Socks-n-Sandals Brew Pub was always busy, but especially so on Game Night. Neither the game, nor the sport, were all that important. What mattered was that a game was on, or that talking heads were talking about a game about to be on, or a game that had just finished. Tonight, it was Raiders/Chargers, which was interesting enough to fill the place.

Gary wasn’t much of a sports guy. “I’ll play sports, I just don’t like watching them,” was a favorite way to explain his odd aversion. “I’ll watch anything in the finals, but regular season stuff is a bore,” another. Gary was different than his other friends in many ways, not just his less-than-mild interest in Sport Ball. Approaching 35, he was the last one of Swole Team 6–a name that used to make sense, when they were all younger and in great shape—to get married. He was the one still renting, not paying a mortgage. He still drove a two-seater truck and had a motorcycle.

And he had yet to start a family.

Gary liked his life. A lot. He loved being a husband, but even that was a new addition to an otherwise bachelor-ish existence.

“Yo, that was holding!”

“You see that, bro? Such garbage!”

“I just need Herbert to play well, the rest of my draft is a dumpster fire.”

Gary took a drink of his microbrew porter as his buddies worked on downing a couple pitchers of Coors Light. The crowd erupted with cheers as the Chargers quarterback scrambled for a forty yard touchdown.

“You fellas ready to order?”

The group of six turned simultaneously toward the only thing that could divert their attention from the game. The waitress, in her early 20s, was not only lovely, but held the power to bring them food. One by one, they ordered: Burger; Burger with bacon; Burger with bacon and an onion ring; A personal pepperoni pizza; More chicken wings than any grown person should consume in one sitting. When it came time for Gary to order he did something he never did: He made a corny joke.

“And for you…?”

“I’ll have steak mychos.”

“Nachos?”

“No, not-chos, mine.”

The groans were loud and instant from his friends. “Oh, dude, no!”

Gary smiled. They all laughed, more out of pity than humor; At him, not with him, but that was okay. The surprising thing was the waitress. She didn’t laugh or cringe or even question it. She just said, “Mychos. You got it.”

“Bro, I think you pissed her off.”

“Nah, she’s fine. She probably hears lame jokes from creepers all the time.”

“I’m not a creeper,” Gary protested.

“Yeah, but she thinks you are, now.” Laughs all around.

They consumed more cheap beers and watched more football and laughed and joked and enjoyed their night away from the responsibilities of parenthood. After twenty minutes or so, the waitress was back at the table. She popped out the tray-stand she was carrying with one hand, then placed the massive tray she was carrying with the other on top and started to hand out the orders.

Gary watched, wondering if he really had made her mad, when she said, “Your food is on the way, should just be a second.”

His friends were, of course, supportive. “Ohhhhh, you in trouble now, son!”

He watched as his friends started to dig in. After a moment, and elderly man scoot-stepped his way to from the kitchen to the table, carrying a large plate with two hands. He placed it in front of Gary with a slight thud of glass on Formica. “Your Mychos, sir.”

“Hey, listen, I was just making a joke. You know, a silly pun? Nachos. Not-chos. It’s like saying, ‘not yours.’ But I said mycho—“

“I understand, sir. Please, enjoy.”

He shuffled away, leaving Gary to gaze upon the massive pile of chips and cheese and jalapeños. It looked like nachos. Regular nachos. There were olives, guacamole, salsa, and—because he was splurging—some perfectly cooked strip steak. It looked amazing, smelled amazing.

“You not eating?”

“Ha. He’s worried she spit in it or something.”

“Dude, she didn’t. Those look amazing, if you don’t want them I’ll eat—“

“It’s fine. I’ll eat them.” He took a tentative bite. They were fine. Actually, better than fine. Perfect. They were the best nachos he’d ever had. It was almost like, with that first bite, some kind of dopamine release flooded his body. They may, he decided, be the best food he’d ever had, anywhere. His body tingled as he took another greedy bite, than another.

The men ate, laughed, talked football. Everything seemed, well, perfect. Gary was thinking about that when he caught part of a conversation:

“…what I’m saying is that, if you really want to get an even cut, you need to start with good seed.”

“Sure, the seed is important—which is why I paid extra for the Carolina Blue—but the cut is all in the mower—“

Before Gary knew what he was saying the words were out of his mouth. “Well, Eric is probably still using a gas mower, when you can get a higher quality cut with an electric for pennies on the dollar.”

The five men stopped and stared at him.

“What?”

“Bro. We must be getting to you.”

“What do you mean?”

“You have an opinion on mowers? You have a gardener, bro.”

Gary felt strange, like something had taken control of his body, his thoughts. Like, somehow, he was in his mind and watching from a distance all at once.

“Next thing you know he’ll start talking about weather.”

Gary, again, couldn’t stop himself. “What do you know about weather. You probably think the barometric pressure drop this afternoon means rain, when it’s obvious that a low-pressure front is coming in from the east, which is going to push everything—“

“Dude! What happened to you?”

“What? I don’t understand what you’re asking.”

“Is he making fun of us?”

They laughed.

“I have a test for him. What are you doing tonight, after your return home to your young, super-hot bride?”

Gary thought for a moment, then: “Oh, you know, same ol’, same ol’. Probably just grab some of the candy I hid on the top shelf, kick up my feet, and watch that new History Channel doc on tall ships. Looks pretty good.”

Blank stares.

“Okay, seriously. What’s up? You being an ass or something?”

Gary was legitimately confused. He suddenly felt the urge to use the restroom and stood up.

His five friends all said “whoa” in unison.

Gary was suddenly self-conscious. “What? What are you—“

“What. The. Hell. Bro?”

“What,” Gary said, getting angry.

“Look… down.”

He did.

He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Thoughts shot into his head, crashing into each other, creating chaos. He ran to the restroom.

Out of breath, heart racing, he looked behind the door to the full-length mirror.

How?

All he could do was stare, take it all in.

Everything was different. Where he’d had a flat stomach, his gut now hung over his belt. Well, where his belt… used to be. Now, he was wearing an Under Armour shirt, the kind made for going to the gym. The kind he would never wear to dinner. His jeans were straight-legged, the length just slightly high enough to show the white socks—WHITE SOCKS!—peaking out above his New Balance sneakers.

Gary put a hand on the wall to steady himself. What was happening? He took a breath, tried to think, when his other hand fell to his side, brushing against something near his waist. He looked back at the mirror, lifted his shirt up, and nearly had to be admitted to the hospital for a myocardial infarction.

Around his waist, holding his wallet and phone—as well as a lighter, some coupons, a punch card for a local coffee shop, some nail clippers, another punch card for a local diner, and a half-consumed roll of antacids—was a black leather—BLACK LEATHER!—fanny pack.

It took him ten minutes before he finally walked out of the bathroom.

His friends had gone back to normal, enjoying the night, when he sat back down at the table.

“You good, man?”

Gary could barely find his voice. “Yeah.”

“You going to finish those?”

He looked at the nachos, again speaking without thought. “No, you go ahead, if I eat spicy food this late I’ll be up all night with indigestion.”

Confused, he watched as the other men started grabbing chips. Nothing happened to them when they ate. They just… enjoyed them. No change.

Maybe he was having a neurological incident? Stress at work? Tape worm?

He was thinking of all the strange health reasons that might explain his sudden physical change when his phone chirped. He looked at the screen, a text from his young bride.

>>Okay, Mister, time to come home. The kids have school in the morning and you need to take them. I have an appointment.

He felt the blood rush from his head.

He stood, looked for the kitchen entrance, and stumble-walked toward it. He had to find the old man.

The kitchen staff moved around him like he wasn’t there, spinning and juking like running backs. Organized chaos, like a well-choreographed musical production.

There he was, toward the back.

“Sir?”

“What did you do to me?”

“Sir?”

“Everything is different!” he said, waving a hand over his new dad-bod physique. “I’m wearing a fanny pack! My knees hurt and I have opinions on local politics! And my wife is texting me about kids! WE DON’T HAVE KIDS!”

“Ah. There seems to be a mistake.”

“A mistake!”

“It would seem, sir, that you ordered off the special menu.”

“Special menu?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What ‘special menu?”

“We, well, specialize in a certain… clientele, here at Socks-n-Sandals, sir. It would appear that you, unknowingly, if you will, ordered off the Dad Joke menu.”

“The what?”

“The Dad Joke menu. It includes, of course, Apple Turn-back-overs, Naan-of-Your-Business, Vegetarian Missed-Steak—“

“What are you talking about. I didn’t order—“

“You ordered the ‘Mychos,’ sir.”

“It was a joke. A lame joke!”

“They all are, sir. I suppose there was no way for us to know that you were not, in fact, a dad.”

“But how did—“

“The universe righted the discrepancy.”

“Righted the discrepen—what? What are you, put me back to normal!”

“I cannot do that, sir. Our chefs are, well, quite special, sir.”

“You have to—“

“I’m sorry, sir.”

Gary stood out front of his house for twenty-seven minutes. Twenty-seven. He knew exactly how long he was out there because it would have been an hour—or maybe days—had his wife not texted again. It wouldn’t hit him until the next morning that he had knew where the house was, and that it was an actual house, with an actual mortgage, and a nicely cut front lawn.

He opened the door, finally, and stepped inside.

He heard his wife yelling from the kitchen: “You two should be in bed. Now!”

He heard tiny feet plat-plat-platting along the tile floor.

Two small voices cried out in unison.

“Daddy’s home!”