The following can also be found in the book Chicago Stories 1996. Click here to learn more, and to download a free electronic copy.

(Man and woman on stage, reading)

Woman: I said I don't want to talk about it anymore!

Man: Fine. Let's just go get some dinner.

Woman: Fine. Where do you want to go?

Man: You pick out the place.

Woman: Oh no. You're the guest, you pick out the place.

Man: Right. I'm the guest. I don't know what kinds of places there are to eat. You live here, you pick the place.

Woman: (Pause) This is so typical of you, you know that?

Man: What!

Woman: You always pass off the responsibility of choice to someone else so that you can pout and whine about whatever choice they made.

Man: What kind of new delusion is this?

Woman: It's true. You live to complain, and you can't do that if you're responsible for your choices in life. So you hand it off to dupes like me, like you did for three years of my life, and no matter what choice I'd make, you found something to whine about.

Man: Fine. Fine! Make any choice you want -- any choice! I won't say a word about it.

Woman: (Sarcastically) Yeah.

Man: I promise. Not a word.

Woman: Fine. Let's go to this Thai place around the corner.

Man: (Long pause, then a sigh)

Woman: I knew it.

Man: You know I can't eat Thai food. When I said I wouldn't say anything, that was with the understanding that you would pick a place that has food that won't disagree with my system.

Woman: You psychosomatic prick.

Man: I'm not even going to get in a discussion about whether my dietary limitations are real or fake, because one, you'd lose, and two, what would be the fucking point? So just...pick...something...else.

Woman: Okay...

Man: I mean why does every restaurant you've picked all weekend have to be some crazy hippie food place anyway? All weekend long, it's 'humus' this and 'curry' that and 'blackened' this...

Woman: (interrupting) So where do you suggest?

Man: I don't know. Just some... American food, you know?

Woman: Define American food, please.

Man: You remember, food you used to eat when you were just a pathetic suburban teenager like the rest of us. Before you became Miss World Traveler.

Woman: You want to go to a fuckin' Denny's?

Man: No, I didn't say...

Woman: Fine, you want to go to a fuckin' Denny's and have your French fries and your patty melt, we'll go to a fuckin' Denny's.

Man: The only point I'm trying to make is that there exists decent restaurants that serve nice, plain fish and chicken and stuff like that, without the hot mustard sauce and without the sprouts...

Woman: Fine. I know this place across town. Let's go.

Man: (Turning to audience) Branson, Missouri, for those of you who don't know, is known in common circles as the "White Trash Las Vegas." Originally a sleepy tourist town picking up summer trade in the middle of Lake of the Ozarks, it was home for several decades only to go-cart tracks, waterslides, a Ripley's Believe it or Not! museum, several putt-putt miniature golf courses, a country-western themed amusement park called "Silver Dollar City," and several local "hillbilly" style dinner theatre places, entertainment provided by groups with names such as Baldknobbers, Foggy River Boys, and Boxcar Willie.

Woman: Oh, for God's sake, will you just eat it?

Man: (Back to woman) No. No, I'm not going to eat it, because I can't eat it. I can't eat it because it's inedible.

Woman: It is a restaurant. Restaurants do not make inedible dishes. Maybe dishes you don't agree with or don't match the perfect taste you have in your mouth, but not inedible dishes.

Man: Well then, obviously you need to try this dish.

Woman: I said I don't want to try it. Get that fork out of my face.

Man: No, obviously you don't believe me, and I need to exonerate my good name, so here, eat it.

Woman: (in tense whisper) I said get that goddamn fork out of my mouth or so help me God I'm going to stand up and walk out of here and you can call a cab to get you home.

Man: Fine.

Woman: (pause, then in exasperated voice) Are you trying to get back at me? Is that what this is?

Man: Now what are you talking about.

Woman: Okay, I admit, our relationship had its problems. We both made a lot of mistakes, I know that. I'm not disputing that. But I thought you came down to visit this weekend to resolve some of these issues. I thought we were here to work some things out. But it feels like you've got some kind of hidden agenda whereby you're out to publicly humiliate me on every topic we can bring up over three days, to try to get back at me for our relationship...

Man: Jesus Christ...

Woman: No, I'm serious. You know, I don't have many friends in this town and there's not a lot of places I go to on a regular basis, but this place is one of them, and you know that, you knew that before we even got here. And now they're going to forever link my face with that night that smug little bastard sent his entire dinner back and said the whole thing was inedible.

Man: Listen to me. This is not about humiliating you. It is simply the fact that I am not going to pay for a meal that I cannot eat. If you don't believe me, really, try a bit of this...

Woman: Jesus Christ!

Man: What!

Woman: Come on. Let's just... (sighs) Let's just get out of here and go get drunk.

Man: (to audience) In the late 1970's, Roy Clark opened in his own dinner theatre in Branson, setting up a full schedule of nationally known touring country stars to stop by and play for a few nights. It quickly became the most popular attraction in the entire Springfield metropolitan area, even eclipsing the Bass Pro Shop World Headquarters up in the city proper. As these nationally known country stars would come into Branson and play, there were always two things that never failed to grab their attention: 1) that Branson is a picturesque small town situated in the middle of rolling hills and fresh water; and 2) Roy Clark's dinner theatre just grossed six million dollars in the last six months.

Woman: Sorry.

Man: (back to woman) It's fine.

Woman: I'm not used to drinking that much.

Man: You don't have to explain.

Woman: I mean, it's not like our undergraduate days...

Man: I said, you don't have to explain.

Woman: (pause) Are your shoes all right?

Man: Well...they'll wash off...I guess.

Woman: I don't know why I drank that much -- I should've known better...

Man: I don't want to talk about it.

Woman: I guess I just wasn't watching myself...

Man: I said, I don't want to talk about it. (Long pause) Are you ready to go home?

Woman: (pause) Yeah. (Another pause) I guess.

Man: (To audience) The boom started with stuttering country legend Mel Tillis and novelty star Ray Stevens, creator of such unforgettable songs as "Guitarzan," "The Streak," and "Ahab...the Arab." Soon there was so much demand for construction crews to build new, shiny, multi-million dollar theatres in Branson, that workers had to be trucked in every day and put up in shantytowns, endless rows of mobile homes put up in haste on the edge of town.

The Osmond Family. Bobby Vinton's "Blue Velvet Theatre." Wayne Newton. Shoji Tabuchi, the nation's number one western-swing style violinist (or as they say in Branson, "fiddler"). Andy Williams' "Moon River Theatre." They built one for Johnny Cash, but he backed out. No doubt Liberace would have taken it if he was still alive.

You drive down the still-two-lane road that constitutes the Strip, and the soft fluorescence of the "Putt Putt A Go Go" has been replaced by dazzling computer-controlled sets of neon lights. The posters for the sincere yet idiotic hillbilly stylings of the Baldknobbers have been replaced with giant, glittering thirty foot high photographs of the Mandrell sisters. You drive down the Strip and you are mesmerized by the glow and the noise, and as your unblinking eyes take it all in, all you can say is (whispered) "Wow." And you haven't even gotten to the Judd's theatre yet.

Woman: Well...it was a...good weekend.

Man: Uh...yeah. I guess.

Woman: I hope...ah...(with false cheeriness) Hope your plane ride's okay!

Man: Oh, well...I'm sure it'll be fine. I'm...uh...glad I came.

Woman: So am I, so am I. I think we really got some things worked out.

Man: So do I. It was very...productive.

Woman: Yeah. (Pause) I'm, uh, sorry I threw up on you.

Man: Yeah, well, that's okay. I'm...uh...sorry I, uh, fell asleep with that cigarette and...uh, burned down your, uh, apartment.

Woman: Yeah...well, that's what insurance is for, right?

Man: Yeah...yeah.

Woman: Well, I'll see you soon.

Man: Yeah, okay. I'll see you soon. (To audience) The township of Branson is now facing the first effects of its boom. Hundreds of construction workers are still living in those mobile homes, broke now that the construction is over and unable to scrape up enough money to escape. There was a small article in the paper recently about how a couple of the Osmond kids, currently enrolled in the public school, got beat up on the playground. My old connections from Columbia, Missouri, my college town, tell me that the Branson cocaine business is the briskest the state's seen since St. Louis in the '70s.

Branson has a lot of issues, issues that need to be resolved. But I'm willing to bet that the city has a lot tougher time coming to a resolution than they originally imagined. They're going to find a lot more pain, a lot more hate, a lot more repressed emotions than they ever thought existed. Frankly, I can't offer any advice to the city, save one piece that I think I can safely give to everyone here, too: If you ever eat at the Papermoon Cafe, skip the roast beef.