Spoiled Rotten

I, Georgia Olivia Mendoza, have made a mistake. A mistake that may follow me for the rest of my life- changing everything as I know it. But to talk about this mistake, I must first talk about somebody near and dear to my heart.

Harold Chen is the love of my life. Um…or ‘was’, maybe. I mean, I still love him, but it’s totally possible he no longer loves me back…anyway, Harold and I have been dating for the last five years or so, ever since we graduated from college. That’s actually where we met- each realizing we liked the other, but not making any moves until the end of the experience (oops). Harold, observant as he is, was the first to notice that our feelings were mutual…which was good, as I had and have the density of a comically large boulder. 

So he and I started dating. And, wow, was it a wonderful experience! The entire time, he has been so thoughtful and understanding- he remembered every anniversary, birthday, dentist appointment (unfortunately, as I preferred to miss them), and so on. Ugh, he’s seriously so freaking perfect that I don’t know what I did to deserve someone like him. And, in a lot of ways, I’ve taken him for granted. For example, the aforementioned mistake.

Yesterday, I forgot his birthday. Like it just full fell out of my mind and into the nearest gutter and then floated down to the ocean without my noticing. He didn’t mention it all day- the considerate man that he is, giving me as much time as I needed to remember it- but then, this morning…well, he looked a little down (I hadn’t seen him this down since the time I accidentally mixed raisins into cookies instead of chocolate chips- made all the more awkward considering he can’t stand raisins). When I asked him what was wrong, he told me not to worry about it, and simply headed off to work. I was confused until I received a text from his mother.

“Hey there, future daughter-in-law! Harry won’t tell me what you two did for his birthday yesterday! That means it was something he’s too embarrassed to tell me, right?! (...omg, wait, was it something private?!) Won’t you tell me? Come on, please? I promise I won’t tell him!” …was what her text read. As soon as I got through the second sentence, my blood ran cold. 

Shit, shit, shit. Believe it or not, as stupid as this mistake is, it is the first time I have made it. Of course, every other year I had received a lucky reminder leading up to it (from his mother, social media, or a mutual friend), but this year, it seemed, my luck had run out. I try to bite back my panic by quite literally biting on my lips, but all I get in return is a small trickle of blood running down my chin. 

Okay, Georgia, okay. You can fix this. Just calm down and consider the facts. Yesterday was his birthday, and you forgot. But you can still do something nice for him today and say that you just got the date wrong! Or that the gift arrived late…

An image flashes through my head. Harold- my sweet Harold- arriving home, seeing a present I had picked out at the last minute- the one I would claim to be a thoughtful gesture. Harold, running to our room, only to return with a package suitcase.

“I’ve had enough,” he would say, one foot out the door. “It’s clear that you just bought this gift at the last minute. I’m going to go live with someone who appreciates me enough to remember my birthday.”

No, no! Okay, so no last-minute gifts. But doing something nice is still on the table… I glance at the calendar. Neither of us have work tomorrow…okay, so it would make sense to have dinner plans tonight, rather than tomorrow. Hm…

I pull out my phone. Time for Google Maps to do its job.

*

The good news: I managed to get a reservation at a local restaurant. The bad news: basically everything good was booked (and there was no way I would take him to a birthday dinner at Denny’s), so my options were severely limited. Thus, our reservation at the Spoiled Rotten- the lowest-rated restaurant in town. 

I tried to find somewhere else, I really did. But when it came down to it, fancy steakhouses and other fine dining were already booked when it came to a last-minute Friday reservation. And so, we were to dine at a restaurant with such stunning reviews as “It looked a bit cleaner than last time”, “Lots of parking available”, and “I guess there’s some food there.”

An image flashes through my head. Harold- my darling Harold- arriving with me at such a restaurant, his hand in mine. He takes one look at the restaurant, and then retrieves his hand. He turns to me, disgust in his eyes, and spits at my feet.

“I’ve had enough,” he would say, turning back toward the car. “It’s clear that you didn’t actually consider my wants or needs while choosing this place. I’m going to go have dinner with someone who appreciates me enough to treat me to a nice meal that I deserve.” 

No, no, no! That won’t happen. Besides, maybe these reviews are just exaggerations! Review bombing has become more popular than ever, after all- one person dislikes something about the owners or the staff that has absolutely nothing to do with the service or food quality, and then they leave a mountain of negative reviews in revenge! Yes, surely that must be the case here!

*

In the end, Harold and I drove separately, each heading out from our respective places of work. As I pull my car into the nearly empty parking lot (virtually the only cars present where those pulled into the spaces marked as reserved for employees), I notice Harold exiting his own. He is dressed as he always is at work- a well-kept black suit with a striped black-and-white tie. His medium black hair is slicked back with gel, shining in the fall sunset. I had actually stopped at home on the way from work, making sure I changed into my date night outfit- a simple black dress that reached my knees and showed just enough cleavage (or so I thought- Harold had never actually commented on this).

“Hey,” he says as I join him in the parking lot. He leans in and kisses me, “Good call on this place- everything else I passed on the way looked packed, and I’m starving.”

I breathe an internal sigh of relief- it looks like he won’t question how this celebration is a day late and it’s at a restaurant that we clearly did not need crazy reservations for. Thankfully, it seems as if my problems are finally over. Entwining our fingers together, we walk into the restaurant, prepared to have our dinner.

As we enter Spoiled Rotten, the first thing I notice is the lack of a greeter of any kind. Unusual, but not unheard of- surely they were simply helping someone else to a table. And yet, as the plentiful parking had alluded to, we are actually the only customers in the restaurant. We decide to give it a moment and see what will happen.

An image flashes through my head. Harold- my beloved Harold- losing the last of his patience. Frustrated by the lack of service, he doubles back out the door, leaving me behind. 

“I’ve had enough,” he would say, contempt in his gaze, “It’s clear that you weren’t planning to be considerate of my time tonight. I’m going to spend my evening as I will- perhaps with someone who wants to do more than just wait around the entryway of a disgusting restaurant.”

No, no, no, no! I scream internally. Fortunately, before my nightmares can become a reality, a teenager in khakis and an untucked polo shirt comes in from around the corner. He is loosely holding a clipboard in one hand, and an open mug of steaming coffee in the other.

“Oh, uh…” He quickly places his coffee on a nearby countertop, and grabs a pen from his shirt pocket. Somewhat shakily, he rattles off a memorized script. “Good evening, and welcome to Spoiled Rotten. Have you been helped?”

“We just got here, actually.” I reply, grateful that we will be sitting soon.

“I’ll be happy to help you.” The teenager smiled, revealing a set of braces along both rows of his teeth. “So…where were you trying to go?”

“Huh?” What is this kid saying? Go? To a table, obviously…or was he asking about our preferred seating?

The teenager reflects the look I imagine both Harold and I are portraying- sheer confusion. “Um…you weren’t looking for directions?”

“Er, no. We were hoping to eat.” Harold said, smiling in an attempt to hide his mounting hunger (so I assume, anyway). 

If it were possible, the teenager looked more confused than he was just a moment ago. Still, I have to give him credit- he adjusts quickly. In less than half a second after this (apparently) shocking revelation, he nods and turns around. “Of course! Please, follow me to your table.”

Oh god. I thought, panic returning to my mind. He…he assumed we were looking for directions to another location, didn’t he? That can’t be a good sign, can it? Do so few people enter looking for food that they’re dwarfed by those looking for directions? Oh no…

Worries circling in my brain, I mindlessly follow the teenager and Harold to our table. Thankfully, the table itself was perfectly normal- clean, with the various condiments and napkins set upon it. Harold moves to pull out my seat for me, and I pull a seat out for him as well.

“Please, birthday boy! Go ahead and take this seat.” I smile, indicating the seat I am holding out for him. He sighs, but takes the seat anyway. I sit down in the opposite seat.

“Well then…” the teenager clears his throat, and produces a much less rehearsed script. “Welcome to Spoiled Rotten, where the customer is always our number one priority. I’m Devin, your waiter for this evening- here are your menus.”

Devin produces two flimsy paper menus from his clipboard, handing one to each of us. “Tonight’s drink special is, uhhh…some kind of wine, I think. Red, probably. And the dinner special is…um, pork.”

Harold looks up from his menu, confused. “Pork? Er…pardon me, but what kind of pork?”

“That’s a good question,” Devin glances thoughtfully in the direction of the kitchen, “I’d have to ask, but I wanna say…bacon? Yeah, probably bacon. Anyway, take your time deciding. Just holler when you’re ready.” And with that, he walked away.

*

Fortunately, the dining options were actually perfectly normal. Harold decided on a Caprese salad, while I opted for a New York steak. Unfortunately, the chefs…were clearly woefully underprepared for actual guests tonight. 

“Mm, this is a nice salad.” Harold mused, scooping bites of tomato, basil, and mozzarella into his mouth. It does sound like there is nothing wrong with his meal, which is all I can really ask for. “How is your steak?”

…of course, that’s where the problem is. My steak, requested to be medium rare, was actually something beyond even well done. Each bite was like trying to chew a cow’s hide directly, step by step working toward the destruction of my teeth. I consider telling him the truth, but scene after scene of Harold becoming frustrated and calling an end to this farce flash in my mind, preventing me from speaking out.

Instead, I bit back the pain and choked out, “So good. So, so good. So good it almost feels like a waste to finish it- it should be displayed in a museum with the title ‘World’s Greatest Steak’. Wow.”

He laughs. “I’m glad you chose this place. Honestly, this is one of the best salads I’ve ever had. And there’s plenty of space…maybe we should make a habit of coming here? Say, once a week?”

At this moment (and no others), I’m glad my mouth is too full of awful steak, as it at least prevents me from unconsciously speaking out against this awful idea. Instead, I force a smile for the love of my life (whom I am currently afraid of hurting, no matter what stupid thing leaves his mouth). “Mm-hmm…”

Suddenly, my eyes catch a black spot on Harold’s salad. Wha- wait, is that a bug?! Oh no…as if the steak isn’t bad enough, there are bugs in the food? That’s it, I can’t handle this anymore- I’m going to have to say something!

…but suddenly, something about this black spot catches my eye. It’s…wrinkled, and has no legs. If anything, it looks more like a raisin. Harold scoops it up alongside the normal Caprese salad ingredients with a grin. There’s no way he doesn’t taste it, but he makes no comments about it. This, from the man who will refuse to even put raisins with the rest of the groceries.

“Um, Harold,” I say, finally swallowing my bite of steak. “It looks like there are raisins in your salad, but you haven’t said anything.”

He pauses, his fork raised to his mouth. Sighing in relief, he drops the fork back onto his plate. 

“Oh, finally, you noticed. Jesus, Georgia- how long were you going to make me eat raisins for?” He chugs the water by his plate, likely trying to clear his palate. “But really, I’m impressed at how long you could chew at that overcooked steak for. You’re almost a quarter of the way through- nice.”

My confusion must have been written on my face, because Harold continued, “Look, I think we both know this place is…not exactly where we want to be tonight. Why don’t we both just come clean, so we can head out and maybe pick up something quick on the way home?

“You forgot my birthday, didn’t you? And this was the only restaurant available on such short notice, so this is where we went. I mean, if the fact that my birthday was yesterday wasn’t such a dead giveaway, the quality of the…well, everything at this place would have. I was waiting for you to come clean about the mistake, but I figured I should tease you a bit while I was at it.”

Tears have begun to flood my eyes, obscuring my vision. “I- okay, yes. I forgot your birthday. And I feel really bad about it, and I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness, and you can totally run off and find some sexy lady who will actually remember it, and-”

“Er, wait, hold on.” Harold held his hands up in protest. “Just to be clear- while I am hurt that you forgot, I’m more hurt that you tried to hide it instead of apologizing. And also, I don’t want to leave you. If anything, I’m ready to forgive you, given how I’ve basically had my share of teasing you.”

He reached over and wiped a tear from my cheek. I turn away, wiping the rest from my eyes. 

“...I can’t promise it won’t happen again, but for what it’s worth I really do feel bad. I know you said you’re ready to forgive me, but at least let me be the one to buy some real food on the way home. And, uh, whatever this was.”

I stand up, moving to find the waiter before Harold can protest. All of these years where he did all of these wonderful things for me, and I can’t even pay back the favor once. Still, despite this growing disgust with myself, I cannot help but smile a little.

After all, who doesn’t love being spoiled rotten?