by Don McNair
Richard Smith stepped into the restaurant's darkened interior. An odor of greasy hot dishwater and stale beer washed over him, and he caught his breath. He squinted, trying to make out the shapes.
A dozen young men sat at the bar on his left. A lone woman was at the far end, her purse lying open next to her mixed drink. She tapped a cigarette from its pack and lit it. The lighter's brief flare-up showed it was not Betty.
Richard looked at the mostly occupied booths that hugged the contact papered wall on the right. A middle aged waitress set two hamburger baskets on the nearest one, next to a plastic mesh covered candleholder that grudgingly gave off a small circle of light for the young couple seated there. All the patrons appeared to be cut from the same mold. Young men and women, an occasional sports jacket, loud voices, here and there a toddler in a booster chair—fifteen years ago, he and Janice would have fit right in.
He walked past the booths and tables. The narrow room opened into a larger one. Betty would be in there, probably in the far dark corner. She knew discretion was important.
"Mr. Smith."
He jumped and turned to see her smiling face, framed by long brown hair. She had apparently been in the restroom near the entrance.
"God, you scared me to death."
"Sorry. I have a spot back there," she said, pointing. "It's away from the jukebox."
He followed her to the small table, watching her graceful moves. It wasn't slinking, exactly, but it was close. She sort of—well, floated across the room. Watching her as she left his office that very afternoon had prompted him to ask her to meet him tonight.
Instead of being in the dark, the table she’d selected was directly under a bright wall sconce. He sat with his back to the entryway and hunched over.
"I would have ordered for you, but I didn't know what you wanted." She sat and adjusted her skirt beneath her. "Or even if you'd be here on time. Do you drink beer?"
"Sometimes."
"I've never seen you drink before. Except coffee, of course."
She sipped her beer. Richard rubbed at a spot on the plastic tabletop. Unsuccessful at removing it, he looked up at her face. Freckles, upturned nose, a quick smile, dimples—she could have been The Girl Next Door that people talked about.
"You come here much?" he asked, looking around. The tables were almost all filled.
"I sure do. It's only two blocks from my apartment. That's why I picked it."
"Nice place." A waitress came over and took his beer order.
"Well, it's not fantastic. It's not the 21 Club or anything. But at least I can afford to eat here."
"No, I mean it, it's nice," he said quickly. "It's got character. It's not McDonald's or Burger King."
She nodded and looked up at him. He started to say something but thought better of it. He glanced around the room again, then loosened his tie. A forty year old lawyer in a pin striped suit would surely stand out in this crowd.
"Mr. Smith, why did you pick me?" she asked.
"Pardon?"
"Why did you pick me? There are a lot of girls in the office."
"Well, I—I like you. You seemed like a nice girl. I mean, you are a nice girl. And I thought you might like me, too."
"Oh, I do. You know, I suppose I should call you something besides Mr. Smith." She put her index finger to her chin. "Now, what should it be?"
"I suppose you should continue to call me Mr. Smith in the office. The powers-that-be might frown on anything else."
She laughed. "Of course I will, there. We'll act like we don't even know each other. But like right now. Should I call you Richard or Dick or what? Or how about something like Sweetie Pie or Dinky Poo?"
He frowned. "How about Richard? That's what Janice calls me. I guess you could call me Richard. But not in the office, of course."
“I was just kidding with that last part." She looked at him, and he gazed down at his beer. Someone played the jukebox, and it added its noise to the increasingly uncomfortable din. He swigged again and looked at his watch. Seven thirty. Janice and little Matt were probably flying over Colorado by now, or one of those other square states, on their way to Los Angeles. A week with her parents would do her good, but batching it would be a pain for him. He hated TV dinners.
"Food," he said suddenly. "Want to eat here, or someplace else?"
"How about my apartment? We're going to wind up there, anyhow. We could pick something up at Bruno's on the way. You pop for the steaks, and I'll cook them."
"Well—okay."
"And be sure to get some—protection. I believe in safety, don't you?"
"Safety? Oh—oh, sure." Safety was important, because he didn't want to take AIDS back to Janice. How would it be, giving Janice AIDS the first time he ever stepped out on her? He shuddered.
"Boy, this is going to be exciting! How often you think we can meet? Every week? You could act like you joined a bowling team or something."
"We'll just have to see how it works out," he said.
"Barbara Maxwell says Mr. Connors told his wife he joined a bowling league, and she's never suspected. Of course, he's got to leave the house every Thursday night now, whether they have a date or not."
Richard Smith toyed with his beer glass. Jim Connors was seeing Barbara Maxwell? He was a senior partner in the firm, for heaven's sake.
"Once, when he went out of town he took her along," she said. "They work in different departments, so no one put two and two together."
Richard finished his beer. He wiped his mouth with the paper napkin and pushed his chair back. "I'm off to the restroom," he said.
"Why don't you order us another beer while you're up there? It's too early to eat."
He stood and weaved his way among the young bodies. He recognized no one and prayed no one recognized him. The girl at the bar smiled as he passed, but he didn't return the greeting.
He walked right past the restrooms and out the front door. Bright sunlight blinded him. He shielded his eyes as he stepped onto the sidewalk, turned right, and walked toward his car.
Janice would realize before long that he had left. Maybe he should have told her he was going. But how? She probably wouldn't even mention it the next day, after she'd had time to think things over. No, he was dreaming there. Their office relationship would be pretty strained for a while.
He thought of his wife. Did she miss him? He sure missed her. Much more than he ever thought he would.
And then he wondered if Janice could keep her mouth shut.
The Merit Badge
If Don had earned that merit badge fifty years ago,
his life would probably have turned out a whole lot different.