Silver Spoon

Maybe Hutch’s upbringing wasn’t what we think.

“So okay, the roast beef and the vegetarian crapperole thing or whatever. What wine should we get?”

“How should I know? Ask your uncle.”

“He’s on a buying trip in Chile!”

“Ask at the store when you buy the meat.”

“Hutch, you’re the guy who grew up with all this stuff. Napkins and candelabras and everything. I was countin’ on you!”

“She’s your cousin, Starsk, not a prison guard who’ll throw you in solitary if you serve the wrong wine.”

“Oh, you don’t know Ellen….”

“And since when do you think I grew up with anything but hot dogs and a bent bicycle?”

“Well, you keep sayin’….”

“What? What do I keep saying?”

“You know, going to college, and hangin’ out with that loaded frienda yours….”

“Oh, Jack hung out with me to get away from his mother’s candelabra, probably. I had to work my ass off after school just to keep up with half his ideas of a good time.”

“Was one of ’em driving a dune buggy — dependin’ of course on what day of the week it was?”

“I caddied! Mondays it was a private golf course on the lake. Needed dune buggies on parts of the course instead of regular carts. While the old men watered themselves down at the nineteenth hole, we boys squeezed in some moor-hopping. Tuesdays I carried bags on foot at the club in town. Wednesdays…”

“Okay, okay, I get the picture. But, ballet, caviar…?”

“Old Russian boyfriend.”

“What!?!”

“Kidding, Starsk. Shut up and go get the meat.”