Between Enzo and the Universe

by Chase Connor

  Travel is something that my family did not do in abundance. When we were in France, we usually stuck to the continent and quite often simply to neighboring areas of France when seeking new experiences. When we moved to Canada, we had never left the city, and by the time we thought of exploring our new homeland more, money restrictions—and the health issues of my grandmother made that impossible. When my father became ill, then my sister, and then my mother, it was impossible to even find dreams of travel a worthwhile pursuit. However, from what little travel we had accomplished, I had learned that many people will suggest restaurants or cafés to tourists that they think will feel familiar to them, thus desirable. I always felt that when one is traveling, they would want to try something different than what they may find in their homeland. Something that is warm and rustic, homestyle, yet with a flair that lets them know they are eating in a foreign country and trying new cuisine, even if the flavors are reminiscent of meals they’ve had before.

  “Is this café open late?” Peter asked when we were nearly there.

  “It is not that late.” I frowned.

  Without pulling out my mobile phone, which I did not want to do in front of the American as it was outdated and cheap, I knew it could not have been later than seven o’clock.

  “Sorry.” He shook his head with a smile. “The places I’ve traveled to recently roll up the sidewalks as soon as it gets dark.”

  “Roll up the sidewalks?”

  “It’s an expression meaning that the whole town shuts down when night comes.” My companion chuckled. “I was recently in this tiny town in Texas, and you couldn’t find anything but fast food unless it was Saturday or Sunday at dinnertime. I was between big cities when my rental car broke down, and I had to wait for a replacement.”

  My eyes grew wide with shock and horror.

  “You may find some restaurants close on Sundays here,” I said, “and sometimes Mondays, but on nights such as this—especially on the first night of the festival—they are open late. You will be able to take your time with your meal.”

  “Good.”

  Finally, I slowed until we were standing on the sidewalk, traffic passing slowly and regularly on the street before us. Across the street was The Lazy Duck, a fairly small building, tucked away between two much larger office buildings, with large front windows that allowed passerby to look inside and see how warm and inviting the dining area was, drawing them off the street. The building itself was rough stone that had been painted white many times over, with black shutters on either side of the windows, a large, rough-hewn wooden door painted black as well, and a large sign overhead, also black, that announced: Le Canard Paresseux.

  “What does that say?” Peter’s arm rose, his finger pointing at the sign.

  “The Lazy Duck.”

  He chuckled.

  “Am I going to be forced to eat duck?” He asked.

  “Only if you ask for it.” I laughed. “Though I have never seen it on the menu. Things may have changed since last I was here. They offer many things. If you are very hungry, they do courses with dessert or cheese to finish. The coffee is very good. I have never eaten anything that is not good here.”

  Peter’s attention had been taken from the façade of The Lazy Duck, and he was looking over the tops of the vehicles that passed by, to the building on the corner of the next street.

  “Hey, look.” He said, pointing once more.

  I turned my head, though I already knew what he had seen. A clothing store sat on the corner, also with large windows and sleek displays. It was a store that I never would have purchased clothing from, even when my family had money, because even at our best, we did not have enough money to entertain shopping there. Peter began to walk toward the crosswalk, obviously intent on forcing me to go into the clothing store that wouldn’t even have a single item of clothing I could purchase for the money I had in my pocket. As I stood there, watching Peter walk with purpose towards the corner to find his way through traffic and across the street, I found myself with a choice to make. Peter now knew where a good restaurant was to have a delicious meal, so I had done what I had promised to do. I could easily walk away quickly, slip down an alleyway, and not have to explain myself. I wouldn’t have to admit that I had no money for a new coat from an actual store. Or I could follow him to the store, say that I did not like anything that we saw, and leave without even so much as trying on a coat.

  Watching Peter walk away, seeing the silhouette he cut in his nice jeans, shoes, coat and scarf—the way his hair ruffled in the breeze, I somehow felt that I would miss him if I walked away. Considering all things, I had not had someone to just have a conversation with in a long time who did not have preconceived notions about me. I hadn’t spoken with someone so amiable and kind since before my brother had died. And I had never felt so attracted to another human being in my life, though I knew that was not the main reason that I wanted to spend more time with Peter. Being in his presence simply made me feel at ease, which was something I hadn’t felt around another person for longer than I could remember. However, I didn’t know what it would do to my soul if I had to admit aloud that I was one poor choice away from being homeless.

  “Wait.” I dashed after Peter; my mind obviously made up. “Maybe we can go after you have had your dinner?”

  “The store will be closed by then.” He waved me off with a smile as I came to stand beside him at the crosswalk. Peter was watching for a break in traffic so that he could dash across the street to the store. “Buying a coat won’t take that long anyway.”

  Before I could say anything more, Peter had taken an opportunity presented by traffic and began to jauntily dash across the street, not a care in the world. My feet felt like lead as I forced myself to dash after him, dodging cars and hoping that something would make him give up on the clothing store. When we reached the sidewalk on the other side of the street, Peter continued until he was standing in front of the brightly lit display window to the right side of the entrance. I followed him, though even standing that close to such a chic looking store, with all of its straight lines and minimalism and lights, made me nervous. It was if I felt that in just being so close to the store, the gravity of it would pull the forty dollars out of my pocket, yank it into its orbit, never to be seen or heard from again.

  Peter made a whistling noise.

  “Look at that.” He said, his eyes on the mannequin in the window before us.

  Though I didn’t want to, I forced myself to follow his eyes to see what he had found. Inside of the brightly lit, nearly blinding display window was the mannequin, adorned in a sophisticated and expensive-looking navy overcoat. Unlike the red coat I had seen at the festival, I did not need to touch the sleeve of the coat to know that it was wool, nor did I need to inspect it to know that it was probably lined for extra warmth during the winter months. Just looking at the coat made me dream about owning such a garment, strolling along the streets of Montreal, a fat, stylish scarf wrapped in a carefree way around my neck, just like my companion. The forty dollars in my pocket might have paid for the buttons on the coat.

  “It is very nice.” I agreed.

  “You would look very handsome in it, Enzo.”

  “Thank you.” I felt my stomach flutter, and I refused to even so much as glance over at my handsome companion for fear that I would let on how much the compliment affected me. “It would look very handsome on you as well.”

  “Thank you.” He chuckled warmly. “You should go try it on.”

  “There would be no point.” I gazed longingly through the window.

  “How much do you think it costs?”

  “More than is my budget.” I couldn’t keep myself from answering, no matter how much it embarrassed me to admit that I couldn’t even think of buying the jacket.

  “Well, if it won’t offend you,” Peter said, “I’m going to buy it for myself.”

  Turning to him with wide eyes, I couldn’t be sure if he was serious.

  “
You have not even asked the price.”

  Peter shrugged, an impish grin on his face.

  Gross displays of wealth are normally a decent reason to become cross with a person, but Peter’s display was not wrapped in an air of arrogance. Wanting the coat and resolving to simply buy it was a gleeful display of hedonism on his part. A way of saying: let’s do what we’re not supposed to do. I couldn’t help but smile as Peter gave me a wink and turned towards the entrance with a wave of his hand for me to follow.

  “I will wait here,” I said sharply, though I was not upset.

  Peter turned to me, a frown on his face. Looking down, I tried to indicate with my eyes how my clothes would look to the employees in the store.

  “I am not dressed to go into such a place,” I said. “They are more accustomed to dealing with people such as yourself.”

  For several moments, Peter stood there, barely a meter away, his face blank.

  “You’re not going to disappear if I go inside to buy the coat, are you?”

  It was my turn to stare at Peter.

  “I can wait if that is what you want,” I replied.

  Peter smiled. “Wait right here. Two minutes.”

  I nodded, and Peter slipped away, quickly sliding through the front door of the shop. Of course, I did think about disappearing, simply walking away from the store so that Peter could continue his evening unencumbered by some young man, barely out of his teens, dressed like a vagrant. Leaving just wasn’t an option. The companionship, the easy conversation…the kindness…was addictive. If Peter had insisted, I would have walked into the store with him, even if the employees treated me the way that I looked.

  As I waited, I found myself trying to catch my reflection in the window of the store. My hair, usually down past my ears, brown, with slight waves, was short that night. It had started to grow long after my last stay in the hospital a year prior, but when my mother became sicker, and then my brother, I kept it cut short. One less thing to worry about each day when I was getting my daily shower. Not knowing if my last stay in the hospital was really going to be my last kept me from letting my hair grow out. What is the point of enjoying one’s hair if someone will shave it off haphazardly and unevenly once it has just grown out again?

  Reaching up, I ran my fingers through my hair, feeling the ridges in the flesh of my scalp from where it had been cut into by doctors. Maybe one day, I would be strolling along the streets of Montreal, my own navy overcoat made of fresh virgin wool and fat scarf just the right shade of gray protecting me from the cold. In that dream, my hair was past my ears, wavy, and free in the wind. My nose would be frozen. My cheeks would be pink, though they would be plump from all of the food I would have eaten. I would have a paunch that pushed against the buttons of my new, fancy coat. I stopped myself when I began imagining Peter’s arm laced through mine, walking with me and dressed in a similar fashion as we laughed over some nonsensical American saying.

  Or maybe we would live in America? I began to wonder where Peter lived. What it was like in the city or town that he called home? Was there an autumn festival going on in the city square there? Would he have been buying donuts filled with jam and covered in powdered sugar from a street vendor that night if he had been at home instead of in Montreal? Or would he be at home, warming his feet by a fire, his beloved dog curled up beside him? Did he have a wife? Children? Did he have a sick mother or brother or sister whom he looked after when he was not traveling? Or…did he have a husband? I knew nothing of Peter and found that I wanted to know everything, though I knew it was pointless to learn too much about a person I would probably never see after he walked into Le Canard Paresseux to have dinner. While wearing his new, likely expensive navy overcoat.

  “What do you think?” I jumped slightly at the sound of Peter’s voice, nearly bumping my head against the front window of the store.

  Peter cringed and laughed nervously as I turned to him. Embarrassed, but knowing that Peter had not meant to make me look foolish, I laughed with him. He was wearing the new coat. He looked very handsome in it.

  “Très beau.” I teased.

  “Beau?” He cocked his head the side.

  Before I could respond, Peter seemed to have a thought, and a smile bloomed on his face as his mental catalog of known French words answered his question.

  “Thank you.” He said, to which I responded with a nod.

  Peter turned, giving me a chance to see how perfectly the stylish coat fit him. When he was facing me once again, I finally noticed that his peacoat was dangling from his fist.

  “They did not give you a box or a bag?” I asked.

  “I told them not to bother.” He waved me off. “Come here.”

  “What?”

  Peter didn’t pretend he had patience for my question. Instead, he approached me and started to put the coat around me.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, gently pushing away.

  “You’re worried about the way you’re dressed.” He said simply as I backed away, the coat falling from around my shoulders. “This will cover your sweater so that you won’t feel self-conscious having dinner with me.”

  “Oh.”

  “I mean,” Peter sounded unsure, “if you want to have dinner with me? I wouldn’t mind having someone to talk to. Eating alone has gotten old.”

  I stood there, my hands cold, my toes cold, and certainly the rest of me more than willing to have a coat to wear, if only for a short while.

  “I cannot eat dinner with a coat on,” I said. “They would think that is odd.”

  Peter moved to put the coat around me again.

  “You’ll wear it into the restaurant and take it off at the table. Put it on the back of the chair.” He said, slowly sliding the coat around my body. It was so warm. “Once we’re seated, no one will notice your clothes anyway.”

  I allowed Peter to put the coat around me, and though it was a size or two larger than necessary, it felt perfectly wonderful. My arms acted of their own accord, tentatively slipping into the arms of the coat as Peter pulled it around me. As he pulled the coat around me, buttoning the front, as though I were a small child, I instantly began to feel warmer. Something inside of me wanted to pull Peter to me, hold him against my body. Being that close to him, smelling his cologne, watching the way he smiled down at his fingers while buttoning up the coat, made me want to be closer to him. Another part of me wanted to rip the coat off, shove it back into his hands, and then run away. I both wanted kindness and to reject kindness all at the same time.

  It’s an odd thing, the concept of accepting kindness. It is like a habit or an addiction. When you find yourself being treated equitably time and again, it becomes second nature to believe that all people are good. That no one in the whole wide world is bad. That you can always rely on people doing the right thing for others, simply because it is the right thing to do. When you have gone without kindness—and it does not have to be for a very long time, it just has to be consistent—you become suspicious of all kindness. You begin to think that anyone who does something even remotely kind wants something from you. Furthermore, you begin to think of accepting kindness as a weakness because you want to prove to the unkind world that you did not need sympathy from it anyway. You set out to prove that regardless of how the world treats you, things will be fine. So, when the world gives you a break, you tell it to go fuck itself. Just because you can.

  I don’t know if it was the cologne or the way Peter’s eyes and lips looked when he smiled and buttoned up the coat—or maybe it was the ecstasy of feeling warm for the first time since I had lost Noe’s coat—but I chose to accept kindness.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m kind of upset with how much better than me you look in my coat.” Peter quipped as his fingers let go of the coat, and he stepped back to examine me. “Très beau.”

  My cheeks felt flushed.

  “It is a very nice coat.”

  “Thank you.” He said. “I never knew it looked s
o nice, though.”

  Again, I found myself unsure of how to answer.

  “So,” Peter’s voice sounded huskier than it had moments before, “do you want to have dinner with me?”

  “I am hungry,” I said. “Maybe we can find a more suitable place? So, we do not have to worry about my clothes at all?”

  Peter just stared at me.

  I made another uncharacteristic decision.

  “I cannot afford to eat here.” I shamefully explained. “It is not really expensive, but it is not within my budget.”

  My entire forty dollars would have fed me at The Lazy Duck, but I would have had nothing left with which to buy my own coat the following day or food to put in my refrigerator.

  “I asked you to dinner.” He replied. “That means I am going to pay.”

  “Non.” I shook my head. “I could not do that.”

  “Sure, ya’ can.” He gave an incredulous laugh, and then his arm was suddenly around my shoulders, pulling me towards the crosswalk once more. “All you have to do is sit down, order some food, and eat it. You know how to use silverware, right?”

  I couldn’t help but laugh.

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “Don’t make me carry the entire conversation.” He said as he pulled me into the street when the traffic parted. “I’ll talk about myself too much if you do.”

  “Okay.”

  There was really no way to protest Peter’s insistence that I join him for dinner. But with his arm around my shoulders, I didn’t want to anyway.

  My Oldest Friend

  For as long as I could remember, and even before that, I was forced to go to doctors’ visits much more often than other kids and take medication daily. Sometimes I would take medication twice or three times a day, depending on the medication I was on and which doctor I was seeing. During the darkest times, I was taking so many pills in a day that I could barely eat due to the nausea I felt from the moment I woke up until I went to bed. Sometimes falling asleep and staying asleep was difficult due to how upset my stomach would be. None of the doctors seemed to be of the same mind and way of thinking when it came to my condition. My parents, my mother, a homemaker, and my father, a businessman, were not unintelligent or ignorant people, but they were not trained, medical professionals. We were at the mercy of the healthcare system wherever we lived and were of the mind that the doctors knew what they were doing. There was no reason to seek second opinions or get a referral to another physician or specialist unless it was suggested to us by the doctors I saw. So, my life and health were often governed by the whims of men in white coats or pajama-like scrubs who might be having a bad day and were rushing through their appointments.