Mr. Fancypants Eats Out

HIS LEGAL NAME, the name that appears on his driver's license, was "Donny." I first met him in eighth grade, at Washington Junior High. He was a dorky kid-short and kind of weasely, with an enormous misshapen globe of a head, bad teeth and dark, greasy bangs he was always brushing out of his eyes. He was one of those 13-year-olds who tried to grow a moustache, failed and left it there anyway.

Don wasn't brilliant, but he was a smart kid who could fix most anything, from toasters to cars to stereos. He listened to awful music (he was the only person I knew who actually owned a Survivor album), and the only books he read were trashy thrillers. Given all that, I think it must've been our shared love of movies that caused us to strike up a friendship. Nothing else made much sense.

While still in eighth grade, we counted on our parents to drive us to the Bruce Lee triple features and whatever new science-fiction movies happened to be around. In later years, when he got his own car, we ended up seeing everything that came to town. We could see six or seven movies a weekend, if our timing was right.

Donny's family, while common for the time and the place, was still a bit of a trip. His dad worked the late shift at one of the mills, and his mom was a cashier-both of them funny as hell, and nice as can be. Their small clapboard house was in one of Green Bay's poorer sections, and even though it was filthy and always smelled a little rancid, it was filled with the latest top-of-the-line high-tech toys. That's where their money went. They had a big-screen tv and each room had a bigger and more complex stereo system. They were the first people I knew who owned a VCR, a videogame console and a home computer. They all had waterbeds and there was a swimming pool out back (the water always seemed a little oily, but it was still a pool).

Even when Donny got himself a car, it was a rusted-out hulk of a Buick, but after he was finished with the engine, it could scream along smoothly at 110 mph, the homemade stereo blasting .38 Special and REO Speedwagon at deafening levels.

As usual, our paths diverged as high school rolled on. Don found other friends and so did I. We still went to the occasional movie together-but never again with the obsessive regularity we once did. Thinking back on it, I think he made more of an effort at the time to keep the friendship alive than I did. By the time I moved to Chicago, we'd lost all contact.

Six years later, after lots of moving around and lots of trouble, I was in Philly, living in a shabby, funny-smelling apartment that happened to contain a good deal of high-tech equipment. I was also living with a woman who, though her background was as decidedly middle-class Midwestern as my own, had visions of living the high life-of wearing nice clothes, eating in classy restaurants and attending prestigious cultural events.

At the time, I was writing semi-regular reviews of local greasy spoons. She began insisting that I review some place where ptomaine poisoning wasn't a constant concern, someplace new and unique and exciting (and expensive). After all, if I'm being paid to go to restaurants (and bring her along), we should take advantage of it.

"They have three other people who do the fancy places," I explained. "I was hired to review dives. And as far as being paid goes, I get $25 to cover the tab. That's all."

Well, I eventually caved in and agreed that we'd go to a (slightly) upscale place. A new Greek restaurant was opening up the following week. We'd try that.

As it happens, the next day I got a call from Donny. I hadn't talked to him in years, but he was making a business trip close to Philly and thought he'd stop by the same evening we were going to this new Greek place. That was no problem, I figured; we'd just bring him along. I was afraid I knew already what was going to happen, but I was trapped.

Don hadn't changed a bit, in spite of two marriages, five kids and a house in central Wisconsin. He was still a weasely little guy with an enormous head, a scrubby moustache and bangs he couldn't keep out of his eyes. He still had the same sense of humor, was still a little rough around the edges, and he was clearly nervous about being in a city the size of Philly.

I could sense that the woman I was living with wasn't too keen on having this obvious rube around, so I took him out and showed him the neighborhood.

We stopped in a park a few blocks away and sat down. I tried to ask him how he was doing and how things were going with the rest of his family, but his eyes kept drifting toward the sky.

"This is really unbelievable," he said. "Look at this, we're sitting in a park, right? You can look up and see the trees. But if you look a little higher up, you can see the buildings all around. That's something you don't see in Wisconsin."

I remembered having the same reaction when I moved to Philly, though it was a reaction born less of wonder than of terror.

We chatted a while longer. He really was the same kid I knew in eighth grade, except that now he had to worry about mortgages and child support. Back at the apartment, I told him about dinner.

"It's a new Greek place," I said, and immediately saw something flash across his face.

"Ummm," he said nervously, "I'm really more of a cheeseburger, fries and Coke man, myself."

"Me too, but it'll be okay," I assured him. "It's just something I have to do for work."

The restaurant, as I pretty much expected, was a disaster. It looked fine at first. It was quiet and clean and had real tablecloths. The small staff was pleasant, too, but the grand opening was clearly premature. The liquor license hadn't come through, the kitchen wasn't up to speed and they were only prepared to serve about a third of the things on the menu.

Throughout the dour meal that followed, Donny kept muttering, "I'm really more of a cheeseburger, fries and Coke man, myself," as he picked at the meager entrée. The woman glowered at me in silence.

After dinner, Donny headed straight for his hotel, clearly under the impression that I'd turned into some highfalutin fancypants, one who had to prove to his old friends that he was better than they were.

Maybe to a certain degree I had. If you're from a small town, living in a major city will do that to you, to some extent. But it didn't really strike me until after he'd left, and the woman started in.

"Could you believe how uncouth he was? 'Cheeseburgers and fries.' We take him out to a nice place, and all he wants is a cheeseburger. Unbelievable. The next time we go out?"

I sighed, but said nothing. It all made me a little sick inside, this arrogance, this contempt, this fake sophistication-both hers and what Donny apparently assumed to be mine. I quietly found myself longing to be sitting in the front seat of a rusty old Buick again, as it tore up Allouez Ave., needle dancing at 90, with "Hold on Loosely" blasting from all sides. o