymie announced that the hamburger and salad dinner was to cost the eight of us $9.00 each. Seventy-two bucks for a couple of pounds of meat, some lettuce, Key-Food brand Swiss-cheese, a can of artichoke hearts, and of course, the Little Debbies. And Redcard actually bought the buns. “Look, here’s a whole container of salad we didn’t even eat.” How could this be? By what esoteric mathematical theorem does this add up to $72?

Everyone simultaneously began to yell at Lymie.

Great jagged chunks of insult and derision were now pelting the fine hide of our host and from all directions. When the store receipt was finally produced, the pointed maw seemed poised for it’s terminal bite. “You’re charging us for your beer?” Lymie had bought a 12 pack of Heineken for himself and simply added it to our bill (poker night is a BYOB event.) Lymie’s red face, verbally bloodied, but not bowed, paused still as he gathered the strength for the dreaded inevitable.

“Now wait jest a fuckin’ minute…”

Here’s something you should know. Lymie argues like he plays. That is, he has the remarkable ability to convince himself that, no matter how wrong or bad his hand may be, he’s got the winner. His misguided faith is sometimes so complete, that it seems no amount of truth or evidence can retrieve his gasp on reality. The pair of threes were definitely a perfect low. The burgers were certainly $72 dollars.

“Gimme mah damn munnay.”

Amid the assault, Lymie looked to Dano as a voucher to the veracity of the bill. But the shrinking mechanic’s testimony was less than convincing and seemed slightly coerced.

The game had come to a grinding halt as Lymie collected the grudging players’ dues. Cards and hands sat suspended on the table in mid-deal. Someone mused about the fact that the game was that loud without certain players present. “Imagine if Hank was here?” Lymie could not help but shudder at the thought.

At 11:40 the deck made its way back to our beleaguered host as he announced that this deal would conclude the evening. Lymie was exhausted. He shopped; set up the grill; had to explain to everyone about the mysterious rank of cat urine that hung heavy in the humid air. And, of course, he had to contend with the angry mob. Dinners have been always been the Achilles heel of our host. Tonight, despite his genuine effort, would be no different.

That night, poor Lymo cried bourbon tears into his pillow. His deficiencies as a host and the resulting contempt lingered about like a climate. Some say he deserves this lot. Some think he should be pitied. The question remains: will these tribulations inspire him to try harder on his next outing? Or has he rolled over and given up?