The suburban loser takes his family to the Red Robin on Bonita Parkway in Naples Florida, the one right next to the multiplex. A friend back home told the suburban loser Red Robin served what was probably the best burger he ever had and he had to go there if he ever had the chance. His boys would love it. It's packed on a Friday night and when the suburban loser tries to give his name to the hostess, she simply hands him a laminated card that says George Clooney. That's the name they'll call when it's their turn. George Clooney, your table is ready. How great is that. He heads back to the benches along the wall to wait with his family. There are TVs in the floor covered with sheets of plexiglass, each playing an old movie or a sports game. His eldest son is more interested in his gameboy than the floor TVs. His youngest son leads his mother by the hand to the flashing arcade machines in the corner, sand spilling out of her flip flops, her hair in a messy bun. She stands beside the suburban loser's youngest son as he struggles with the orange plastic rifle for Big Buck Hunter. The suburban loser leans over to see if his eldest son is playing the hockey game when a familiar song plays on the Red Robin speakers. This Is for the Lover in You by Shalamar, a forgotten R&B classic and the suburban loser’s wedding song. His wife looks toward him and smiles. The suburban loser holds out his hand and waves his fingers in. Let their youngest son distract himself with the pinball table that's too big for him. He puts his arms around her waist and kisses the small part of her stomach exposed between her top and skirt. She smells like coconut oil. George Clooney, your table is ready. After the suburban loser and his wife order light beers and their sons order cokes with grenadine, the suburban loser tells the story of how he met their mother, maybe because they asked or maybe because he just felt like it. They both went clubbing at Stiletto's downtown back in the eighties. Three weekends in a row the suburban loser asked her to dance and on the fourth she said yes. When he brought her home for the first time, the suburban loser told her he owned the house and the boat in his neighbor's driveway was actually his. She believed him, too, even though his bedroom was a corner of a finished basement. Over his second basket of bottomless fries with a side of ranch, the suburban loser's eldest son asks how he came along. The suburban loser and his wife shrug their shoulders and say he just did, even though they both remember that spring afternoon she folded laundry in the bedroom of the house they rented, the windows open and the white linen curtains swaying back and forth in the breeze. The suburban loser's youngest son stands up on his chair and asks what about him, not quite understanding the question, which is just as well as the suburban loser and his wife are less fond to remember that one vacation across the border where his wife got up and left the table at the Canadian Olive Garden and walked back to the hotel alone, and the suburban loser made his eldest son sit through the entire meal they ordered even though he could hardly eat. They made up later that night, but that was a bad vacation. It wasn't like this one in Naples Florida. A good vacation filled with putt-putt golf and swimming in the ocean and truly delicious burgers from Red Robin slathered with barbecue sauce, covered with crispy onion straws, and cooked just the way everyone liked it. The suburban loser's family falls into silence as they eat, each of them tired and hungry in the way that only a day at the beach can bring.