Best Seat in the House

I COAST INTO THE PARKING lot, praying no one's around to notice the crumbling metal and the wheeze of the geriatric engine. If I keep my foot off the gas, the deafening ahem-ahem-ahem of my phantom exhaust system's less likely to turn heads.

This car's a classic, I say. Nothing to be ashamed of. Classic cars are totally in right now.

I rattle past the valet booth because I'm not a valet guy. No one's allowed to see the greasy fast food wrappers and sticky half-empty drink cups lttering the floorboards. I find my final resting place at a prime spot right in front of the restaurant.

The sign out front reads, "Heavenly." I've never been here before, but it sounds fancy, if you ask me. I'm a lot of things, but fancy isn't one of them. Still, I tried to look the part, dressing up in my finest. The buttons strain around my stomach and there's a hole in the lining of my pocket that lets my keys fall with a clink to the pavement.

So what? This outfit is vintage. Vintage is totally in. I still look good.

In the fading sunlight, the huge establishment glimmers like it's been gold-plated and encrusted with diamonds.

Maybe this was a bad idea. I gulp and tug at my choking collar with one finger. No way can I afford this place.

Despite the drag of my feet, some unseen force pulls me forward to a small glass door set in the center of the building.

Huh. I scratch my head. This place should have a wide entryway lined with pillars and marble or something, not a plain door. What kind of place is this?

Before I can even think about turning back to my rustbuck--I mean, classic car--a man in a pure white tuxedo swings the door outward.

"It's about time you got here." The man smiles, and I can't explain it, but I smile, too. I'm happy. He's happy. We're all happy. That's weird.

Spices from faraway lands fill my senses as I step inside, and my stomach growls.
"Sorry," I say. "I skipped lunch."

The man in the white suit--his eyes are so deep and kind, I feel like I've known him my entire life--just chuckles and leads me down an impossibly narrow hallway. I'm no architect, but whoever designed this place doesn't seem to be, either.

"I'm the owner of this restaurant," my guide explains. "I have many names, but..."

We've arrived in a much larger room--I'm guessing this is the lobby. Intricately hand-woven rugs stretch across the floors and paintings line each wall. I skim across each one, my mouth hanging open. "That painting over there . . . Is that a Michelangelo?"

"I have an eye for precious things," the man answers.

Another man dressed in white waits behind a hostess stand at the far end of this extravagant room. He tips his head in reverence when we approach.

"This is my son." The man in the suit wraps an arm around the host, a man who could be his clone. "I'm so proud of him."

"So wonderful to have you join us," the son says. He's just being polite, I know, but his words fill me with a strange sense of peace like I've never had before. What is this place?

"Oh! We have another guest!" the owner says, and disappears into the narrow hallway.

I'm suddenly aware of my surroundings and very aware of my wimpy bank account, so instead of following him to a table, I ask for a menu and sink down onto a nearby bench. I haven't decided if I'll use the menu to pick out my dinner or fan myself because of sticker shock. Either way, I'm prepared.