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when he becomes a man. For some it is a Bar Mitzvah, for others a first kiss. For me, it was Bugaboo Creek Steakhouse.
At the sprightly age of nine, I entered what could only be descried as a redneck’s worst nightmare. The walls, creepily decorated with the heads of large woodland creatures, sang show tunes as I approached my table. After opening my menu, a trophy moose head maniacally stared down at me and in a loud burly voice shouted the dinner specials and the lyrics to “Mack the Knife.”
To be blunt, I was terrified. However, the worst was yet to come.
The surrounding dining area echoed with the laughter of innocent families, each enjoying their ample over-cooked steaks. They were clueless to the trauma they were about to endure. Joining my own family on this festive occasion were some of my closest childhood friends. As the waitress asked us for our dessert order, I contemplated what flavor ice cream I would choose. Chocolate? Vanilla? Doom?
When my sundae finally arrived at the table, my destiny was sealed. Barely tasting the ice cream, I repeatedly shoved spoonfuls into my mouth. The whipped cream was buoyant and the chocolate syrup was evenly distributed throughout the serving glass. With a smile, I took my final bite and sat back into my confined booth, not realizing that the single chunk sliding down the back of my throat wasn’t a chocolate chip. It was a walnut – the most dangerous food item that could ever enter my fragile pre-teen body.
In a daze, my stomach started to rumble louder than the singing animals surrounding me. It was out for vengeance and my deathly allergy to walnuts would not allow me to just get up and walk away. My entire dinner was coming out and there was nothing anyone could do. I stared down into the small glass that once held my thick delicious ice cream, and that’s when it happened.
Tears burst out from my face as a wave of vomit filled the glass evenly to the brim. I stared at my friend as the fear in his eyes reached a level of panic. With little warning, vomit projected into his direction. It was too late for him. The rest of my family jumped out of their seats and struggled to take refuge in the isles between the surrounding booths. The waitress ran to my table holding dozens of thick reusable lap napkins, hoping to somehow stop the flow of terror. Grabbing each one, I effortlessly began to destroy them. As fear permeated the room, dozens of guests began to flood the door.
Choking on a never-ending stream of puke, I aimed my head upwards to avoid dousing the waitress anymore than I already had. My aim now shifted its way toward the moose head, which continued singing merrily, almost providing a soundtrack to the disaster. As the moose gargled on my bile, distant screams of guests could be heard in the distance. Inside my head, I begged for it to end. Like an act of God, after 10 straight minutes of projectile misfortune, I had finally triumphed. The worst was over.
Still sitting in my seat, I turned to view the restaurant. Only a handful of others remained, and not one of them spoke a word. Even the talking moose had halted its speech – probably because my vomit had somehow short-circuited its system. After being told to leave, my mother grabbed my hand and we left the establishment. With everything I had been through, Bugaboo said the dinner was on them.