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He knew he was going to laugh. He knew he'd have to stop it. He quickly distorted his face into a paranoid expression and glanced around the restaurant. He looked down at his food and his features resumed the scowl that had previously adorned them. He was in a bad mood. Smiling never helped preserve one of those.

"Dobie, honey," his mother pleaded, looking across the table at his untouched plate. "Honey, please eat something. You'll waste away."

Dobie looked down doubtfully. His scowl didn't disappear. In fact, it was stronger than ever.

"Dobie, if you don't eat your food right now I'll never take you out again," his father ordered.

"That's how it should be, honey," Dobie's mother said to his father, giving Dobie an angry glance. "They always fight anyway."

Dobie's sister, Tasha, was finishing off her drink. She looked up at Dobie resentfully. Dobie bore no concern for her, though; she could rot in hell for all he cared.

"Eat, now," said his mother, giving the textbook description of a stern, forbidding gaze. Dobie ignored her and looked at the couple across the room. They were both men and Dobie thought he could detect a lisp in their voices.

"Can I go to the bathroom?" asked Tasha.

"Yes, you may," said Dobie's mother.

Tasha climbed down off the seat and skipped to the bathroom in that indomitable seven-year old perk.

It'll be gone by the time she hits twelve, thought Dobie; by then she won't be able to manage a spring in her step.

The night was cold outside, and although he didn't much appreciate the atmosphere of "Le Cess Pool," he was glad to be in here rather than out there.

They were dining in the rather elegant "Chow Down," which had endured other wasteful tenures as "China Bo-take out," "The Thai Place," and "Big Food Chinese Restaurant," whether for a deficiency of English or imagination Dobie didn't know. Dobie thought that "The Thai Place" was by far the most pathetic name of the three, but he could never tell if the name had actually been "The Thai Palace" because it was always so poorly lit.

He could not bear the sight of the generic fecal matter they referred to as food there, but he suffered it quietly, while sipping the Chinese tea that seemed to be present in every Chinese restaurant in North America. They were being charged two bucks a pot of tea, which was highway robbery considering most places give all the tea you want for free. He longed to dine elsewhere rather than this rathole.

Dobie slid down off his chair and plodded towards the bathroom.

"Where do you think you're going, young man?" asked his mother.

Dobie ignored her and continued, weaving around the myriad of deserted tables. The tablecloths were that peach-like color that looks tacky and shows stains all at once. A red stained-glass lantern hung over the circular arch that led to the restrooms. He pushed open the pink plastic door to the bathroom. It was just as he'd expected, tiles with dirt, dust and some unidentifiable materials wedged in between them. The urinals were filled with piss. Dobie looked at the wall as he relieved himself, feeling sick. Graffiti was on the wall at eye level proclaiming that Frank was here and that consumption of urinal cakes is a federal offense. Dobie jumped and kicked the handle, flushing the urinal. He wondered if his shoe had caught any diseases from the brief contact. He flicked cold water on his face and blew his hands dry. He left the bathroom and walked back to their table.

His family was finishing up their dinner. The lights had been dimmed in the restaurant, but it didn't hide how tacky the place was.

"Dobie, when you want to go to the bathroom and you are at the dinner table, ask permission!" said his mother.

"Yeah, whatever," he retorted.

His mother seemed surprised by his manner. Dobie vaguely thought about how fragile mothers could be; well, if she wants him to be nice, she should take the first step. Smoke the peace pipe, as one of his teachers put it, though Dobie wasn't very willing to blacken his lungs for a truce. Whether his mother was appalled by him or loved him fiercely made no difference to Dobie.

"If you're gonna talk to your mother in that tone, maybe you should stay in your room for a couple of hours," she said, confident that with her horror-inflicting threats she would win this tiny battle of wills.

She still didn't seem to get that if she told him to stay in his room like a six-year old, he would ignore her in much the same way that he ignored her in everything else. He took a great pleasure in displeasing her or defying her, mostly because she still was head of the household, although being so fragile that she could not be wakened or needed help with the slightest of things. Dobie thought she had neither the strength nor the will to lead the household and her only power came from the fact that she was a bitch. Probably the biggest bitch that he would ever know, although that is to say a lot.

"Yeah, whatever," he repeated.

Dobie believed that his mother had an incredible penchant for sinking to his level, then telling him to grow up. She demonstrated this now.

"Poor little boy," she taunted. "Is the little boy not getting all that he wants? Is the little boy sad?"

"Shut up," he said.

She stood up suddenly and made to slap him, he blocked her and made a conscious effort not to smile.

"You don't say shut up to your mother," she said triumphantly, as if she had connected with the slap.

Honestly, thought Dobie, some people are so simple-minded they are impossible to understand.

Dobie's mother shook her head, as if clearing her thoughts. "Your father and I," she spoke directly to Tasha, giving the silent treatment to her son, "will be playing bridge tonight with the Raymonds. We were planning on leaving you and your brother home alone tonight, but now I'm not so sure. Maybe we'll give you a babysitter."

She gave Dobie a glance that added, "For a baby." He was at least glad that she was happy and would maybe stop annoying him now. Now Dobie merely marveled at her imperfection.

Bridge, to Dobie, was the surest sign that you were ancient. He didn't understand the game nor did he desire to. A bunch of old people sitting around an oak table smoking cheap cigars and drinking weak decaf and crowing over trumps (whatever they were) was as effective as a warning written in fire. He didn't believe his mother's threat; and she was really getting on his nerves so he took leave of the table once more, and this time his family didn't even try to stop him.

Dobie walked over to the register and picked up a toothpick with some of the mints that are mandatory at all Oriental and Thai restaurants. He chewed the mints meditatively then opened the door. A bell clanged and Dobie stepped outside, then he chewed the toothpick. He dangled it from his lips like a cigarette. Dobie liked the feeling of a cigarette dangling from his lips, but he couldn't stand their taste so he stuck to toothpicks. He didn't get bugged for chewing toothpicks and that was agreeable to him.

Cars blew their horns and halogen lights flickered on the busy street before him. He leaned against the cool brick siding of the restaurant. The Pizza Hut next door was doing much business and its redness caught his eye and interest before recognition took it away. The bowling alley's fluorescent sign shown green and the countless street lights blew in the slight wind. Dobie settled back against the wall.

The door to the restaurant opened again and the bell clanged again. Dobie was looking at his feet, actually at the blacktop between his feet. He thought it looked suspiciously like a black hole. He was imagining himself standing in the middle of nothing with nothing in sight, but still hearing the horns and other car noises. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Dobie," his father said. "Take it easy on your mother; she's had a rough day."

"Treat others," recited Dobie, "as you would be treated."

"Listen, kid," said Dobie's father. "I'm not gonna tell you twice."

Dobie noticed how much like his mother his father was when she wasn't around. Dobie compared this to the fieldmouse he turned into when in her presence. When he thought of this comparison he saw how unjustified his father was in his request.

How come you take her shit, when even I don't? Dobie thought. This time he kept his lip zipped, though. Dobie wasn't scared of his father hitting him he doubted his dad had the guts. Anyway, if his dad laid a finger on him Dobie would report it. A single finger, and it would be pretty easy to forget anything his father may have done for Dobie. Ever. Dobie didn't ask to be born; he wasn't exactly thankful for it, either. He figured he'd be just fine swimming around in the nothingness of the parking lot asphalt as it flowed underneath his feet. He had no great love for reality.

"Straighten out, kid." And his father disappeared into the restaurant.

Dobie brooded on this for a minute or two. He hated how everyone always had to get the last word in.

The wind had increased and the street lights were swinging wildly, but the night had considerably warmed. Dobie looked at his feet again. He considered just walking away. Running away would be too dramatic a word for it. He considered walking away. He had twenty-some dollars in his pockets from mowing the lawn and other things.

He looked at his feet and they began moving. They advanced across the black river of the parking lot, stepped across a concrete block and walked down the grass to another asphalt sea. He heard the Pizza Hut's inner sounds and its door opening and closing. He walked away.

Maybe I'll walk home tomorrow morning, he thought, when I've had time to clear my head.