Page 39 of Nacho Boyfriend

“He was just sitting there, looking like a dumbass—excuse my French—cradling the Beanie Baby in his hands. His face turned white when he saw me.”

“Oh, my word.” I’m cracking up now. “What did you do?”

“I yanked it from his hands and stormed out.”

“Wow. He’ll have a story to tell.”

“All I can say is it’s a good thing his pants were already down or he’d have to change his briefs.”

Tom laughs and digs for his wallet, handing me his credit card. “I almost lost five hundred big ones.”

“Five hundred dollars? I didn’t know they were worth that much.”

“Five hundred thousand,” he elaborates. “It’s extremely rare.”

“What are you carrying around in your pocket for?”

It’s no secret Tom is a little odd, but you’d have to have a few screws loose to carry a five hundred thousand dollar stuffed bear in your pocket—into the bathroom!

“I came straight here from the auction. You want me to leave it in my car?”

I shrug. “You have a point, there.”

To be honest, I’m still stuck on the fact he kicked down a bathroom stall door wearing flip-flops.

When I return with his receipt, he’s shaking his head.

“Man, I feel bad for the guy. Can you go check to see if he’s okay?”

“Um… can you point him out to me?”

He scans the room and finally spots him, pointing to a guy sitting in a booth with a young woman who I assume is his wife or girlfriend. I wonder if he’s telling her the story of the maniac who kicked down the bathroom stall door while he was pooping.

“Offer my apologies and let him know I’ll pay for his meal. It’s the least I can do.”

He signs the bill but leaves his credit card for me to open another tab. Even before the Beanie Baby, Tom has always thrown cash around like a gangsta rapper.

“You know what?” he amends. “Let him order anything he wants. What’s your best tequila?”

Oooh. I know this one.

“Don Julio 1942. One hundred percent blue agave with notes of floral, caramel, and spice.” (Although I’ll forever associate it with the spicy scent of Ignacio’s inner elbow). “It’s forty-five bucks a shot.”

“Send him two. And one for me. Lord knows I need it.”

“Right away, my friend.”

I pop on over to Bathroom Stall Guy (as I now call him) and introduce myself. This is Rosa’s table, so I think it’s only polite.

“Hi, I’m Olive, and my customer over there…” I motion to the other side of the restaurant where Tom is sitting. “He’d like to apologize for… well, we don’t have to get into details.”

He and his girlfriend glance at each other, then up at me.

“It’s okay,” says the guy. “No worries.”

“Order anything you want on the menu. It’s taken care of.”

“Well… I don’t know.”