He decides on our usual spot, which kind of pisses me off. That’s our place. Even Mom understands the sanctity of Chelsea’s Cafe. Dad has no idea this hurts my feelings, it’s just his normal personality taking over: when we get together we go there, so why wouldn’t we go there now?
I arrive first and get a table outside. It’s still nice out, for October, and the café has a few spots next to the building where they’re shielded from the wind. I look over the menu and spy my favorite autumn treat: pumpkin pancakes. I cannot get enough pumpkin in October and November. I try to think of something clever to say to Dad about pumpkin and pancakes mixing together, because he usually finds such combinations preposterous.
I see Dad walking hand in hand with a short, thin blond. She’s sprightly, dressed in trouser-cut jeans, a yellow three-quarter-length cardigan and fashionable sneakers. She’s Mom’s opposite in every way. Mom stands five eight and has broad shoulders, and she wouldn’t be caught dead out in that casual outfit for brunch. Her brunette tresses would be swept into an elegant knot at her neck’s base. Sandy’s hair floats behind her like a cloud. She’s very pretty, like a young Sally Field. Huge cheeks waiting to smile.
As they approach, Dad says, “I think I’d rather eat inside, sweetie. It’s a tad too cold for me.” But we always eat outside if the weather is reasonable.
“Are you sure?” I gesture at the primo spot. Sandy glances at it and moves to go inside.
“Very. It’s just as good inside.” She never drops his hand. Leading him away from me.
They sit next to eat other, and Dad puts his arm around her shoulder. Obnoxious. Next thing you know they’ll be sharing the same malt with two straws. This isn’t the 1950s. I don’t want to be hostile, but they’re making it difficult. I feel a sudden guilty pang for Mom’s sake, and I picture Sandy with devil horns and a pitchfork. It’s not difficult. The image just struts right to my mind’s forefront.
“You’re in publishing, Cassie?” she asks after we order. She ordered an egg white omelet with spinach and onions, no cheese. I got the pumpkin pancakes, but Dad never commented on the absurdity of putting a squash in breakfast food. Dad changed things up and got a Belgian waffle with blueberries instead of his usual. Who is this man?
“I prefer Cassandra. Yes, I’m an editor at Weston’s.” I sip my iced tea in what I hope is polite disinterest. Tennessee Williams’ women do this to great aplomb, but I think it’s coming across as rudeness.
“You’re a writer too. Like your father?”
“I don’t have a blog.” Dad settles next to her and grins. He’s just happy the two of us are in the same place. He hasn’t picked up on our body language. Sandy leans forward, trying to show interest in my life, but her smile is strained, the lipstick smearing across her lips, and I sit back in the booth, arms crossed. He’s oblivious.
“I love writing that,” he interjects. “It’s been the best thing for me. Gets all the negative thoughts out of my head and into the Internet.”
“He has his own Wikipedia article,” says Sandy. I’ll bet she wrote it. They’ll let anyone submit information to that site. Next thing you know the Revolutionary War started in the 1860s when some yahoo assassinated Archduke Ferdinand.
“That’s nice.”
“It’s been a crazy time at work,” laughs Dad. “My boss hasn’t found out yet,” he adds when he sees my wide eyes, “but my co-workers sure enjoy it.”
“You don’t name the company, do you?”
“No, dear. I don’t even say what it is I do exactly. I say how I feel and stuff…I thought you were reading it.” He looks crestfallen, and I feel terrible.
“I promise I will. It’s been a long couple of months.” I rub my forehead and recall Kenny’s prepared lunch from the week before. I’ve never had couscous that crunchy.
“I suppose you are busy, with work and all,” he says.
“She could look in on it every once and a while. Her mother reads it every day,” says Sandy, and she shoots me a glare. “Young people aren’t as busy as they let on.”
What. A. Bitch. How dare she mention my mother? I don’t care if she is a cyber stalker; Mom’s just a smidge jealous, nothing harmful.
“I’m sorry, Sandy, but you have no idea what I do with my time. And I don’t think my mother’s Internet activity is any of your business.” Luckily, the server delivers our food, and silence rushes in. Dad is excited to try something new, and he likes the golden waffle, but he’s unsure about the gelatinous blueberry garnish.
“Shouldn’t there be syrup?”
“Not on blueberry waffles, hun,” says Sandy who pats his hand condescendingly. Dad shrugs and spreads the whipped cream and blueberries across the waffle. I pass the maple syrup across the table, but he doesn’t notice. His ears belong to Sandy. Has she brainwashed him in some Invasion of the Body Snatchers fashion? I knew her sneakers were too cute for her to be nice.
“I used to work the same kind of job your Dad does, but it got too boring,” she says. “I sell furniture out at the Hom store in Apple Valley.”
“She’s a natural saleswoman,” says Dad through a mouth full of waffle. Sandy gives him a shove and smooths her hair.
“It’s easy. I have the best sales record in the store.”
“How many employees does a place like that have?” I ask. She runs her tongue across her teeth before saying, “Over fifty.” I nod, showing minimum enthusiasm. “Your father tells me you’re also the best in your office. How many editors do you work with again?” Dad beams at us.
“I knew you two would like each other! We should get together next week!”
I say four words I rarely string together, “You were right Mom.”
“About what Cassie? I’m having a terrible day at work. Those girls from marketing went to lunch today and didn’t even invite me.”
“I thought you didn’t like the marketing team.”
“That’s not the point. One should always be polite.” Oh Mom. “But what was I right about?” She never tires of hearing that she’s predicted something or had the correct opinion of something. She and Kevin should date; they’d be perfect for each other.
“You’re right about that Sandy person Dad’s seeing. I met her today.”
“Horrible?”
“You could say that. Have you met her?” I don’t see how that would be possible, since Mom never sees Dad. She has lambasted the woman over the phone for the past few months, so I thought she was jealous, but Mom’s sixth sense must have kicked in.
“Not in person, but her comments on your father’s blog screamed desperate floozy.”
“Uh huh. She wasn’t drunk and definitely not desperate. She’s got Dad’s balls on her faux-Prada key chain.”
“A bit vulgar, but I agree. Your father’s always been a pushover when it comes to strong-minded women. A girl like her could snag him like a champion bass fisherman.”
“The thing is…he looks so happy.” I trail off and Mom doesn’t answer. There are so many things I’m implying: that Dad has not been happy for a long time, that Mom never made him happy, that he’s finally gotten over Mom, and that he’s moved on from our family. “Mom?”
“What your father does is none of our business. If he wants to spend time with that woman, more power to him.”
“How is Gideon?” I ask before she starts ranting. Her tone warms as she answers, “Wonderful. He’s so thoughtful. Just the other night, he brought over Chinese food, because I said I had a craving for it in the morning.”
“In the morning?”
“Yes! When we woke up, I desperately wanted Kung Pao chicken, but he said breakfast was more in order in the morning.”
More sex stories. I tune out my mom’s deep tissue massage tale (seriously, did she make Gideon up or is he the greatest lover of all time?) and think about Dad. If he stays with Sandy, I don’t know what I’ll do. I don’t want our limited time together marred by her presence, but I can’t see how I can tell Dad I don’t care for her
without damaging out relationship. One way or the other, I’ll end up hurting Dad’s feelings, and he’s one man I can’t afford to lose. All the others can leave me alone right now.
“Do you like massages?”
“Excuse me?” I ask, fork full of pasta posed near my mouth. Marinara sauce drips onto the white tablecloth and spreads like red water.
“Massages. Aren’t they fantastic?” asks Kenny, teeth bared across the table. Some parsley is wedged between his front teeth and it glares at me. Once you notice a fault in someone’s appearance, it’s difficult to forget. I try to look away from the green speck only to be more drawn to it when I look back.
“I suppose,” I say. “I haven’t gotten one in a long time, professionally. My friend Kevin fancies himself a masseuse.”
“Kevin?” His voice is low, unusual for one so boisterous, and I sense danger. I forgot one of the key rules in dating: never mention the name of another person if they are the opposite sex, even if it is your gay best friend.
“He works with me. Though he’s been using his talented hands on his new boyfriend Lyle for the past few months.” Of course, there is no Lyle, but poor envious Kenny needn’t know that. Best to establish Kevin’s gayness and unavailability in the same go. It wouldn’t hurt if I mentioned he is ugly or smells bad.
“He’s gay!” Kenny practically shouts across the restaurant. He chuckles and gives me a look that says, if he were straight and single, I’d have to break a limb or two, and Kenny probably could.
“Yes,” I say in a much lower register. “He has been for quite some time.”
“You single girls all have gay friends, don’t you? It’s just like that TV show Sex and the City.”
Why must men always bring up popular female media as if we’re all part of some elite cult that subscribe to post-feminist ideals and models. Some of that stuff is fun and a bit accurate, but a lot of it’s insulting. We’re not all obsessed with sex, booze, and shoes. Okay I love shoes, but that’s not the point. Just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean I like chick-lit and Cosmo. I only do the quizzes.
“He is a good friend,” I say and focus on the food. Kenny has taken me to a large Italian restaurant, which is more expensive than it’s worth. The bread is either too crusty or spongy, and the marinara might have come from a can. The servers wander around in crisp black pants and long aprons with faux-superior facial expressions; perhaps the manager demands a haughty demeanor to accompany the derivative cuisine. I could barely read the menu for the dim “mood lighting.” Why restaurants think it’s a good idea that patrons can’t see the food makes me wonder more about what I’m eating.
“I once hired a gay man to work at my store in Duluth!” Kenny says proudly and lifts his chin. What a champ.
“How kind of you.”
“I really gave him a break. He was having such a hard time finding work.”
“How’s work going this week?” I ask, desperate to escape the conversation.
“Wonderful! I received a new shipment over the weekend and get to do inventory. I love sorting incoming merchandise. I can’t expect anyone else to do it. Not thorough enough.” He says this in a conspiratorial manner, like his employees might be at the next table listening.
“You’re acting like the saltshaker’s been bugged,” I joke, but Kenny stares in horror at the silver shaker in the middle of the table. He regains his composure and laughs, “That wouldn’t be possible! My clerks aren’t that tech savvy. Now my competitors might be…” He glances around the dining room, eyes darting, and draws other customers’ attention. One woman wipes her mouth and frowns while her husband shakes his head and the two teenagers next to us giggle and cover their smiles.
I feel ridiculous. “Why would anyone want to spy on you?” I regret this comment immediately, because Kenny spins back and launches into a bitter diatribe against the bank, who didn’t want to give him his first loan, and other antique shop owners in the Cities who covet his merchandise and try to steal his customers.
“They’re all jealous of me,” he says. “Not one of them has the connections I have in the Midwest and New England, and that’s where the most unique items come from.”
“I see.”
“There are some corsets in particular that I recently acquired that Mr. Rathbone at Modern Antiques would love to steal! I love corsets!”
“Corsets?” He acts like this is the most normal fascination in the world and says, “Yes! They’re fantastic! My ex-girlfriend used to try on the new models for me, to get an idea of how to sell them.” His ex-girlfriend modeled corsets for him? It’s not the most disgusting fetish I’ve heard of, but Kenny’s nonchalance about the subject is suspect. Why would you mention sexually charged wardrobe and an ex on a date? Especially a second date. I hardly know him and he’s throwing this weirdness at me. People usually save that stuff for later, like years later!
“That sounds interesting.” I search for the server and catch his eye. I raise my eyebrows in what I hope looks panicky, and he nods curtly before disappearing into the kitchen. I wasn’t sure about Kenny after our first date, but he seemed kind, a bit loud and abrasive but a good guy. I was willing to try a second date, but this kind of talk is so off-putting.
“I don’t have any in stock right now, but if I find something, I’ll let you know!” What does that mean? Is he insinuating that I flounce about his store in negligee while he drools and jerks off in the corner? Not my deal. I save satin and silk for myself.
“Oh! The check’s here!” The server, my new favorite person in the universe, swoops down and deposits the black checkbook in between us. I reach for it and pull it close. Damn it’s expensive! I’m glad I turned down the second glass of wine, and not just because of the cost. A second glass might have left me too slow-witted to catch Kenny’s odd behavior.
“I’ll get it!”
“Don’t even think about it,” I say and slap my credit card inside before the server can leave. I give him a grateful look, and he smirks. “You made me a terrific lunch the other day, so it’s my treat.” Kenny grins and shakes his head. He seems fine with this and makes no other attempt to dissuade me. He must be used to people buying him dinner.
“Thanks! If I knew you were paying, I’d have ordered another round and some crème brulee.” He pronounces the dessert “cream brool” and I try not to snicker, because he might think I find him charming. I fight back the correction and bite my lip, waiting for the server’s return.
When my new best friend arrives with the check I scribble in an enormous tip and grab my purse. “Well,” I say, “I had a good time, but I have to get going.”
Kenny doesn’t stand when I do but stares at me, an incredulous look on his face.
“You’re leaving already? We’ve only been here a couple hours.”
“I know, but I have a busy day tomorrow,” I lie and search for my car keys. Thank God I drove myself. Another word for you new daters out there: always bring your own car for a smooth getaway. “I’m stuck planning the Halloween excursion for my friends and I, and I still have to find a costume.” A few lies never hurt anyone.
“What are you doing on Halloween?” he asks, and I can see visions of corseted me dancing around his eyes. In your dreams Kenny.
“I have to be honest with you. I don’t think this is going to work out.” I turn to leave and decide to let my inner villain fly. “Besides, I don’t even like antiques.”
“Are you sure it’s okay with the girls if I tag along?”
“It’s perfectly fine. Lindsey adores you and Keeley’s been seeing someone. Just be sure your costume’s up to snuff, because Lindsey’s really competitive when it comes to the contest.”
I’m getting ready to meet the girls at a suburban bar called Throwbacks, which I’ve never been to. It’s about thirty minutes away from my place, but Lindsey says they’re rocking on Halloween: they have great drink specials and a huge costume contest. Justin called ten minutes ago, frantic that he had nowhere to go
, since Kevin decided to visit his brother in Chicago this weekend. I invited him along because nobody should stay home alone on a holiday, even Halloween. The girls shouldn’t mind. I’d better call them after Justin hangs up.
“You’re absolutely, positively sure?”
“For the last time, yes!”
“Okay. I’ll meet you at your place in half an hour.”
“What? Wait!” But he’s gone. I should ring him back and tell him to meet us at the bar, but I don’t have time. It’ll take me at least half an hour to get my costume on and makeup finished, and I have to call the girls and give them the male gatecrasher heads up.
“Hey Linds, it’s me.”
“Why are you calling me when you know it takes me almost two hours to get into this stupid costume?”
“You should have started prep earlier. Listen. Justin asked if he could come with us tonight and I said yes. Kevin’s in Chicago, and he has nobody else to hang out with tonight.”
She doesn’t even pause before saying, “Fine with me just let Keeley know. She was hung up on him for a while. I’ve gotta go. The pleather’s sticking to my thighs.” She hangs up and I hear the rude dial tone. That was easy. I thought she’d have a thousand questions about what he’s wearing and if he’d coordinate with us. Huh.
I dial Keeley and hope she’s in a generous mood. She hasn’t mentioned Justin for months, so I hope there’s no ill will.
“Hey, girl,” she answers after a few rings, “how’s the costume coming? I left extra tights in case you ruined a pair.”
“I haven’t even gotten started on the costume. I was just calling to ask if it’s okay if Justin comes with us tonight.”
Men of the Year Page 13