The Bloomin' Onion

Anyone who's had the Bloomin' Onion from the Outback Steakhouse knows well its fried clarion call.

If it weren't for this, Outback Steakhouse would be nothing. A nonentity. The steak is crap. The food all has the same salty-peppery seasoning. The drinks are watered down. The waitstaff is overly-friendly and annoying. It is my belief that the Bloomin' Onion is single-handedly keeping the place afloat. If they were to close down their entire operation and instead have a Bloomin' Onion kiosk, they would do just as well, if not better. But, I digress.

The Bloomin' Onion is solely responsible for my very first date experience. The date that set the bar so low, that all dates after it were a smashing success. I first met Steve online via gay.com. I was 16 years old. He was 20 and in community college. I didn't even have a car or license yet, so like a gentleman he picked me up at my parent's house (they loved that, by the way). He asked me where I'd like to go for dinner. I replied with the response I gave my parents whenever they asked me—Outback Steakhouse. We drove 30 minutes to the nearest Outback. On the way I was incredibly nervous, so I did what I always do when nervous—tell wildly inappropriate jokes and stories, then laugh so hard I snort. The first time I exploded in cackle-snorts I thought he was going to drive off the road. I could see the shock and horror written on his face, but couldn't seem to keep my mouth shut. I kept filling the silence with bawdy, unflattering stories. Each one was received with more terror than the last. To Steve's credit, he did have the courtesy to fake a smile.

When we arrived at Outback Steakhouse in Tyngsboro, MA there was a 30 minute wait.

"Do you mind waiting a little bit for a table?" He asked me.

"I'm starving. Let's just sit at the bar." I urged.

"Oh... okay... are you sure you don't want to wait for a private table?" He coaxed.

"Nah. Let's just sit at the bar. I see some empty stools next to that old couple." I pointed.

"Umm... it's a little loud over there. Are you sure you don't want to wait?" He practically begged to deaf ears.

"I don't mind a little noise. Let's go eat!" I led him over to the crowded bar area and perched happily on a stool.

We were greeted cheerfully by the bartender who took our drink order.

"Have you boys been here before?" A waitress asked, siddling up next to us and handing us menus.

"I've never been--" Steve started to reply.

"Oh my god, yes! My parents and I come here all the time. In fact, I don't even need a menu." I interrupted loudly, pushing the menu back at her.

"Well that's great. Welcome back." She smiled at me, then turned to Steve apologetically, "I'll just give you a few minutes to look over the menu then."

"Wow... you really like this place huh?" Steve asked.

"Not really. There's just one thing I like here." I chirped while sucking down my soda.

"Oh yeah? What's that?"

"The Bloomin' Onion. Oh my god it's so good. It's like this onion the size of a coconut, all cut up into slivers and deep fried and it comes with this spicy, tangy sauce thing in the middle. It's amazing." I said with lots of hand gesturing.

"That does sound pretty good." He said looking at the menu. "Oh, it's an appetizer? Shall we split it then?"

"Oh no." I replied wide-eyed. "I get it as my meal. You can get your own though... if you want."

"Oh." Disappointment was evident in his face and voice, but it went unnoticed.

After we placed our orders, we sat mostly in silence—me not knowing what to say—he probably not wanting to say anything. We picked at the free loaf of bread speared with a steak knife at the table.

Ten years later, the waitress returned with our meals. He ordered something sensible like steak and potatoes. It looked tough, overcooked, and over-salted. My Bloomin' Onion was emitting steam and each onion petal was perfectly fried golden and looked like something from a magazine. I could see the lust in his eyes.

"That does look really good." He said.

"Yeah. It's amazing." I slurred through a mouthful of fried heaven.

"Would you like to try any of mine?" He asked, sawing at his steak. "I'd gladly trade some steak for some onion."

"No thanks." I gurgled. "I don't really like the steak here."

"Some mashed potato?"

"No thanks. I'm happy with mine."

"That's really all you're going to eat? No meat? No vegetables?" He asked skeptical and incredulous.

"I'll see how I feel afterwards. Maybe dessert."

Concentrating solely on our food at this point, we finished in ten minutes. The waitress came over to clear our empty plates.

"Did we save room for any desse--" She turned to me and stopped, her mouth hanging open.

"What? Do I have onion on my face?" I started touching where my cheek should have been. It was about 3 inches out from where it ought to be.

"Something's wrong with your face..." Steve and the waitress said in unison.

I got up from the table and went immediately to the bathroom. There was a man washing his hands at the sink in front of the mirror. He looked up into the reflection, saw my bulbous face, looked immediately away, and made an exceptionally fast exit. I bolted over to the mirror and examined my freakish face. My cheeks looked like I was hiding golf balls in them. My lips were bigger than Angelina Jolie's. It looked like I had a severe sunburn from my eyes down to my adam's apple. My tongue hurt, so I stuck it out for inspection. It was much larger than normal and was throbbing. It literally felt heavy and clunky. I stuffed it back in my mouth with my fingers and returned to the table, hiding my face behind hands.

"I think I have to go to the hothpital." I slurred. "It hurth."

Seeing his opportunity for an early date escape, Steve offered to drive me to the nearest hospital. We left cash without getting the check and rushed out to the car. As he drove, I pulled down the visor and looked at my swollen face in the mirror and cringed.

"It's not so bad." He comforted. "I'm sure you just have an allergy and need some benadryl."

I tried not to cry, but some tears escaped down my puffy face.

"Does it hurt much?" He asked.

"Not weawy. Ith not tho bad." I managed, "But I weawy wanted detthert."

I was kidding of course, but I'm pretty sure he was appalled anyways.

He dropped me off at the emergency room entrance and told me to go inside while he found parking. When I got to the emergency front desk, the nurses were very accommodating and ushered me back to a triage room. A doctor entered the room a couple minutes later and inspected my face and mouth.

"You're having an allergic reaction. A pretty strong one. I'm giving you a cortisone injection that should relieve the swelling. What did you eat that could be causing this?"

"I think ith the bwoomin' onion" I said.

"How much of this onion did you eat?" He inquired, taking my pulse.

"Aww of it." I croaked.

"How big is it? How much onion?" He pressed.

"Wike a coconut thize."

"Oh my... with that much in your system we need to get it out of you. I'm going to give you a solution that will induce vomiting. You need to expel as much of it as you can."

I spent the next 20 minutes hurling spicy fried onion into a hospital basin. As good is it was going down, it was reversely bad coming up. A nurse made me drink a gallon of water when I was done, before I was allowed to be discharged.

When I got back out to the waiting room, there was no Steve. I asked a nurse at the front desk if she had seen anyone fitting his description. She said no. I sighed, dreading what was to come. Reluctantly, I asked her if I could use their phone. I dialed home.

"Hello?" My Mom asked sweetly.

"Hi mum. Ith Joth. I'm at the hothpital and--"

"YOU'RE WHAT?" She shouted.

"I thaid I'm at the hothpital and I need a ri--"

"WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO YOU?"

"I'm had an awwergic--"

"ARE YOU HURT? DID HE HURT YOU? WERE YOU RAPED?"

"Jethuth chritht mom! I'm fine. I need a wide home. I'll expwain in da caw."

If being ding dong ditched at a hospital emergency room wasn't evidence enough that it was not a successful date, my mother driving me home while crying was a pretty good indication. Because I was 16, a typical idiot teenager, and full of misdirected rage, I started yelling at my mother.

"Thith ith all yaw faulth!" I burst at her.

"I know. I never should have let you date."

"No! Ith that you never taw me how to date! I wath a jerk to him!"

"He left you at the hospital alone and without a ride home! He is a pig. You're sweet and too young and men are pricks. You won't be dating anymore!"

"YAW NOT THE BOTTHH OF ME!" I shrieked.

"You're right! You can date all you want! As long as they're women!"

We rode home in an angry silence. We didn't speak the rest of the night and we went to bed angry with each other. In the morning, we both apologized.

"Your face looks all better. How's your tongue?" She asked, giving me a hug.

"It feels pretty normal again."

"Why don't we go out to lunch and spend the day together?" She smiled.

"Sure." I acquiesced.

"Where would you like to go?"

"Outback Steakhou--"

"Shut the fuck up Josh!"

I love my mom.

Mystic Tan

It is about this time of year, every year, when I'm reminded of how painfully Albino-like I am. My choices are either white or red skin. I choose the less painful white. But there was one summer when I was orange.

My mother is very interested in my physical appearance.

"Those jeans make you look fat." She'd say out of the blue.

"You need a haircut. You look like a Beatle." She'd inform me, unprovoked.

"Josh. You're so pale...I can't even look at you. How are you going to get a date like that?" She'd shudder.

My parents live in South Carolina and have fabulous tans. I live in Boston where there's about 340 days of clouds, rain, or snow and about 20 days of pesky interruption by the sun. When I fly home to visit they always seem to forget this. I'll make my way out of the airport gate and they will be waiting for me at baggage claim.

"I could see you coming a mile away! You're a big, pale beacon!" Mom would greet me squinting.

One summer I flew down to visit them with my friend Leanne for a week. We mentioned how we wanted to go to the beach the next day. My mom looked suddenly horrified.

"You can't go to the beach like that!"

"Like what?" I asked.

"That PALE!" She groaned. "Everyone will think you're a yankee.

"I AM a yankee."

"Not in this house. We need you to blend in. What would the neighbors think if they saw you leaving here like that?"

"That you keep me locked in the attic?" I retorted.

"Probably!" She moaned. "You need to get a tan before you can go to a public beach."

"That's kind of the point of going to a beach in the first place."

"Absolutely not. You're getting a tan first."

"How?!" I shouted.

"I'm making a tanning appointment for both of you tomorrow. No buts." She declared.

I thought that laying in a tanning bed for 30 minutes wouldn't be so bad, so I didn't think much of her demand. If it would allow me to go to the beach unmolested, so be it.

In the morning she drove us over to a nearby stripmall. The sign out front said "Mystic Tan" and again, I didn't think anything of it. Inside I expected to see a bunch of coffin-like tanning beds and not much else. Instead, there was a grand, spa-looking lobby with curtains shrouding the back. Above the reception desk was a list of services.

Mystic Tans:
Level 1: $30
Level 2: $40
Level 3: $50

My mom informed the receptionist that we would be needing a Level 3 immediately. She looked at us and nodded agreement.

"Have y'all ever been here befo'?" She asked.

We shook our heads no.

"Have y'all ever had a Mystic Tan befo'?"

We shook our heads no.

"Ummkay, well follow me and I'll show y'all what to do."

She led us back behind a series of curtains into a private sitting area. Surrounding the area were a series of black shower stalls with a curtain leading into each one.

"Inside these two stalls is where your tanning experience will begin." She pointed to two designated Level 3 stalls. "You will remove your clothing out here first, and then proceed into these here stalls when ready. Once inside, there will be a display monitor with instructions and an audio recording will guide you through the process. It's quick, painless, and more efficient than traditional tanning beds. You've come to the right place to get a beautiful, instant tan without the tanlines. Do y'all have any questions?"

Leanne and I looked at each other and shook our heads.

"Good. Y'all will do just fahn. Relax and enjoy yo'selves. I'll see y'all back out front when you're dried off and got yo'selves dressed again." She walked through the curtains to the front desk area.

We didn't waste any time stripping down to nothing and tossing our clothes on the floor. We both wanted to be done quickly and get to the beach. When naked, we walked over to our designated stalls and peeked through the black curtains inside.

"Mine's pitch black..." I said

"Mine too." She said with an echo—her head poking through the curtain.

"You go first." I whined.

"No. You." She said.

"Together." We said in unison.

We pulled our curtains of our gas chambers aside, stepped upward and inward, then closed the curtain behind us. Small floor lights lit up after entering, like you'd see on an airplane. A 6 inch monitor on the wall infront of me flicked on and started playing a prerecorded welcome message. The woman's voice indicated that I should listen carefully to ensure the best possible tan.

"Please stand on the indicated footprints on the floor, and hold your arms out straight to the sides as indicated." (It showed a picture of a woman with her arms level to her shoulders and held out.) "Tanning spray will be released from the nozzles directly in front of you, and will cover the front of your body with tanning solution. Please do not move from this position until asked to turn around to ensure even spray on your front and backside. In just a moment, your mystic tanning experience will begin."

"It's about to start!" I shouted over to Leanne.

"Yup. It's kind of exciting!" She shouted back.

We waited anxiously for our "tanning experience" to begin.

A minute or two went by and nothing was happening in my stall. My arms were getting tired.

"Is anything happening in your stall?" I yelled.

"No! Is yours doing anything?" She yelled back.

"No!" I shouted, "Maybe we should go—" A hard blast of tanning solution erupted into my mouth with a hiss.

"KAHK...WHORK...GAH..." I choked and coughed, doubled over and dropped to my knees.

"YEEEEEEP!" I heard Leanne shriek, followed by loud bangs as she smashed into the walls.

Above me, I could hear the spray jets blasting over my head and hitting the curtain behind. My mouth was on fire from my open-mouthed blast of Mystic Hellfire. My eyes were burning from Satan's spray and I was completely blind. I couldn't see that the spray nozzles were actually descending on the opposite wall, and were nearing me. I was hacking up Mystic Sewage and rubbing furiously at my eyes when it started pelting me in the head. The unexpected force of it sent me reeling backwards and I went sailing out of the stall, taking the curtain with me. I hit the lower ground of the sitting area with a sloppy, wet thwack. Mystic Tan was continuing to spray out of the stall and directly onto the lobby floor now.

Leanne was still screaming as she burst through her stall curtain, slid on the wet floor with a SKREEE sound, and crashed down next to me in a heap. She was flailing and gagging as I flopped around on the cold, wet floor like a displaced goldfish. Tangled in the curtain and blind, I was making very little headway on getting up.

As suddenly as the spray jets started, they stopped. The only sounds in the lobby were our coughs and a gentle dripping sound from inside the stalls.

"Phase one completed," chimed the automated voice. "Please turn around 180 degrees and keep your arms raised. Tanning of your backside will begin momentarily."

We both groaned, knowing that we had to get up and get back in there or else our fronts would be bronze and our backs completely white. Shakily, we managed to get back on our feet and feel our way back to our stalls. My mouth, nose, eyes, and throat were burning as I climbed back inside and turned around with my arms out wide, this time bracing them against the stall walls. I was not going to be bested by this Mystic Bitch.

The cold liquid blasted against the back of my head and shoulders, sending goosebumps down my body. I shivered and shook, but held my footing despite the slippery, wet floor. I could hear Leanne screaming again and heard a thud as she fell down a second time. Panicking, I took a step forward to exit the stall and make sure she was okay. I lost my footing and the continuous blast of Mystic Shit sent me over the edge, crashing onto the lobby floor yet again, and skittering several across the slick tiles with a SQUEEE! I opened my eyes to see Leanne crawling out of her stall on hand and knees, Mystic Napalm firing over her head.

"UGH!" She was sobbing through closed eyes, clawing her way over to my twisted body.

"IT HURTS and BURNS!" I wailed.

The front desk receptionist must have heard our cries from the war zone and burst through the curtain to see us in a heap—Mystic Death squirting unabated from the stalls and further slicking the floors.

"Oh mah lord!" She screamed. "What in the hell happened to y'all?"

"Make it stop!" I begged.

"Full body tanning complete. Please exit the stall and proceed to the air drying station." Chimed the Mystic Whore from the stall.

"I am NOT going to the 'air drying station!' You can't make me!" I yelled at the receptionist standing over our nakedness.

After we dried off, inspected our wounds, and pulled our clothes back on, we returned to the front desk area where my mother was sitting and reading Southern Living. She looked up at us and her mouth dropped open.

"What the hell happened to you?" She exclaimed, getting up from her chair to inspect us.

"Mystic Tan happened to us!" I barked at her, furious for making us go through this, just to go to the beach.

"You're both orange! And spotted! It's awful!" We looked down at ourselves and confirmed that she was correct. We were indeed bright orange in splotches and white in others—like a creamsicle that's been unevenly licked.

"You have to go back!" She yelled at us, then turned to the receptionist, "You have to do it again! You have to fix them!"

"I'm sorry ma'am, we can't allow that. It's a mess back there. I need to spend my lunch break cleaning up. I've never seen anything like it." She tisked at us, "I've seen children get Mystic Tans with less fuss."

"Let's go." My mother commanded, grabbing us and hauling us out to the car.

As soon as the car doors closed, the tirade began. "I can't believe the two of you. I send you in to get a simple spray-on tan and you come out looking like you have leprosy. Not only was that a waste of money and time, but now I can't show my face in there again. 'Aren't you that Albino's mother? You know, the one that turned orange and flopped around on the floor like a retarded sea bass?' We're supposed to go out to dinner tonight and you look like you're dying of sepsis." She continued clucking and grumbling the rest of the way home.

When we got in the door, my father was making coffee in the kitchen.

"Holy hell!" He said wide-eyed when he saw us. "What happened? Was there an explosion?"

"Add Mystic Tan to the places we're not allowed back to." My mother spat.

We didn't go to the beach that day, nor did we go out to dinner. We ordered take out and rented a movie. While we all sat in the living room watching it, my parents sat behind Leanne and I, peeling flecks of orange off our backs while we peeled it off our legs and arms. We looked like a family of apes cleaning each other, but it did work.

After a few hours of peeling and scraping, we were back to pale and there was a pile of orange paint chips on the floor that the family dog was very interested in. In their defense, it was a very Mystic Pile.