Suddenly Patrick had people again.
TWELVE
They sat at Lulu’s around a circular four-top that straddled the inside （with its air-conditioning） and the patio （with its misters）， the temperature both hot and cold depending on which moment you asked, the kids holding enormous dinner menus that covered their faces. Patrick glanced down at Marlene Dietrich, who, like the good dog she’d proven herself to be from the moment he walked her out of the West Los Angeles animal shelter, sat at the base of his chair, squarely on the patio side.
“There’s too many choices,” Maisie complained.
“The world is your oyster tonight. There’s no need to complain.”
“They have oythters?” Grant asked skeptically.
“Look, you asked to come here.” Patrick would have preferred any number of other establishments—Copley’s, for instance, on Cary Grant’s old estate—but Lulu’s large, colorful street presence caught the children’s eyes. “Just look at the kids’ menu. There’s like three things. The same three things that are on every kids’ menu in every restaurant everywhere in the world. Even I know this, and my experience is limited.”
“I don’t want to order off the kids’ menu,” Maisie protested.
“Why not?”
“I’m not a kid!”
Patrick set his own menu down and gripped the table for patience. “Don’t be in such a hurry to be older. You’re going to spend the rest of your life wishing you were younger.”
Maisie glared at him before relenting and picking up the separate menu for kids.
Lulu’s reminded Patrick of a cafeteria in a futuristic spaceship, as if people should be lined up at steam tables and carving stations dressed in utilitarian jumpsuits with neat lapels in primary colors after putting in a hard day’s work fixing warp drives and flux capacitors. Or rather, it looked like what someone in the late 1960s thought the cafeteria in a futuristic spaceship would look like, based perhaps on spending too much time watching Star Trek episodes in their stateroom aboard a gay cruise. But it was one of the few places that he knew of that had both a kids’ menu and a bar that served a decent martini （“Dry, very dry, just wave the vermouth over the vodka and it’s probably still too much vermouth”）， which ultimately made it a judicious choice for tonight’s lupper.
“Can Marlene be in here?” Maisie asked, always concerned with the rules.
“Why not? She’s a service dog.”
“No she’s not.”
“I’m blind.” Patrick retrieved the sunglasses that were tucked into the neck of his T-shirt and put them on for effect.
“No you’re not.”
“Fine. She’s an emotional support dog.”
“For who?”
“For you. For me, if you don’t decide on your dinner.”
“Why are there olives in your water?”
Patrick was putting out fires left and right. He took a long, slow sip of his martini. “It’s not water.”
“Can I watch YouTube?” Grant set his menu down, bored.
“No.”
“You hate YouTube.”
“I don’t know YouTube well enough to hate it.” But Patrick was certain if he did, that would probably be true.
“Then why not?”
“Because we’re having a family meal. And yes, I realize I sound like my father. This is what you’ve reduced me to in a matter of weeks.” Patrick tore off a piece of bread from the basket on the table before remembering he was throwing a party in a week for people he hadn’t seen in ages and he didn’t want to appear bloated. Panicked, he dropped the bread on Maisie’s plate. “Here. This is for you.”
Maisie picked up her knife and reached for the butter.
“I got you guys a dog, you can’t possibly be bored. Should I take her back?” Marlene sat up as if she understood the threat; to placate her, Patrick dropped another bite of bread at her feet. At the shelter, her scruffy face looked haunted, frozen just so in perfect black and white （black around the eyes with a white snoot and perfect black nose）。 Patrick lied and told the kids she came with the name Marlene. The shelter was calling her something common like Bella or Sophie; he’d already forgotten. On the drive back from Los Angeles with the sun setting behind them, Marlene, who uttered not one bark, proved to be a true silent star who always found her light.
“No! Don’t take her back!” Grant protested.
“Okay, then.” Patrick leaned down and scratched the dog on top of her head. “Look, it’s not YouTube I have a problem with. It’s social media as a whole. And, yes, I know. YouTube is more than social media, but what you watch on there—kid vlogs and whatnot—is. I don’t expect you to understand this at your age, but I’m older and I see what it’s doing to society, and I don’t want to see you fall into the same trap.”