Disclaimer: See chapter 1.
Summary:  Set after "Camera," Logan tries to adapt to life without money. Max tries to help. Will he survive?
AN: 1) Thanks to Star24 and Natters for the fast food idea.
2) Any impending lawsuits from the fast food industry should be addressed to: National Director of Programming for the Fox Television Network, The Apartment over Pat's Pet Emporium, Muncie, Indiana.

This Makes No Sense Whatsoever
Chapter 9: Date

Logan drove through the gloomy Seattle streets toward Jampony, his mind on Max and the change in their relationship. After all the months of dancing around each other, they had spent the last two weeks making up for their previous lack of intimacy at an exponential rate. Talking, meaningful looks, subtle innuendos, and emotional under currents had given way to mind-blowing sex at every available opportunity. They just couldn't seem to be in each other's presence without discarding all their clothing and attacking one another. Fortunately, they hadn't ventured to any public places, or rather any attempt to leave his apartment together hadn't made it past the elevator, the parking garage, or the janitor's broom closet.

It wasn't that he wanted things to slow down, or that he was tiring of hard surfaces and cramped quarters, he just wanted to make sure he did nothing to mess up this relationship. On the one hand, he didn't want her to feel that all he wanted was to have sex all the time. On the other, he didn't want her to feel threatened by his eagerness for a commitment between them. Considering what he really wanted was to live the rest of his life with her, having sex all the time he'd better learn to keep his mouth shut and his wits about him.

Logan had considered the best approach to his predicament, and decided that what they needed to help get things into perspective was a good old-fashioned courtship. They had missed an important step in their relationship—dating—and now was the ideal time to set that right. He sighed, frustrated by his inability to treat her to the type of evening she deserved. He would have liked to cash in the remains of his dwindling art collection and take her to the best restaurant in town followed by a night of passion at the city's most exclusive hotel, but that would pretty much expose his two dirty little secrets.

She was such a free spirit, not ready to be tied down. Well, that wasn't strictly true, she actually quite enjoyed being tied down. Logan rolled down the window as he pulled into the parking lot and breathed in the cold, polluted Seattle air, trying to banish that particular memory from his mind. Tonight wasn't about sex or commitment, it was about fun and flirtation. He inhaled sharply, choking on the refreshing night smog, as he saw her emerging from the building, hips swaying in those tight blue jeans and her stunning smile aimed in his direction. He could hear violins amid the sound of surly messengers hurling obscenities at their boss as they headed off for the weekend; could picture her floating gracefully toward him in something white and lacy--no, no, focus—something long and demure and white and lacy . . . yes, with a flowing train and flower girls scattering rose petals at her feet. Oh God, it was going to be a long night.

***

Logan smiled, half listening, as they headed for the restaurant and Max railed against Normal and his latest entrepreneurial efforts. She was so cute when she was mad. Apparently, the recognition of her boss's heroic defeat of the package thieving gang had gone to his head and he was sprucing up the operation in an effort to take full advantage of the free publicity. Max was tired of it all she said: tired of cleaning and painting, polishing up bikes and getting fitted for a uniform.

Suddenly Logan's hearing improved drastically.  "What's this about a uniform?" Images of Max decked out in navy blue, sporting buttons and epaulettes filled his mind. The only thing sexier than a strong woman, was a strong woman in uniform. "What color is it?" Max glared at him suspiciously, as if she could see right into the darkest recesses of his imaginings. Careful—remember the cute/mad combination only worked when her wrath was directed at persons other than himself. He was pretty sure any direct experience of Max's wrath would fall under the intensely painful/mad category. Quickly he erased the silk stockings and high heels he had added to the form fitting military style jacket and skirt.

"It's dark blue. At least I think it is. It's in my back pack."

"What?" Frantically he tapped the brakes, trying not to pant too loudly, and glanced around at the small bag flying off the back seat. "It'll get wrinkled and . . .." Careful . . . careful.

"It'll be fine. Just drive, I'm starving."

Logan applied his mind to following her directions to the restaurant. Being a liberated woman, she had insisted on covering dinner as he was springing for the movie. He had been a little apprehensive when she had told him they were going to McDonald's, memories of his grandmother's descriptions of their Scottish ancestors preparation of haggis foremost in his mind. Before leaving home, he had checked out the establishment's web site and had not only discovered that no disemboweling of sheep would be involved, but that he should probably change out of his tux before departing. Actually, he was kind of looking forward to "fast food". His only other exposure to it being when the Cale cook had burned the Sunday roast and had to cook up poached salmon with aspic in a hurry.

"Know what. Just pull into this Burger King. I need to eat right now."

Logan sighed, his heart set on McDonald's and discovering just what a Happy Meal entailed, but complied with her request/order.

They were barely inside the door when Logan recognized the burly form behind the counter. He had heard Bill Clinton had been banished to the west coast and was now working in the hospitality industry, but had assumed it was something on the executive level.  Still, he shouldn't be surprised, those Bush twins were ruthless. Bill's little faux pas in referring to one of the dictator's as a dufus after one too many toasts during a speaking engagement had obviously been met with a swift and terrible retribution. Of course, Hillary had bailed years before having grown weary of the limitations of democracy, and had set up a totalitarian regime in Utah. However, nobody had really paid much attention to that—it was Utah for God's sake. But Bill . . . well it was a sad, if somewhat poetic ending.

Bill was looking well, although he had obviously been sampling the merchandize. He smiled broadly as Max approached. "Like a whopper little lady?"

What!  Ex-president or no, Logan was going to teach the twerp some manners. The man hadn't changed a bit. He wheeled up to the counter, ready to defend Max's honor.

"No, let's make it a whopper junior."

Good one Max. Put the little creep in his place. God, he loved strong women.

"A junior on the double, Junior." The former politician chuckled heartily as Al detached himself from the soda machine while muttering something about ramming a Diet Coke down a philandering, career wrecking, buffoon's throat. "And get back here on the double before the pop starts to warm up again." Bill chuckled some more while excusing his business partner's discourteous attitude.

In hushed tones he explained that ever since Tipper had taken to writing rap music lyrics and Al's attempt to legislate mandatory testing of basic math, English and eye hand coordination for old ladies in Florida had been shot down by the ACLU, Al had become a bitter man. He was prone to insulting old time friends and speed pitching chicken tenders to old dears who flocked to the joint for Bill's 4 p.m. specials. Quickly, he changed the subject as his VP came within earshot. "Nice weather we're having, if it wasn't for the rain." Al snarled a comment at him and returned to his job of chilling the drinks.

"Sorry folks, we seem to be out of meat." Bill shook his head apologetically; resting his cigar on the ashtray conveniently perched on the ledge created by his ample belly.

Yeah, wonder why. Logan sighed. The world had really gone to hell in a hand basket.

***

Logan pondered as they drove through the rain toward the movie theatre. American popular culture never ceased to fascinate and amaze him, and McDonald's had truly been an eye-opening experience. His first impression of the place had been that it was made entirely out of plastic; chairs, tables, everything--right down to the Chicken McNuggets. Max had generously volunteered to eat his nine-piece serving, along with two Big Macs, a square fish, and what looked like a large package of fried toothpicks.

However, that was not to say he hadn't enjoyed the whole experience. The kiddie cone the charming child at the adjoining table had tossed in his direction was actually delicious, and the child's equally charming sibling had demonstrated that the nuggets made excellent strategic projectiles. Ah, America . . . the land of invention and creativity.

Even better, there were no former politicians in sight. It was reassuring to see that even plastic restaurants with food served entirely encased in paper products had their standards. In fact, the chain had, in an attempt at promoting good taste, employed Martha Stewart as its spokesperson.

Alas, the pulse hadn't been kind to the interior design business. Putting tutus on oranges for Christmas just wasn't on people' s list of priorities anymore. No, the years hadn't been kind to the former advocate of etiquette and social niceties, and that life size model of her in a stripy outfit, big shoes and a red wig did nothing to redeem her former image. However, Logan encouraged the charming children's mother in her efforts to force her terrified offspring to sit next to the effigy for a cute photo opportunity.

His reverie was cut short by a heartfelt sigh from Max.  "Let's go to your place and watch a video instead."

"But I'm taking you to the movies. It's a date."

"We'll get soaked waiting in line." Well that was true. Star Wars, Episode -22 ½ had only been out a couple of weeks and, with movie releases being few and far between, the lines were long and soggy.

"But it's a date."

"Maybe I'll try on my new uniform. Actually, it's only . . . "

Her words were drowned out by the sound of tires squealing as the Aztec hung a 180 degree turn and burned rubber in the direction of Fogle Towers.

***

Logan was browsing through his video collection and trying to sound preoccupied and nonchalant while listening to the sound of Max moving around in the bedroom. "So, let's see the new uniform." 

"I hope you won't be disappointed," she yelled back. "After buying all the paint and cleaning supplies all Normal could afford were the hats."

Logan's heart sank. "How's it taking so long to put the uniform on then."

"Who said anything about putting things on. I thought you wanted to see me in just the uniform." She walked into the living room; hat perched on her head backwards.

Logan adjusted his glasses and re-assessed the situation. "That's a great uniform."

"Thought you'd like it."

"As long as you're not riding your bike around Seattle like that. Although, feel free to do that around the apartment . . . you don't have the bike with you, I suppose?"

She rolled her eyes. "I'll bring it next time, Logan."

"So, you want to come over here and make a delivery?"

"Don't know, what kinda tip you offering?"

"A big one." Well, she couldn't argue with that.

She began a slow, seductive saunter across the room. "You know, a lot of guys come to the door with no shirts on."

"That seems kinda impolite." He pulled his black T over his head and reached for Max, now standing directly in front of him.

"Hey, messengers don't have to deliver if someone grabs their ass."

"Here let me make it up to you then."

"Oh yeah? Just how are you going to do tha . . . aaahhhhh . . .. "

Maybe it was rude not to reply to her inquiry, especially on their first date, but Logan felt sure she wouldn't mind waiting until he was free to speak again. Though it may take a while . . . fast just really wasn't all it was cracked up to be.