Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Geometry
When I was in high school, I became infatuated with Geometry. It was fantastic! You could draw flat lines on a piece of paper, and end up with a perfectly formed 3-dimensional object. Tirelessly, I cranked out the forms, which increased in complexity. I stayed up late nights working on the project, wide-eyed and sleepless. As the turn-in day for what was in fact a minor portion of the grade approached, I considered the presentation. I t just didn’t seem like enough to simply submit the white cardboard objects without a “context”. And then I had a brainstorm; - a hand. I would submit an enormous hand holding the fragile shapes like precious jewels. Furiously, I worked on the giant hand, adding details realistic and humorous. For the first time ever, I marched into the high school full of confidence, carrying the gigantic hand. Students moved out of the way, making comments which I was sure were favorable and admiring. Awkwardly, I negotiated the door to the math room. I was early to class; - good, I could engage the full attention of the math teacher. There was one thing I hadn’t considered. He was a math teacher. He wore glasses and a short sleeved white shirt with a pencil and a pen in the pocket. Coolly, he made a small checkmark next to the assignment. Whether from professionalism or lack of attention, he didn’t see me sobbing in the back of the classroom.
OK. Here's what I did for the date prompt
“No, I don’t want to go there. I hate that restaurant and I’m not in the mood for Chinese. Let’s try that new steak place instead” I suggested. It was way too hot out and the humidity had drenched me while we walked in the sun the short distance from where the car was parked in the driveway to the house. We had spent the day running errands, washing the car and looking for a new house. Between the onerous chores and the weather, plus the impending change that was going to up end our lives, I was cranky. Pete was too. It didn’t help that it was nearly 6pm and that we’d skipped lunch and hadn’t had a thing to eat since breakfast that morning. “Ok, that sounds good. Do you remember where it is?” asked Pete. I told him I’d call our friends Joel and Margo and make sure they liked it and find out how to get there.
Pete unlocked the back door and I followed him in. He didn’t stop or pause as he headed directly to the refrigerator and grabbed two cold Russian beers. I had started going to a Russian woman for my pedicures and she had gotten me interested in Russian cuisine and beer. While she spruced up my feet, we talked about food and shared recipes. Mostly, I took recipes from her. We love Eastern European food and Anya’s recipes were easy and, relatively, healthy. She had told me one day about Russian beer and where I could buy it. After the first one, we were hooked. Pete guzzled several huge swallows of the frosty liquid straight from the bottle. I was a bit daintier and poured mine into a glass and then chugged it down.
“Go ahead and take your shower first while I call Margo,” I said. “OK, boss woman,” he replied as he pecked me on the cheek with lips that were cold and wet from the beer. As he lumbered up the stairs complaining about the weather, I dug around in my purse looking for my phone and called Margo. After several rings, she answered out of breath and told me she’d spent most of the day cleaning the house and had just returned from the grocery store. After a brief chat, I asked about the restaurant and she confirmed that it was called Mac’s and that they had enjoyed their meal and service. She said it was very easy to find and gave me directions. I thanked her and we made plans for them to come over to our house for barbecue the next night.
I had finished my beer while I was on the phone and figured Pete had swilled his down, too, so I grabbed another one from the fridge and headed for the shower. When I got upstairs, Pete was ironing his shirt and I handed him the beer with instructions to save at least a little for me. By the time I was dressed and ready, Pete had returned downstairs and was sitting at his computer. “Come on, let’s go!” I said. “I’m driving and I’m headed out the door. You’re either with me or not,” I threatened as I opened the door without turning around to see if he was coming. I had heard the familiar swearing as he’d quickly turned in his chair and cracked his knee on the desk on his way out of the office. “Happens every time,” I thought to myself.
Margo was right. Mac’s was a short and easy drive from our neighborhood and it only took 15 minutes to get there, park the car and sit down at our table. We couldn’t decide whether to stick with beer or order wine so we examined the menu. After a couple minutes, we both looked up and Pete said “red wine, definitely.” “Your turn to pick,” I said, “but I’d prefer an old deep musky one. Are there any there that sound like they’d taste like a barn yard? That’s what I’m in the mood for.” Pete leaned back in his chair while he concentrated on the menu. We try not to be goofy or snobby, but we do like our wine. We can live with so so food, but bad wine can ruin a meal. “They have a cotes de Rhone that looks interesting. Wanna try it?” My husband can ask the dumbest questions. Honestly. “Of course,” I said. My taste buds were standing at attention and ready to hop all over one of my favorite wines.
With that most important of decisions made, we looked around for our wait person. Funny, we’d been sitting there for at least 15 minutes since she had dropped off the menus and she hadn’t been back. “Do you see her?” I asked. Pete turned around in his chair and swiveled his neck. “Nope, and it’s too late to move to that other table. They seated a guy there already.”
When we had been seated Pete had commented that he might prefer the table across from us. The hostess had already returned to her station by the front door so we decided to ask the waitress if we could move. When she’d come by with the menus we’d forgotten. “Oh well,” I replied. “This one is fine. But where is she? I’m ready for wine.”
Pete managed to catch the eye of the hostess and crooked his finger. She responded by coming over and we told her we were ready for our waitress but couldn’t find her. The hostess commented that it was slow and that the wait staff tended to lose their timing when they didn’t have a busy room to take care of. She said she’d find her and send her out.
By the time our waitress made it back to our table we were thirsty, hungry and even crankier than before. She introduced herself and told us her name was Sheila. Pete and I looked at each other and we each knew the other was pretending to roll their eyes. Both of us had worked our way through college waiting tables. We had never introduced ourselves to our customers. The purpose was to wait on them not become friends. It was a professional transaction. Now that we were customers, we felt the same way. We were there to be served and we were paying for the privilege. We did not want to make it personal. It always seemed so inappropriate to have the server tell us their name. Knowing their name didn’t sweeten the tip pot. Good service would do that. We’d prefer they remain nameless, but that hardly ever happened.
We were ravenous so we ordered appetizers and entrees all at once with direct orders to bring the wine first and quickly. Sheila was happy to oblige and she promptly returned with our wine, expertly opened and poured it and set the bottle on the table before she left.
“Cheers!” We both said as we clinked our glasses and took our first sips. It was just what we wanted. There was a hint of hay mixed with the taste of dirt. It was delicious. “Ok, “I said. “Who cares about food?” “I know,” Pete agreed. “This is really good. Better than the last one we had, don’t you think?” Pete had an uncanny memory for wine. It was the same with golf. It must be a man thing. When he got together with his golf pals they could all remember courses and particular holes they had played years ago. Not only that, they could remember what club they used and where the ball had gone. Ask him about something truly important and he had no recollection, but the eighth hole at the Santa Ana golf course in Albuquerque he could describe to you in minute detail. He was the same with wine. Frankly, I think he made the wine memories up just to sound like a big shot. For me, I savored the good wines until the bottle was empty and then forgot about it.
We chatted about the upcoming move and the houses we’d looked at that week. We discussed work and then paused while we simultaneously looked around for our waitress again. “Where the hell is she?” Pete asked. Then, to our surprise, both of us realized that the guy at the table across from us had been joined by a woman. That woman was Sheila. Sheila our waitress had sat down at the table next to ours. She was apronless and sitting there enjoying her own glass of wine. Like cartoon characters, we both opened and closed our eyes and looked at her again, then at each other as we shrugged our shoulders and lifted our brows. Pete leaned forward and whispered, “is that her?” I shifted toward him and said “sure looks like her, minus the apron.” “What the hell?” said Pete. “Beats me,” I responded. We were dumbstruck. What was the proper etiquette for telling your waitress that you expected her to remain standing, stepping and fetching? Is it polite to go over to her table and ask where our food is? Should we introduce ourselves using our first names and ask how she was enjoying her meal? She was cutting into a slab of steak and we didn’t even have bread on our table. “What the hell?” Pete said again as he aggressively turned toward Sheila’s table and glared.
“pssst! Pete! Shhh! Don’t make a scene!” I loudly whispered. “What the friggin hell?” Pete asked as he firmly placed his wine glass on the table and turned toward me. “That can’t possibly be her,” I said. “I’ll go get the hostess and tell her we need our waitress again.” I took my napkin from my lap and placed it on the table as I moved my chair back. I started to stand when I heard Sheila say, “May I help you? Do you need something?” I looked up to see where the voice had come from wanting desperately for it to not be coming from the woman at the next table. But it was. Sheila was still chewing her steak as she started to get up from her table. “Sorry, this is so awkward. My friends set me up on a blind date and I ended up having to substitute for another waiter tonight. I knew it would be slow and so I decided to combine work with pleasure. You don’t mind, do you?”
There were so many ways to respond to this insolence but I decided to count to ten, and then twenty, before I answered. Pete was vibrating he was so angry, but thankfully, he was speechless. While I silently counted and debated my response, Sheila cut herself another bite of steak. By the time I’d hit the number twelve, I realized that her blind date was just sitting there and hadn’t eaten or spoken or moved. Was he as stunned as we were? Some blind date. I wondered if he was going to tip her. I wondered if Sheila expected a tip. I wondered if he had known ahead of time that his date would also be his food server. I wondered where the restaurant manager was. By the time I hit the number twenty I knew what I would say to Sheila.
“So, Sheila, does your boss know that you decided to kill two birds with one stone tonight? Is your boss aware that you are blithely sitting at a table and dining when you are on the clock and supposed to be waiting on us?”
“Oh,” she said. “That’s the beauty of all this. I am the manager.”
With that, Pete held up his arm to me as if to say “I’ll take it from here” and directed his attention to Sheila. “So, Sheila, let’s just say hypothetically that we have a problem tonight. A problem with you, let’s say. And we want to talk to the manager and complain about you. Are you saying that we would voice our criticism about you to you?”
Sheila must have been an English major because by now it looked like that not only had she grasped, but was also beginning to understand and appreciate the irony of the situation. She looked puzzled at first and then giggled as she replied, “Well, yes, I guess that’s about it. Pretty funny, huh? You don’t like your waitress so you ask for the manager and the manager is your waitress? Whoa! Would that be embarrassing?” She turned to her blind date for confirmation that this was indeed hysterical. She gave him a look that invited him to participate in the joke. Who knew life could be this amusing? By this time, I’d decided her blind date was truly blind and maybe deaf. He wasn’t responding to any of this. His hands remained in his lap and his face wasn’t giving away any of his thoughts, if he had any.
“Sheila, where is our food,” I asked.
“Oh, are you ready?” she said as she put down her fork. “I’ll just go check and see what’s taking so long.” As she got up, she took another quick sip from her wine glass. We both stared at her as she left her table and headed for the kitchen. We looked around to see if anyone else was noticing this odd turn of events. The hostess had been correct. It was a slow night. The only other diners were sitting at a table on the other side of the restaurant and their waiter didn’t appear to be dining at their empty adjacent table. Too bad there wasn’t anyone sitting nearer to us. We had no witnesses. There was nobody to turn to and ask for confirmation that this bizarre scenario was really happening. There were no other diners who could offer us sympathy and agree how preposterous this all was. It was just the two of us, Sheila the dining waitress and her mute blind date. Oh, and the hostess who had also disappeared.
“Here you go,” said Sheila as she set the plates of food in front of us. “Sorry it took so long. Can I get you anything else? More wine?” She stood by our table but turned her head to wink at her blind date. True to character, he remained stoically silent. We, too, were voiceless and just stared at her. She jutted her head forward and bugged out her eyes as if to say, so? Did you not hear me? I cleared my throat and murmured, “Um, no, I guess this is it for now.” Pete continued to gape at her with his mouth hanging open. I was wordlessly double dog daring him to ask her for the manager. Sheila put her hands on her hips and said, “Well, okeydokey, then, if you need something just let me know. I’ll just go back to my table but I’m happy to get whatever you need. Your main courses will be ready by the time you finish your appetizers.” She stood there a moment longer and then did an about face and took the five steps over to her own table, sat down, spread her napkin on her lap and poured her own glass of wine.
The food was surprisingly good. The warm goat cheese covered with piquant chile raspberry sauce was unusual and delicious. The calamari was tender and not drenched in batter like it is in most places. “I wonder if she’s also cooking.” I asked Pete. “That’d be even funnier, huh?” Pete was exasperated and sighed to prove it. I told him we might as well make the best of it and that I was now curious how it was going to play out. He grunted and then picked up his fork and knife and began to eat. He agreed. The food was delicious.
For the next several minutes we chatted about our day and the houses we’d looked at. We immersed ourselves in the pleasure of the food and wine and forgot about our waitress who was enjoying her own meal at the next table. We were so engrossed in our conversation that we hadn’t noticed Sheila leaving her table and returning to ours with two hot plates in her hands.
“Here you go as promised. Let’s see. You ordered the trout and risotto and the gentleman gets the filet with sautéed yams and onions.” Said Sheila as we pushed our empty plates aside to make room for our meal. She placed our plates in front of us and began clearing the rest of the table. “OK. You know where to find me if you need anything.” With that she returned to her table. I looked over at her date. I noticed that he had actually eaten some of his dinner and his wine glass was nearly empty. As she resumed her place across from him he looked up and I could have sworn I saw just the teeniest smirk pass his lips. “What are they up to?” I wondered. I looked around and noticed that the other table was now empty. When had they left? There was nobody else in sight. “Very odd,” I said to myself.
“Hmmm? What did you say?” asked Pete. “Oh nothing. I just think it’s weird that we are the only people here. I feel oddly captive or vulnerable or, I don’t know…something is not right.”
“Well, thanks for pointing out the obvious to me,” said Pete. “I can’t wait to tell Margot and Joel about our evening at their new favorite steak joint.
“It’s not their fault,” I said. “But, I can’t wait to tell them,” I agreed.
We finished our dinner and began negotiating desert. If we were going to share, we needed to compromise and that wasn’t something we were good at. I finally relented my lobbying efforts for ice cream and told Pete he could order the carrot cake. We turned to Sheila’s table to tell her we were ready for coffee and desert and realized she wasn’t there and neither was her date. When had they left?
“OK, that’s really weird. Did you even notice that they’d left their table?”
“Nope.”
“Are we hallucinating this whole thing? Have we lost our minds? What the heck is going on?”
We slumped back in our chairs and waited.
“OK,” I finally said. “This is crazy. I’m going to the ladies room and on my way there see if I can find someone to bring us the check so we can get out of here.” I got up and headed toward the lobby where I found the ladies room. I didn’t see anyone. On my way back to the table I peered into the other sections and bus area and saw no evidence of anyone else in the restaurant.
“There’s nobody here,” I said as I walked up behind Pete.
“Did you look in back? In the kitchen?”
“No. I was even afraid to go to the bathroom. This is getting too much like a Stephen King novel. While sitting on the toilet I kept imagining Jack Nicholson on the other side of the panel door. You can look in the kitchen.”
With that, we both got up and headed toward the back of the restaurant in search of the kitchen and a restaurant employee. After passing a room full of empty tables, we stopped, looked at each other and silently agreed to turn around and head for the front door as fast as possible. Even in college, we had never bolted on a check, but we were now. The possibility of jail wasn’t nearly as scary as this empty and silent restaurant.
“What if the door is locked?” I asked as we hurried in that direction. “What if we can’t get out? Oh God. Pete, I’m scared.”
“Just keep moving,” Pete said as he grabbed my hand and yanked me into the lobby. When we got to the door he body slammed it and we nearly fell out of the restaurant. The door closed behind us, we looked at each other and ran to the car giggling. Once we were in the car with the doors locked we started to laugh hysterically. We were terrified and giddy. We had escaped Mac’s with full stomachs and no harm.
“Do you think we should call the cops?” I asked.
Pete struggled with his seatbelt and replied, “And say what? Do you think anyone will believe us? I’m not even sure I do. No, let’s just go home and forget about it.” He started the car, pulled out into traffic and headed home.
Surprisingly, we both fell asleep quickly and slept soundly. The next morning while I made coffee and heated up croissants, Pete walked out to the driveway to fetch the paper. The next thing I heard was Pete screaming and yelling as he ran through the house making his way back to the kitchen.
“Look at this! Holy shit! No wonder we were scared! We could have been killed! We should have been killed!” he threw the paper at me as he ran into the bathroom and I heard him throw up. I picked up the newspaper and looked at the front page headline. “SERIAL KILLER DINES AND DASHES”. Under the headline was a photo of the deaf and mute blind date. He was a serial killer?
Early this morning, police discovered a strange scene at Mac’s, a new restaurant on the northwest side of town. A 911 call from the parent of one of the restaurant employees called them to the scene where they found the staff from the evening before bound and trapped in the walk in cooler. When her son who is a busboy at the restaurant did not return home by midnight, she went to the restaurant to look for him. She found the restaurant unlocked and undisturbed until she walked into the kitchen. It was there she discovered a note taped to the walk in door. The note said “Thanks for a lovely dinner. My meal was absolutely perfect and my service sublime. You all behaved perfectly and I have decided to reward you with your lives. The staff at the Hungry Tiger in Phoenix was not so good or so lucky. Remember every day is precious.” When she opened the walk in door she found the two chefs, her son and another busboy, 2 waiters, the hostess and the manager. They were all tied together and sitting on the floor of the cooler. Police are still unraveling the incomprehensible chain of events that allowed this notorious killer to take and hold captive the eight employees. “It’s a mysterious miracle that any of them, let alone, all of them are still alive,” said police detective Simon Romo. Detective Romo said that the fingerprints and DNA of the man who single handedly took over the restaurant for a few hours, match those of man wanted for several homicides in restaurants around the country. He is on the FBI Most Wanted List. Two other people escaped death at the restaurant and the police are trying to locate them. “We are looking for an unknown couple who were in the restaurant last evening. Sheila, the manager, served them and she is currently working with our artist so we can publish sketches of them. We need to find and question them. At this point, it is uncertain whether or not they know anything which will help us. Mostly, we are concerned that the killer also knows what they look like and may want to find them on his own. We are concerned that he is not yet finished with his crime spree in this area.
Pete unlocked the back door and I followed him in. He didn’t stop or pause as he headed directly to the refrigerator and grabbed two cold Russian beers. I had started going to a Russian woman for my pedicures and she had gotten me interested in Russian cuisine and beer. While she spruced up my feet, we talked about food and shared recipes. Mostly, I took recipes from her. We love Eastern European food and Anya’s recipes were easy and, relatively, healthy. She had told me one day about Russian beer and where I could buy it. After the first one, we were hooked. Pete guzzled several huge swallows of the frosty liquid straight from the bottle. I was a bit daintier and poured mine into a glass and then chugged it down.
“Go ahead and take your shower first while I call Margo,” I said. “OK, boss woman,” he replied as he pecked me on the cheek with lips that were cold and wet from the beer. As he lumbered up the stairs complaining about the weather, I dug around in my purse looking for my phone and called Margo. After several rings, she answered out of breath and told me she’d spent most of the day cleaning the house and had just returned from the grocery store. After a brief chat, I asked about the restaurant and she confirmed that it was called Mac’s and that they had enjoyed their meal and service. She said it was very easy to find and gave me directions. I thanked her and we made plans for them to come over to our house for barbecue the next night.
I had finished my beer while I was on the phone and figured Pete had swilled his down, too, so I grabbed another one from the fridge and headed for the shower. When I got upstairs, Pete was ironing his shirt and I handed him the beer with instructions to save at least a little for me. By the time I was dressed and ready, Pete had returned downstairs and was sitting at his computer. “Come on, let’s go!” I said. “I’m driving and I’m headed out the door. You’re either with me or not,” I threatened as I opened the door without turning around to see if he was coming. I had heard the familiar swearing as he’d quickly turned in his chair and cracked his knee on the desk on his way out of the office. “Happens every time,” I thought to myself.
Margo was right. Mac’s was a short and easy drive from our neighborhood and it only took 15 minutes to get there, park the car and sit down at our table. We couldn’t decide whether to stick with beer or order wine so we examined the menu. After a couple minutes, we both looked up and Pete said “red wine, definitely.” “Your turn to pick,” I said, “but I’d prefer an old deep musky one. Are there any there that sound like they’d taste like a barn yard? That’s what I’m in the mood for.” Pete leaned back in his chair while he concentrated on the menu. We try not to be goofy or snobby, but we do like our wine. We can live with so so food, but bad wine can ruin a meal. “They have a cotes de Rhone that looks interesting. Wanna try it?” My husband can ask the dumbest questions. Honestly. “Of course,” I said. My taste buds were standing at attention and ready to hop all over one of my favorite wines.
With that most important of decisions made, we looked around for our wait person. Funny, we’d been sitting there for at least 15 minutes since she had dropped off the menus and she hadn’t been back. “Do you see her?” I asked. Pete turned around in his chair and swiveled his neck. “Nope, and it’s too late to move to that other table. They seated a guy there already.”
When we had been seated Pete had commented that he might prefer the table across from us. The hostess had already returned to her station by the front door so we decided to ask the waitress if we could move. When she’d come by with the menus we’d forgotten. “Oh well,” I replied. “This one is fine. But where is she? I’m ready for wine.”
Pete managed to catch the eye of the hostess and crooked his finger. She responded by coming over and we told her we were ready for our waitress but couldn’t find her. The hostess commented that it was slow and that the wait staff tended to lose their timing when they didn’t have a busy room to take care of. She said she’d find her and send her out.
By the time our waitress made it back to our table we were thirsty, hungry and even crankier than before. She introduced herself and told us her name was Sheila. Pete and I looked at each other and we each knew the other was pretending to roll their eyes. Both of us had worked our way through college waiting tables. We had never introduced ourselves to our customers. The purpose was to wait on them not become friends. It was a professional transaction. Now that we were customers, we felt the same way. We were there to be served and we were paying for the privilege. We did not want to make it personal. It always seemed so inappropriate to have the server tell us their name. Knowing their name didn’t sweeten the tip pot. Good service would do that. We’d prefer they remain nameless, but that hardly ever happened.
We were ravenous so we ordered appetizers and entrees all at once with direct orders to bring the wine first and quickly. Sheila was happy to oblige and she promptly returned with our wine, expertly opened and poured it and set the bottle on the table before she left.
“Cheers!” We both said as we clinked our glasses and took our first sips. It was just what we wanted. There was a hint of hay mixed with the taste of dirt. It was delicious. “Ok, “I said. “Who cares about food?” “I know,” Pete agreed. “This is really good. Better than the last one we had, don’t you think?” Pete had an uncanny memory for wine. It was the same with golf. It must be a man thing. When he got together with his golf pals they could all remember courses and particular holes they had played years ago. Not only that, they could remember what club they used and where the ball had gone. Ask him about something truly important and he had no recollection, but the eighth hole at the Santa Ana golf course in Albuquerque he could describe to you in minute detail. He was the same with wine. Frankly, I think he made the wine memories up just to sound like a big shot. For me, I savored the good wines until the bottle was empty and then forgot about it.
We chatted about the upcoming move and the houses we’d looked at that week. We discussed work and then paused while we simultaneously looked around for our waitress again. “Where the hell is she?” Pete asked. Then, to our surprise, both of us realized that the guy at the table across from us had been joined by a woman. That woman was Sheila. Sheila our waitress had sat down at the table next to ours. She was apronless and sitting there enjoying her own glass of wine. Like cartoon characters, we both opened and closed our eyes and looked at her again, then at each other as we shrugged our shoulders and lifted our brows. Pete leaned forward and whispered, “is that her?” I shifted toward him and said “sure looks like her, minus the apron.” “What the hell?” said Pete. “Beats me,” I responded. We were dumbstruck. What was the proper etiquette for telling your waitress that you expected her to remain standing, stepping and fetching? Is it polite to go over to her table and ask where our food is? Should we introduce ourselves using our first names and ask how she was enjoying her meal? She was cutting into a slab of steak and we didn’t even have bread on our table. “What the hell?” Pete said again as he aggressively turned toward Sheila’s table and glared.
“pssst! Pete! Shhh! Don’t make a scene!” I loudly whispered. “What the friggin hell?” Pete asked as he firmly placed his wine glass on the table and turned toward me. “That can’t possibly be her,” I said. “I’ll go get the hostess and tell her we need our waitress again.” I took my napkin from my lap and placed it on the table as I moved my chair back. I started to stand when I heard Sheila say, “May I help you? Do you need something?” I looked up to see where the voice had come from wanting desperately for it to not be coming from the woman at the next table. But it was. Sheila was still chewing her steak as she started to get up from her table. “Sorry, this is so awkward. My friends set me up on a blind date and I ended up having to substitute for another waiter tonight. I knew it would be slow and so I decided to combine work with pleasure. You don’t mind, do you?”
There were so many ways to respond to this insolence but I decided to count to ten, and then twenty, before I answered. Pete was vibrating he was so angry, but thankfully, he was speechless. While I silently counted and debated my response, Sheila cut herself another bite of steak. By the time I’d hit the number twelve, I realized that her blind date was just sitting there and hadn’t eaten or spoken or moved. Was he as stunned as we were? Some blind date. I wondered if he was going to tip her. I wondered if Sheila expected a tip. I wondered if he had known ahead of time that his date would also be his food server. I wondered where the restaurant manager was. By the time I hit the number twenty I knew what I would say to Sheila.
“So, Sheila, does your boss know that you decided to kill two birds with one stone tonight? Is your boss aware that you are blithely sitting at a table and dining when you are on the clock and supposed to be waiting on us?”
“Oh,” she said. “That’s the beauty of all this. I am the manager.”
With that, Pete held up his arm to me as if to say “I’ll take it from here” and directed his attention to Sheila. “So, Sheila, let’s just say hypothetically that we have a problem tonight. A problem with you, let’s say. And we want to talk to the manager and complain about you. Are you saying that we would voice our criticism about you to you?”
Sheila must have been an English major because by now it looked like that not only had she grasped, but was also beginning to understand and appreciate the irony of the situation. She looked puzzled at first and then giggled as she replied, “Well, yes, I guess that’s about it. Pretty funny, huh? You don’t like your waitress so you ask for the manager and the manager is your waitress? Whoa! Would that be embarrassing?” She turned to her blind date for confirmation that this was indeed hysterical. She gave him a look that invited him to participate in the joke. Who knew life could be this amusing? By this time, I’d decided her blind date was truly blind and maybe deaf. He wasn’t responding to any of this. His hands remained in his lap and his face wasn’t giving away any of his thoughts, if he had any.
“Sheila, where is our food,” I asked.
“Oh, are you ready?” she said as she put down her fork. “I’ll just go check and see what’s taking so long.” As she got up, she took another quick sip from her wine glass. We both stared at her as she left her table and headed for the kitchen. We looked around to see if anyone else was noticing this odd turn of events. The hostess had been correct. It was a slow night. The only other diners were sitting at a table on the other side of the restaurant and their waiter didn’t appear to be dining at their empty adjacent table. Too bad there wasn’t anyone sitting nearer to us. We had no witnesses. There was nobody to turn to and ask for confirmation that this bizarre scenario was really happening. There were no other diners who could offer us sympathy and agree how preposterous this all was. It was just the two of us, Sheila the dining waitress and her mute blind date. Oh, and the hostess who had also disappeared.
“Here you go,” said Sheila as she set the plates of food in front of us. “Sorry it took so long. Can I get you anything else? More wine?” She stood by our table but turned her head to wink at her blind date. True to character, he remained stoically silent. We, too, were voiceless and just stared at her. She jutted her head forward and bugged out her eyes as if to say, so? Did you not hear me? I cleared my throat and murmured, “Um, no, I guess this is it for now.” Pete continued to gape at her with his mouth hanging open. I was wordlessly double dog daring him to ask her for the manager. Sheila put her hands on her hips and said, “Well, okeydokey, then, if you need something just let me know. I’ll just go back to my table but I’m happy to get whatever you need. Your main courses will be ready by the time you finish your appetizers.” She stood there a moment longer and then did an about face and took the five steps over to her own table, sat down, spread her napkin on her lap and poured her own glass of wine.
The food was surprisingly good. The warm goat cheese covered with piquant chile raspberry sauce was unusual and delicious. The calamari was tender and not drenched in batter like it is in most places. “I wonder if she’s also cooking.” I asked Pete. “That’d be even funnier, huh?” Pete was exasperated and sighed to prove it. I told him we might as well make the best of it and that I was now curious how it was going to play out. He grunted and then picked up his fork and knife and began to eat. He agreed. The food was delicious.
For the next several minutes we chatted about our day and the houses we’d looked at. We immersed ourselves in the pleasure of the food and wine and forgot about our waitress who was enjoying her own meal at the next table. We were so engrossed in our conversation that we hadn’t noticed Sheila leaving her table and returning to ours with two hot plates in her hands.
“Here you go as promised. Let’s see. You ordered the trout and risotto and the gentleman gets the filet with sautéed yams and onions.” Said Sheila as we pushed our empty plates aside to make room for our meal. She placed our plates in front of us and began clearing the rest of the table. “OK. You know where to find me if you need anything.” With that she returned to her table. I looked over at her date. I noticed that he had actually eaten some of his dinner and his wine glass was nearly empty. As she resumed her place across from him he looked up and I could have sworn I saw just the teeniest smirk pass his lips. “What are they up to?” I wondered. I looked around and noticed that the other table was now empty. When had they left? There was nobody else in sight. “Very odd,” I said to myself.
“Hmmm? What did you say?” asked Pete. “Oh nothing. I just think it’s weird that we are the only people here. I feel oddly captive or vulnerable or, I don’t know…something is not right.”
“Well, thanks for pointing out the obvious to me,” said Pete. “I can’t wait to tell Margot and Joel about our evening at their new favorite steak joint.
“It’s not their fault,” I said. “But, I can’t wait to tell them,” I agreed.
We finished our dinner and began negotiating desert. If we were going to share, we needed to compromise and that wasn’t something we were good at. I finally relented my lobbying efforts for ice cream and told Pete he could order the carrot cake. We turned to Sheila’s table to tell her we were ready for coffee and desert and realized she wasn’t there and neither was her date. When had they left?
“OK, that’s really weird. Did you even notice that they’d left their table?”
“Nope.”
“Are we hallucinating this whole thing? Have we lost our minds? What the heck is going on?”
We slumped back in our chairs and waited.
“OK,” I finally said. “This is crazy. I’m going to the ladies room and on my way there see if I can find someone to bring us the check so we can get out of here.” I got up and headed toward the lobby where I found the ladies room. I didn’t see anyone. On my way back to the table I peered into the other sections and bus area and saw no evidence of anyone else in the restaurant.
“There’s nobody here,” I said as I walked up behind Pete.
“Did you look in back? In the kitchen?”
“No. I was even afraid to go to the bathroom. This is getting too much like a Stephen King novel. While sitting on the toilet I kept imagining Jack Nicholson on the other side of the panel door. You can look in the kitchen.”
With that, we both got up and headed toward the back of the restaurant in search of the kitchen and a restaurant employee. After passing a room full of empty tables, we stopped, looked at each other and silently agreed to turn around and head for the front door as fast as possible. Even in college, we had never bolted on a check, but we were now. The possibility of jail wasn’t nearly as scary as this empty and silent restaurant.
“What if the door is locked?” I asked as we hurried in that direction. “What if we can’t get out? Oh God. Pete, I’m scared.”
“Just keep moving,” Pete said as he grabbed my hand and yanked me into the lobby. When we got to the door he body slammed it and we nearly fell out of the restaurant. The door closed behind us, we looked at each other and ran to the car giggling. Once we were in the car with the doors locked we started to laugh hysterically. We were terrified and giddy. We had escaped Mac’s with full stomachs and no harm.
“Do you think we should call the cops?” I asked.
Pete struggled with his seatbelt and replied, “And say what? Do you think anyone will believe us? I’m not even sure I do. No, let’s just go home and forget about it.” He started the car, pulled out into traffic and headed home.
Surprisingly, we both fell asleep quickly and slept soundly. The next morning while I made coffee and heated up croissants, Pete walked out to the driveway to fetch the paper. The next thing I heard was Pete screaming and yelling as he ran through the house making his way back to the kitchen.
“Look at this! Holy shit! No wonder we were scared! We could have been killed! We should have been killed!” he threw the paper at me as he ran into the bathroom and I heard him throw up. I picked up the newspaper and looked at the front page headline. “SERIAL KILLER DINES AND DASHES”. Under the headline was a photo of the deaf and mute blind date. He was a serial killer?
Early this morning, police discovered a strange scene at Mac’s, a new restaurant on the northwest side of town. A 911 call from the parent of one of the restaurant employees called them to the scene where they found the staff from the evening before bound and trapped in the walk in cooler. When her son who is a busboy at the restaurant did not return home by midnight, she went to the restaurant to look for him. She found the restaurant unlocked and undisturbed until she walked into the kitchen. It was there she discovered a note taped to the walk in door. The note said “Thanks for a lovely dinner. My meal was absolutely perfect and my service sublime. You all behaved perfectly and I have decided to reward you with your lives. The staff at the Hungry Tiger in Phoenix was not so good or so lucky. Remember every day is precious.” When she opened the walk in door she found the two chefs, her son and another busboy, 2 waiters, the hostess and the manager. They were all tied together and sitting on the floor of the cooler. Police are still unraveling the incomprehensible chain of events that allowed this notorious killer to take and hold captive the eight employees. “It’s a mysterious miracle that any of them, let alone, all of them are still alive,” said police detective Simon Romo. Detective Romo said that the fingerprints and DNA of the man who single handedly took over the restaurant for a few hours, match those of man wanted for several homicides in restaurants around the country. He is on the FBI Most Wanted List. Two other people escaped death at the restaurant and the police are trying to locate them. “We are looking for an unknown couple who were in the restaurant last evening. Sheila, the manager, served them and she is currently working with our artist so we can publish sketches of them. We need to find and question them. At this point, it is uncertain whether or not they know anything which will help us. Mostly, we are concerned that the killer also knows what they look like and may want to find them on his own. We are concerned that he is not yet finished with his crime spree in this area.
Hands
Hold my hand
while I hand you my heart
It is the most sacred gift I have
Other than my trust
There, now my heart is in your hands
Hold it carefully
While I keep my life to myself
I will share it with you and let you
Hold portions of it in your hands
Here is a precious piece
Hold it carefully
As we explore our future together
We are as one
And yet remain two
Our four hands work in unison
To link our lives and
Hold us together carefully
Our two hearts and minds
Remain our own as they merge
To form our life in concert
As we move through the day we each
Hold the other’s heart in our soul
We hold it carefully
My hand gives as yours takes
then we reverse
your hand gives to me
I reach out to receive
We hold the other’s offering carefully
Though we are united, we are still separate
The touch of our hands binds us
We hold our hopes like a bowl of fruit
That must be treated tenderly and eaten mindfully
So that it does not spoil
We hold it carefully
while I hand you my heart
It is the most sacred gift I have
Other than my trust
There, now my heart is in your hands
Hold it carefully
While I keep my life to myself
I will share it with you and let you
Hold portions of it in your hands
Here is a precious piece
Hold it carefully
As we explore our future together
We are as one
And yet remain two
Our four hands work in unison
To link our lives and
Hold us together carefully
Our two hearts and minds
Remain our own as they merge
To form our life in concert
As we move through the day we each
Hold the other’s heart in our soul
We hold it carefully
My hand gives as yours takes
then we reverse
your hand gives to me
I reach out to receive
We hold the other’s offering carefully
Though we are united, we are still separate
The touch of our hands binds us
We hold our hopes like a bowl of fruit
That must be treated tenderly and eaten mindfully
So that it does not spoil
We hold it carefully
Some Suicides are never Recorded
He knew the answers
But never raised his hand
She knew it was wrong
But she did it anyway
He neatly folded the job application
And put a match to it
If she stayed he’d hit her again
She stayed anyway
He watched her walk away
And said nothing to stop her
He had everything he’d ever wanted
And he let it slip away while he sat in a chair all day
At the crossroads choices are made
And lives are irretrievably altered
Some suicides are never recorded
But never raised his hand
She knew it was wrong
But she did it anyway
He neatly folded the job application
And put a match to it
If she stayed he’d hit her again
She stayed anyway
He watched her walk away
And said nothing to stop her
He had everything he’d ever wanted
And he let it slip away while he sat in a chair all day
At the crossroads choices are made
And lives are irretrievably altered
Some suicides are never recorded
Monday, July 5, 2010
Medicine
Good Medicine
The first time I heard the word, medicine: I was sitting on the toilet, my bare feet not yet touching the floor. My mother was kneeling beside me, my father mopping my face with a wet cloth. Pouring liquid from a brown bottle into a silver spoon, he said, “This medicine tastes just like Coca Cola.”
The power of suggestion being what it is in the mind of a two-year-old, that’s exactly the taste I remember--though I can’t be sure which came first, the medicine or my first actual taste of Coke, icy and cold in a green bottle. In 1950, at least in our house, soft drinks were not refrigerator fare, but were rare treats reserved for road trips. My brother and I would split a coke in the back seat, our parents singing forties love songs in the front.
Any illness or injury was my father’s domain. I remember spending days in a darkened bedroom after a massive bee sting, a poultice of his chewed up tobacco on my swollen eyes. If a splinter of glass or wood burrowed into my foot, he’d wrap the foot with a slice of raw bacon, which would--magically--pull the splinter out of the foot and onto the bacon-greasy cloth.
We rarely went to a doctor. If one of my father’s remedies didn’t work, he would drive to the drug store and ask for whatever pill or liquid he deemed best. The pharmacist never hesitated to fill a bottle of penicillin or cough syrup, no prescription needed. Then, at home, standing at the kitchen counter, he’d crush pills into a peanut butter and sugar paste, then spread it on white bread, crusts cut off just the way I liked it. Then we’d sit at the table together, each eating half of the same sandwich, his without a crushed pill.
In the months preceding my divorce--after a nearly thirty-year marriage--I wrestled with insomnia and depression. The medicine I took to alleviate one seemed to worsen the other, and I discovered that I couldn’t blast the pain away with pharmaceuticals. To add to the soundtrack of it all, I developed an angry hacking cough.
When I did sleep, I’d wake up at three in the morning, feeling ragged and alone. My parents were four states away, and I stared at the blank walls of a sickness without a name or a home remedy.
On those mornings, I got into the car and drove in the darkness. At the twenty-four-hour convenience store, I’d buy a large fountain Coke and two miniature Reese cups. Soothed by the combination of Coke and peanut butter, I’d drive back home--such as it was--and find a peaceful sleep.
Fifteen years later, the ache of divorce a distant memory, I still start every day with a drive, now in my own car, and get a fountain coke with two mini Reese cups. The combination of coke and peanut butter follows well-worn grooves in my psyche. Together they lead all the way back to childhood. My morning ritual is my path back to a time and a place where I had the good fortune to grow up with a beloved medicine man, my father.
And the first reveiw is in.....
Yesterday, I was driving with a friend on our way to a girls brunch. As we drove down Durango, we realized we'd made a terrible mistake. We were swimming upstream against a mammoth flow of AA conventionites leaving the Alamadome on foot and in car. After detouring our way through streets lined with crack houses and several bbq joints and several areas that resembled the set for The Wire, we finally made it back to 281. All that AA congestion got us to talking about AA and the irony of an anonymous bunch strutting their stuff through town bearing huge ID badges around their necks. My friend commented on the lovely column in the paper that morning by one of our local writers. She went on to say what a great writer she thought this person was. I agreed she was good but said that I thought the writing exhibited in my writing group surpassed her writing on many levels. So, this morning, I sent her a random sampling of my favorite bits from the blog - anonymously. If you want credit, tell me and I'll tell her who wrote what even though she doesn't know any of you. Anyway, this is her response:
"These are wonderful!!!!! You are right every bit as good - or better - than ____________"
Applause Applause! Applesauce! Applesauce!
"These are wonderful!!!!! You are right every bit as good - or better - than ____________"
Applause Applause! Applesauce! Applesauce!
Sunday, July 4, 2010
It is the 4th of July--still. Just as it was when I wrote my morning rambling about McDonalds. I have had a wonderful day of solitude, reading, writing, and listening to the background sound of patriotic music on NPR. I'm sending you a short poem by Mary Oliver that Dominique Browning uses as an epigraph to one of her chapters:
THE USES OF SORROW
(in my sleep I dreamed this poem)
Someone I loved once gave me
a box full of darkness.
It took me years to understand
that this, too, was a gift.
Mary Oliver
finding me
Lost
on the road
to nowhere,
heart in
hand
searching
for the
soul
once
bright
with
innocence
from
somewhere
the light
beckons
a reminder:
don't give up-
there's still
much to
do
on the road
to nowhere,
heart in
hand
searching
for the
soul
once
bright
with
innocence
from
somewhere
the light
beckons
a reminder:
don't give up-
there's still
much to
do
4th of July
The Man at the First Window at MacDonalds takes his work very seriously. He asks too many questions. Is everything on my screen correct? Would I like something else besides the Senior Diet Coke? Would I like to try one of their new smoothies? Perhaps a latte?
Mannerly and polite, in the style of a pleasant automaton, the Man at the First Window never deviates from the script, and you get the feeling he's practiced it at home, over and over, with his mother. Nor does he ever show the slightest sign of recognizing me from the day before. As he hands me my change, he always says, "Thank you. Please come again."
At the Second Window, the young man (who over the years I've found to be quite moody) shows signs of having been coached. He's started winking! It doesn't fit him. He does it in the awkward style of someone whose older brother has recently taught him to wink--a gesture he probably bestows on all his customers, old and young. I'm not quite sure how to respond. Do I wink back? Do I pretend I don't notice this newfound facial tic, or do I receive it as a semi-flirtatious gesture? If one eye is winking in the forest.....?
On the days he's not on duty, the tattoo girl is. She reminds me of a mean first grade teacher, and I drive away, coke in hand, with a distinct feeling that I've broken a rule I didn't know was a rule. Once I told her she looked pretty--because she did (she had curled her usually wild hair) , and because I wanted her to lighten up a little, maybe be my window pal.
Hearing a compliment, she brightened a little, and I thought we'd made a breakthrough. The next day, she had forgotten. She looks at me now in the old way, like I'm one more obnoxious customer who needs training, Should I give up on the project, or launch a new campaign: Where did you get that lovely tattoo? What do you do when you're not serving cokes and burgers and fries? Is there somebody out there who loves you?
At the Other MacDonalds, the window people are different. "Hi Sweetheart!" Clarence says. He calls me by name, has the coke ready when he sees the Mini driving up, and rarely charges me. "It's on me," he'll say.
Another, a young woman named Maria, always asks me if she can take a ride in my Mini. I truly intend to pick her up after work one day, take her for a spin down Austin Highway--but, alas, I never think of it until the next time I'm at her window.
A serious young man who looks to be about eighteen--you wonder how he got a window position--never, never once, makes eye contact. I've tried to engage him in conversation, but he absolutely refuses. He looks away--it's unnerving and touching-- as if the very sound of a voice is frightening to him.
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