The Two-Plate Solution

by Jeff Oliver

  “I write.”

  “Well, maybe you could help me express myself like that—with a little wordplay razzle dazzle.”

  “You want me to write you a poem for Clora?”

  “Hell no. This ain’t no Cyrano DeBergerac,” said Cowboy, impressing himself with the reference. “Naw, just instruct me on how to do it.” Ramin looked skeptical, so Cowboy got real. “I need your help, man. Didn’t nobody help you with getting Tanya?”

  Ramin thought about Ruti’s pep talk, and he had to admit it had given him great strength and confidence. Ramin took a deep breath. He thought about all that he still longed to share with Tanya. He felt a glimmer of inspiration. “Start simply,” Ramin said. “What is it about her that inspires you, specifically?”

  “Dumb question,” said Cowboy. “Have you seen her in a bikini?”

  “You admire her body,” Ramin found himself saying. “That’s a start. What else?”

  “Well, I guess, I can see my future with her body. Like anything’s possible with her body. And I can make my dreams happen… with her body.”

  Less eloquently put, but it was precisely how Tanya made Ramin feel, if he was honest.

  With Tanya, he would become the great poet he longed to be—universally admired and generously compensated. He could see her in the audience watching him receive his first award. He could see her on his arm at cocktail receptions, maybe being interviewed about his talents by gossip magazines. She would gush.

  It was then that Ramin understood a universal truth about love, at least from the male perspective: Love is about finding the person with whom your dreams seem possible. A woman’s affection, a woman’s loyalty, and yes, a woman’s body will inspire you to the greatest heights you can achieve in this short lifetime.

  And it’s not all selfish. Surely the world will also benefit from the fullness of that future. For Ramin, the globally-loved poet. For Cowboy, well, he could hardly imagine. And that is why people react so violently to love lost; why many take their own lives: Their lives have already been taken from them—that brilliant future-them has been murdered in cold blood. Sure, there are other lovers out there who might spark a vision, but none who can fulfill the dream that they are absolutely certain is their destiny.

  “Write that,” Ramin instructed Cowboy. “If it is the truth. About her body. And why it inspires love in your heart.”

  “I do love her, man,” Cowboy said, desperation in his eyes. “She makes me a better man. A better chef. And no one makes me harder for longer.”

  “Refocus,” Ramin cut in. “Stick with the feeling. Poetry is about metaphor. If you like her body, have it represent something beautiful in nature. Like the mountains of Quijiqua.”

  “Whoa! I ain’t getting into all that Arab nonsense,” said Cowboy. “How about a saddle?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Like a soft leather saddle on a steed—on a dewy morning—ready to ride that baby into the hills, you know?”

  “You would have to tread very carefully with that one.”

  “I got this,” Cowboy said. He hugged Ramin, close and long, shocking the poet. “Thank you, man! Thank you so very much!” Cowboy was about to stand up, but turned to Ramin again, his leathered fist scrunching Ramin’s shirt: “If you tell anybody about this, I will string you up. Understand?”

  “I do,” said Ramin.

  A big smile spread over Cowboy’s face. He was manic. “Let’s hope that’s exactly what Clora says!”

  And as Cowboy stood up and sauntered off, clicking his heels in joy, Ramin spoke his first words ever in Yiddish: “Oy gavalt,” he said.

  Tanya, he supposed, would be delighted.

  Even potentially career-ending blackmail could not get in the way of Genevieve Jennings’ morning beauty protocol. She bathed luxuriously in Ahava sea salt, deep conditioned her hair, and took an hour to pick out just the right silk blouse and tight black pants to center her outfit. Her lipstick was MAC’s “Mellow Rage Red,” and her eyes were shaded a fierce emerald. The sea air had done wonders for her skin.

  She looked like dynamite. Unconquerable, just as she had been in college, as Vice-President of her Sigma Tau Epsilon chapter. Even after that dumb bitch leaked an email where she berated a sorority sister for not fucking enough Delta Phi dudes and it went viral (a well-written email that was totally on point but derided because everyone was jealous of her), Genevieve was still a Big Woman On Campus. All she needed was a quick minute to get herself together mentally and the world was hers. (FYI, that chick who leaked the email was now working the Avis rental counter somewhere in San Jose). She could do this. She could do anything.

  “Genevieve Mutherfucking Jennings,” she said to the mirror. And she liked the way her voice sounded. Authoritative. Sharp.

  The drive over to Eilat’s Central Bank was silent. Sara and Al-Asari were on edge, scanning for police, but Jennings was completely at ease. She looked out the window at the sleepy streets of downtown Eilat and smiled. Quaint little town. Adorable. Even the dirty stray dogs and fat old men pushing falafel carts down the block were charming, and… holy shit! Is that an Anthropologie outlet in that mini-mall? She’d have to come back.

  Yes, everything was going Jennings’ way again. She would just get the money, erase the incriminating sexts between her and her boss, and get back on track for that promotion. In an hour, everything would be roses.

  When they arrived in front of the bank, Jennings was almost giddy to get this party started. “That’s it? No pep talk?” she said to Al-Asari. “No, ‘If you alert the police, I’ll kill your family?’ I expected more from you.”

  “Only in the movies, my dear,” Al-Asari said.

  “Oh come on. At least give it a try. I want a speech.”

  Al-Asari sighed, turning back in his seat. “From the moment I laid eyes on you, Genevieve Jennings, I knew you had a lion’s heart,” he said. “Queen of the jungle. Everything is your prey. Now go inside that bank, fierce lion, flash your deadly claws, and get that money.”

  Jennings had to hand it to him. “That’ll do,” she said and exited the car. Winking at the two security guards posted at the front door, she breezed into the bank.

  The place was bland even by Israeli standards—ugly Formica flooring, unflattering florescent lights, pens chained to tabletops. Reminded her of the DMV in Queens that she’d had the misfortune of visiting when she first moved to New York.

  Behind plexi-glass, bored-looking tellers handed out wads of shekels and stamped documents. Stamps! Was this the 70s? This will be a cinch, she thought. Jennings waited behind a mother of three whose youngest child kept whining and yanking the corny velvet rope.

  “Sheket,” the mother snapped at her child.

  Jennings got down on her knees and opened her purse. “Lollipop?” she said. “It’s from America.”

  The boy smiled and took the candy. The mother smiled too, “Bevakasha.”

  I’m an amazing person, thought Jennings.

  In a moment, it was her turn. She approached the teller. “I’d like to make a withdrawal,” she heard herself say, and she liked the timbre in her voice. “It’s production funds for an American television production that I oversee.” She handed the man her passport, along with a bank form showing the account number and the amount of funds currently in the account.

  He yawned as he scanned it all. “Two million, six hundred thousand, and four shekels?” the teller said.

  “Yes, but I’ll take only half,” said Jennings. “Let’s keep that nice extra pad in the bank for a while, shall we? Want to accrue that interest.”

  “So one million, three hundred thousand, and two shekels,” the teller said, unimpressed. “In what denomination would you like it?”

  “Oh, gee, hadn’t thought of that,” said Jennings. “Um, hundreds?”

  “Ms. Jennings, may I have a word?” a man’s voice said from behind her.

  Jennings momentarily lost her breath. She turned to see a short, smiling man with a
horrible comb-over.

  JENNINGS (INT.): “He was like Danny DeVito in Twins, but Israeli and without the hot brother. *Did I just date myself with that reference? Cut that or you’re fired…” (*trimmed in post).

  “I didn’t mean to startle you,” the man said. He had laugh lines across his plump face. “My name is Shlomie Shavit. I am the manager here. If you could come with me for a brief moment, please, I can get all this sorted out.”

  “But what about my withdrawal?” Jennings said, half turning to the teller.

  “Yes, I will handle,” the smiling Manager said.

  Jennings looked around for Security—they didn’t budge. No drama. No one seemed to suspect that a terrorist was parked just outside the bank waiting for her. But the delay was awkward. The teller shrugged and called for the next in line.

  “Please,” said the Manager, who wore a burgundy blazer.

  They walked to the back of the bank and into a small, bright office with soft chairs and a bowl of hard candy on the desk. On the walls were diplomas and certificates written in Hebrew and English. There was also an elaborately framed photograph of the Manager arm-in-arm with a curvy and beautiful blonde woman, easily a foot taller than him. She wore a baking apron and held a tray of something that looked like vanilla brownies. In the photo, the Manager looked so happy, you’d have thought he’d won the lottery, and she was the prize.

  Jennings took a seat. The Manager sat across from her. He said nothing. Just put on some reading glasses, eyed his computer screen, and nodded. He glanced at Jennings, then looked back at the computer screen, and sighed. Jennings knew this game. She’d been interviewed dozens of times for various big jobs with far more at stake than this. The first fifteen seconds are key. You need to set the tone, find common ground. People who get right down to business never get what they want, and she sensed that if she got right down to business, she wouldn’t get the money.

  “Your wife is a baker?” Jennings asked, motioning towards the photograph.

  Her gamble was right—Shavit’s face lit up, laugh lines reappearing around his eyes. “My Ruchama!” he said. “She is gifted with all baking. It doesn’t help my waistline, but when she asks me to taste, how can I refuse?”

  “Happy wife, happy life,” Jennings said.

  The banker grinned mischievously and opened his desk drawer. “You must try,” he said.

  He pulled out a small paper plate with a single square of pastry. “No one makes better. She is known as the Halva Queen among our friends, and has even sold some to local bakeries. Go ahead, taste.”

  “I couldn’t take your only piece,” said Jennings.

  “I have gobbled six just today.” The Manager laughed.

  Jennings was on a strict no-carb diet, so she intended to take just a nibble, but when the melt of honey cashews hit her mouth, the flavors made her gasp, and she quickly wolfed down the rest.

  “Are you kidding me with those flavors?” Jennings said, crumbs falling on her blouse. “How are you not morbidly obese? I’d do nothing else all day but consume this.”

  “That is great problem with my life. My wife? She caresses me with velvet, then prods me with a stick. Insists that I jog, then shows up with baked goods that could part the Red Sea.”

  “Rich man’s problem.”

  “Yes.” The Manager chuckled, delighted. He turned his attention back to his computer screen. “And it seems as though you have a rich woman’s problem, Ms. Jennings.”

  “Please call me Genevieve,” Jennings smiled. “After that pastry, we’re on a first-name basis.”

  “Well, Genevieve, I see that you make a living in television, so you work in narratives. Maybe explain this narrative for me. A lovely woman walks into a bank from a foreign country and requests the withdrawal of a large sum of cash on short notice. This has red flags all over it.”

  “I was informed that it was all arranged well in advance,” said Jennings.

  “It was. Sort of. You were to arrive with a co-signee,” Shavit said.

  “Warren Lopez?” said Jennings. “Oh, he’s sick. Bad hummus.”

  “Shame,” the Manager said. “So tell me, if not with Mr. Lopez, how did you arrive today?”

  “I was driven,” said Jennings.

  The Manager tilted his computer screen—there was a live feed of Sara’s car parked in the security cam, Al-Asari in full view.

  “This is your ride?” he said.

  “My producers,” Jennings said. “That’s Sara Sinek, and that’s…”

  “Why did they not come in with you?”

  “Parking,” said Jennings. “I told them to wait since this should only take a moment.”

  “Well, I am sorry, Ms. Jennings… Genevieve. I am afraid there will be some waiting time. I am not permitted to release the funds today. Even if Mr. Lopez were here, it would take several days to process.”

  “But your bank assured us it would be okay if we faxed you his signature. Did you not receive the fax?”

  “Yes, I received it. And a call, too. Unusual that an American television producer named Lopez would have an Arabic accent.”

  “He’s an odd guy,” said Jennings.

  “A five-day waiting period is policy under such circumstances. Apologies, but my hands are tied in this matter,” the Manager said. He folded his fingers over his stomach, leaned back in his chair, and shrugged.

  Jennings had been in this situation before too. And while to others it would have been the end of the road, she had been on the receiving end of many no’s in her life and knew them to be only a gateway to yes. “I completely understand,” smiled Jennings. “It’s irregular. You have your rules to follow. You simply cannot do it.”

  “Thank you for understanding,” said the Manager. “When you come back next week with Mr. Lopez, I will bring even more halva.”

  “The withdrawal is a bit suspect,” Jennings cut in. “And if a problem arose in the future, it would come down on your head. Smart move to be cautious.”

  “So we are agreed,” he said, buoyant. “Perhaps I can speed it up to three days if we keep in touch.” The Manager made a move to stand up.

  “Such a shame, though,” Jennings said, licking her fingers of halva crumbs. “I mean, what with your wife’s delicious baking. We are looking for a local judge to use in our filming today. Someone of your wife’s talent would have been perfect for the show. She could probably teach our chefs a thing or two. But with production shut down due to lack of funds, I’m afraid this opportunity would have to pass her by. Do you think she’ll be disappointed?”

  The Manager blanched.

  “Ah, she probably doesn’t want to be on TV anyway,” Jennings said with a chuckle.

  The Manager emitted a chuckle too, but his was nervous and tight. “Well, she wouldn’t rule it out…”

  “Then what a real shame. Our Nervous Bakedown challenge today features halva, and that will have to be thrown out the window.”

  “But halva is her best dish!” the Manager said, exasperated. Sweat beaded on his forehead. “You have just tasted it. She is known to all our neighbors.”

  “Such a shame,” said Jennings, thinking hard. “She would have really gotten along with Philippe, I can tell.”

  “Philippe… Do you mean Philippe Duval?” The Manager was incredulous. “He is here in Eilat? My Ruchama would sit with Philippe Duval?”

  “Well, not anymore,” said Jennings. She got up from her chair. “Anyway, thanks so much for your help, Mr. Shavit. Need to let the crew know we’re on hiatus. And good luck to your wife. Hard for someone to make it these days without TV exposure, but she’s got the talent, so I’m certain that everything will work out for the both of you.”

  “Wait!” The banker nearly leapt over his desk. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with a small, folded handkerchief. “Perhaps I can speak to my Regional Manager. There is such a thing as emergency funds, you see, and if I personally oversee it, I would just have to bring the funds to the set and have Mr. L
opez co-sign before the money is released. You say that my wife would shoot with Philippe Duvall today?”

  “In just a few short hours,” said Jennings. “Do you really think she’ll go for it?”

  JENNINGS (INT.) (winks to camera): “Gruesome, isn’t it?”

  Out in front of the bank, Sara and Al-Asari sat listening to police radio for any sign that things had gone awry. The two guards at the door hadn’t moved in minutes, even to adjust their walkies, so that was a good sign.

  “This is taking longer than it should,” Al-Asari said.

  “Patience,” Sara said, “She just got in there.”

  Sara’s cellphone rang—the main office from the resort. “Yup?”

  “Turn on the news,” said Ruti. “Do it now.”

  Sara flipped the dial from police radio to local news and heard the following report: “…Police evidence suggests that the terrorist attack perpetrated last week in Haifa was the work of Hezbollah and not Mal-Malaika as previously reported. Hezbollah has taken full responsibility for the attack, and several suspects are in police custody. Mal-Malaika are no longer connected to the bombing but still wanted for questioning.”

  Sara pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offerred it to Al-Asari. Al-Asari plucked out a cigarette but just held it in his hands. Sara thought he might cry from relief.

  “You’re supposed to smile,” Sara said. “You can go home now. You and your men are free.”

  “Free?” Al-Asari frowned. He snapped out of his daze and placed the cigarette in his mouth. “Ten years gone from military service and you have become naïve?”

  “But they just said…”

  “That we are wanted for questioning. Do you not recall what that means?” said Al-Asari. “They will have us in cells for months, and force us to confess to who knows what other crimes to keep us longer. We are still marked men.”

  “They can’t do that now,” Sara said. “It’s public record that you are innocent.”

  “We are criminals by virtue of being Arabs,” Al-Asari said. “Even if we are not in jail, our rights will be further infringed. We will be subjected to a curfew, and barred from travel. How can we support our families without crossing the border to work? No, there is no going back. Not ever. We must go on with the plan. Or we must die.”