Page 33 of The Sign for Home

Then Bitsy tossed her head toward Arlo and Snap, clearly hoping the SOB would feel guilty for rushing a DeafBlind guy.

“I think I want spaghetti and meatballs,” Arlo finally signed.

I breathed a sigh of relief, ready to put in the order when he started signing again.

“Wait… what means chicken M-A-R-S-A-L-A? Why labelspecial? Means very very delicious?”

“Um, no,specialjust means this food isn’t on the regular menu.”

Arlo looked confused. I told some people to go ahead of us while I explained the menu.

“So chicken M-A-R-S-A-L-A is chicken covered in flour and S-A-U-T-E-E-D”—suddenly, despite having interpreted a half dozen chef trainings, I forgot the sign forsauté. Fuck it—“means cooked. Fried”—that’s it!—“rather, in a kind of red wine sauce. Though I doubt they use real wine here. It also has mushrooms and butter. It can be delicious, but in this cafeteria, who knows? ‘Special’ in this circumstance means it’s a special food that they cook rarely. Also, it comes with a free dessert, which looks like pudding or something.”

Upon hearing about the pudding, Arlo started rocking his torso, smiling.

“Now understandspecial. Free dessert. Cool!”

“Specials are something most restaurants and cafeterias have,” I signed. “But they don’t always come with a free dessert. Anyway, we need to order fast. We’re holding up the line, and the lunch women look like they are about to throw knives at me.”

Arlo looked down for another moment, considering his final order. But by that time Bitsy could see the line was getting out of hand.

“Okay, time’s up, Red,” she said. “We got a major traffic clog. Arno’s gonna need to decide pronto.”

“Arlo!” I snapped. “We just need a min—”

“Christ, ladies!” a male voice cried out, followed by a flurry of snickers.

I turned and looked behind us. It was the homophobic frat boy and his friends from earlier. He was in his midtwenties, prematurely balding, with a polo that was a size too small for his paunchy body.

“Why don’t you take your boyfriend to Olive Garden or something?”Frat Boy said, exaggerating the sibilant “s” sound. “It’s lunch, not freaking rocket science!”

He followed the comment with a flourish of effeminate fake sign language, causing his buddies to laugh.

That was it. I lost it. My face pulsed with blood. I grabbed the food tray and slammed it down.

“Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen!” I shouted, my angry tone sharpened with sarcasm. “Bitsy, Doris! All you fine people in line! Arlo and I apologize for the delay! For some of us it can take a little longer to order lunch!” I glared at the homophobic frat boy, and then lowered my eyes toward his jelly gut. “By the look of some of you, it’s pretty obvious you won’t starve! So, would you all do me the kind favor of being a little more patient and BACK THE FUCK OFF!”

When I finally stopped screaming, Bitsy and Doris looked downright frightened, while everyone behind us in line, including the frat boys, was staring at the crazy redheaded interpreter, checking to see whether he had a gun or not. Poor Snap was scratching her paw on my leg, whining, trying to get me to calm down.

“Don’t worry, Snap. It’s okay,” I whispered to her.

That’s when I realized I hadn’t been interpreting anything that was happening for Arlo, but he could feel my body quaking.

“Something wrong?” he finally asked.

“Nothing,” I lied, not wanting to take up even more time. “I think we should order now.”

“Okay. I know what I want.”

“Great!” I said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Look, Doris, Bitsy, I’m sorry I exploded, and, well, he’s ready to order!”

Then to Arlo: “What’s it going to be?”

“I wantspecialchicken food M… (then Arlo wiggled his fingers to indicate he had no idea how to spell the rest of the wordmarsala) with free special dessert.”

“Okay,” I said, thinking he had finished. But he hadn’t.

“And I also want spaghetti and meatballs… extra meatballs… and french fries!”

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