Braxton said he didn’t want her to choke on her food.
Marge sat at one side of the small table and Braxton and I were seated side by side, across from her. It was tough to argue our placement. The table was decorated with folded paper nametags. I added Marge’s perfectly scribed cursive handwriting to the things I envied about her.
She looked at Braxton. “How’s your father coming along?”
“I can’t get any more than ‘he’s stable’ out of them,” he replied. “It’s frustrating.”
Marge lowered her eyes to the table. “It’s disappointing they can’t tell you more. Hopefully, the prognosis will change soon.”
“It’s been over two weeks.” Braxton shoveled another bite in his mouth. “There’s been no improvements as far as I know. No deterioration to his health, either. I guess that’s good. It’s tough, for sure. I feel helpless.”
Braxton was on a mission to gain the 18 pounds he’d lost. From the looks of things, he was going to do it entirely on Marge’s chicken and noodles.
“I’m going to start emailing the hospital’s staff tomorrow, asking for a more thorough explanation of his father’s condition,” I interjected. “Hopefully, I’ll get someone to respond. My dad always said, ‘the squeaky wheel gets the grease.’ If I make enough commotion, hopefully someone will give a response better than ‘he’s stable.’ That’s a pretty poor answer for someone’s condition.”
“It amazes me that they haven’t come up with a medication yet,” Braxton complained. “I understand they haven’t had time to develop a cure, but it would be nice if they’d come up with something that could help out with the breathing.”
“I agree,” I chimed.
Marge reached for her glass of tea. “When I was a child, I thought chicken and noodles were as good at curing ailments as any medicine.”
“I’ve never heard that,” I said.
Shoveling noodles into his mouth at a breakneck pace, Braxton shook his head. “Me, neither.”
“It was my mother’s claim,” Marge said, seeming as if she truly believed what she was saying. “Chicken and noodles were a cure for everything. If someone was sick, she made chicken and noodles. If a neighbor fell on financial trouble, chicken and noodles was the answer. When the Zander couple down the street began talking of divorce, chicken and noodles was the cure. I was convinced she was right. Chicken and noodles could fix anything.” She glanced at Braxton. “Maybe you should take your father some chicken and noodles.”
Braxton shook his head in frustration. “When I went to the doctor this morning, I drove by there. I couldn’t get past the lobby. Hell, I was lucky to make it that far, to be honest. They’ve truly got the place locked down.”
“It’s hard to comprehend,” Marge said. She picked at her food. “A son can’t go visit his ailing father in the hospital.”
“They told Braxton if he tried to go any further than the lobby, they’d arrest him,” I said.
Marge looked up. “That’s awful.”
“It is, but I guess it’s for the better,” Braxton said. “I wouldn’t wish this disease on anyone.”
Marge glanced at Braxton and then did a double take. “Don’t make yourself sick.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re going to give yourself stomach cramps.” Grinning, she gestured toward his plate “Slow down. No one’s going to take it from you.”
“I haven’t eaten a meal like this in I don’t know how long,” Braxton admitted, mid-bite. “This is amazing.”
Marge beamed with pride. “Thank you, Braxton.”
Marge’s home was a step back in time. Golds and greens were abundant throughout the living room. The kitchen was as neat as it could possibly be. The white Formica countertops and seafoam green cabinets gave the place the feel of an era long since passed. Seeing it flooded me with childhood memories from my grandmother’s farmhouse.
“This kitchen reminds me of my grandmother’s,” I said. “Your food resembles hers, too.”
“Was your grandmother a hack in the kitchen?” Marge asked, straight-faced.
“A hack?” I laughed. “Making noodles like this isn’t the work of a hack. It takes years of experience.”
“Eggs, flour, milk, and salt,” she said. “A monkey could do it.”
“Did you hear that Braxton?” I scooped up a perfect portion of noodles and mashed potatoes. “Sounds like you could add this to your arsenal.”
“I’ll have you know I can get by in the kitchen,” Braxton said between bites. “I’ve been doing it for years.”
“You two had a little cooking lesson before you went sick, didn’t you?” Marge asked.
“We did.” Braxton replied.
“I thought that was the sweetest thing,” Marge said. “She was really looking after you, wasn’t she?”
Braxton offered a half-assed shrug. “She did pretty good.”
“Pretty good?” Marge scoffed. “From what I heard she gave you step-by-step instructions.”
“That doesn’t mean I needed them,” Braxton said.
“The fact that she offered is what matters,” Marge argued. She glanced at me and smiled. “Not many would have been so thoughtful.”
“She’s alright,” Braxton deadpanned.
“Did she tell you that she owns a car dealership?” Marge asked.
“She did,” Braxton muttered.
Marge picked up a morsel of mashed potatoes and paused. She shifted her eyes from her food to Braxton. “Quite an accomplishment, if you ask me.”
“Thank you,” I said.
It was obvious that Marge had every intention of trying to set us up. I was itching to tell her what we’d decided but refrained.
“I told her I didn’t realize people in Oklahoma knew how to drive,” Braxton said with a laugh. “I thought they still rode horses.”
“Don’t be a jerk,” Marge said jokingly.
“He’s just playing,” I said.
“He needs to be sweet,” Marge said. “Sarcasm does little to attract a woman.”
Braxton coughed out a laugh. “Who says I want to attract her?”
Having heard enough of Braxton’s nonsense, Marge lowered her fork and shot him a glare. “I’m saying you’re a fool if you don’t.”
Braxton looked me over as if considering Marge’s recommendation. He glanced at Marge. “She did a pretty good job of looking after me when I was sick.”
“She sure did,” Marge agreed.
“Did she tell you she read to me?”
“She sure did,” Marge said, alternating glances between Braxton and me as she spoke. “She sang you a lullaby or two, as well. Did she tell you that?”
Braxton scraped his plate clean with his fork. “She may have mentioned it.”
“I don’t know that she slept much in that two-week period,” Marge wiped her hands on her napkin. “She was far too concerned with your wellbeing to relax.”
Braxton looked at me, and then at her. “It sounds like she did a pretty good job.”
She scowled like one would expect a cute little old lady to scowl if she took exception to what someone said.
“She did better than pretty good,” she stated.
Braxton pushed himself away from the table. He looked at Marge. “Do you think much can be told from a kiss?”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“When a man and a woman kiss,” he explained, “do you think the result of that kiss is any indication as to whether or not they’re compatible?”
“I think a kiss tells everything,” Marge replied. “A man and a woman can be attracted to one another, but if their kiss has no chemistry, they’re doomed.”
“If there’s chemistry in a kiss, they’re destined to last forever?” Braxton asked.
“There are no assurances in life,” Marge said matter-of-factly. “Speaking from experience, I can say lasting forever requires a lot of work. Quite frankly, day in and day out, it’s a struggle.”
I
didn’t disagree with Marge’s statement, but I was surprised to hear her admit it. I gave her a surprised look. “You and Raymond had difficulties?”
“Oh, heavens yes,” she replied. “The happiest and the angriest I’ve ever been in my life was a result of something my Raymond did.”
I laughed. “Really?”
“He went to the bar to ‘have a few’ with his friends from the Army one Thursday night. The VFW had beer specials on Thursdays, back then. He didn’t come home until Monday. I was worried sick. Friday morning, I took a Taxi to the VFW. He wasn’t there. I checked the police stations, the morgue, the jails, everywhere I could think. I came up empty-handed at every turn. When I got done checking with LA County, I checked Orange County. Then, San Diego County. I had nowhere else to go, so I started working my way up north. By the time I got to Santa Barbara County, it was Monday. He came stumbling through the door, drunker than a skunk. I nearly beaned him in the head with a skillet.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t.” I gave Braxton a look, warning him of what his future held. “I probably would have.”
“I smacked him a good one, more than once,” Marge admitted. “Not with a skillet, but I popped him with a rolling pin, a hair brush a few times, and a spatula a time or two.”
“What did you do to solve the problems?” I asked. “Like with the extended trip to the VFW?”
“I identified the problem and proposed a solution,” she replied. “We didn’t have cell phones back then. Calling me meant he had to ask to use the phone in the bar, which most men saw as embarrassing. I gave him the option to either give me the courtesy of a call or stop drinking. Eventually, he stopped drinking.”
“So, it’s not always easy?” I asked.
“At times? Sure. Always?” She laughed a cute little laugh. “Sweetheart, I wish I could say yes but it would be a lie.”
“For the right man, I think I could be forgiving, understanding—” I glanced at Braxton. “And devoted.”
“The devotion is more important than anything,” she said. “Everything else falls into place if you’re devoted.”
Braxton stood. He gestured toward the noodles, which were in a big stock pot on the stove. “Do you mind?”
“Help yourself,” Marge replied. “Don’t be bashful, I was just razzing you earlier.”
“I’m never bashful when it comes to food,” Braxton said with a grin.
He fixed another heaping plate and promptly returned. He slid the plate in front of his chair and then loomed over me.
I glanced up. “What?”
He brushed his salt-and-pepper locks away from his face. “I’m curious about something.” He smirked. “Come here for a minute.”
Wondering what he was up to, I reached for his extended hand. With his assistance, I rose to my feet.
“Wondering about what?” I asked.
Just like the scene from Casablanca, he pulled me close and kissed me. It wasn’t at all what I was expecting.
In fact, the kiss rocked me to my core.
Standing on legs made of rubber, I gazed at him in complete shock. “Wow.”
His hazel eyes glistened with satisfaction. “I was going to say the same thing.”
I took a quick glance in Marge’s direction. Her hands were clasped together. She was glowing with joy.
If our little charade was a complete improv, I decided to play the part to the best of my ability. I twisted my hips back and forth in mock excitement and batted my eyes. “Can we do that again?”
Braxton kissed me in response, ever so sweetly. When our lips parted our eyes met.
“Do you want to give this a try?” I asked.
“I think so,” he replied.
I scowled. “You think so?”
As if pondering the subject, he cocked his head to the side and gazed down at the floor. Following a short pause, he looked up. “Let’s do it.”
“It’s going to be a lot of work,” I warned.
“For the right woman,” he said. “It’ll be worth it.”
Reliving the moment for Marge’s enjoyment was as satisfying the real thing.
Still looking right at Braxton, I raised my brows in false wonder. “Am I the right woman?”
“If that kiss is any indication,” he replied. “You sure are.”
“Alright,” I said with a smile. “Let’s do it.”
Marge clapped her hands. “I think this is cause for a celebration,” she said. “I have a cobbler in the oven and ice cream in the freezer.”
Braxton flashed me a grin and then looked at Marge. “I need to finish my plate of food first.”
“Well. Get to it,” Marge said, standing from her seat. Attempting to hide her ear to ear grin, she gestured toward the kitchen. “Anna, would you like to come help me with the cobbler?”
“Sure.”
I stood at her side as she prepared bowls of peach cobbler with vanilla ice cream. When she was finished, she wiped the countertop free of crumbs.
“It seems men are always slow to realize what’s in front of them,” she whispered. “Sometimes they need a little nudge. I’m just pleased my plan worked out.”
“Plan?” I asked.
She glanced over her shoulder. Braxton was cleaning his plate. She patted her hand against the stock pot of noodles.
“The chicken and noodles, Honey.” She picked up two bowls and nodded toward the third. “Like I said, they’re a cure-all.”
I had no intention of ever admitting anything to the contrary. I picked up the bowl of cobbler and smiled. “They sure are.”
Braxton
When arguing or negotiating, I had a policy. I did so in person. It was never over the phone, by text, or email. The pandemic forced me to reconsider my methods.
I was sitting at the kitchen island in front of my laptop, negotiating and arguing over the phone with Pratt.
“It’s not hard to understand if you stop talking for a minute,” I explained. “Are you willing to shut the fuck up and pay attention?”
Pratt sighed into the speaker of his phone. “I heard you, asshole. Doesn’t mean I agree with what you said.”
“In hindsight,” I said. “It’s the right thing to do. Just shift the money to the business account.”
“I understand the fifty grand for the sewing machines. I’m not arguing that,” he said. “But I’m not following you on the ventilators. Where’s that money come from?”
I’d advised Pratt that we needed to take the $100,000 in revenue from the sewing machines and purchase N95 masks from a source I’d found in Hawaii. I was then going to donate the masks to the local hospitals.
In addition, mainly because I felt like an inconsiderate prick for profiting on the pandemic, I wanted to donate 6 ventilators to the hospitals. They were going to cost another $100,000 which was coming out of our pockets.
“It comes out of your wallet,” I said. “Look at it as a donation. Doing shit like this is supposed to make people feel good.”
“That’s where I was afraid you were headed,” he muttered. “You’re giving the same $50,000?”
“Actually, I’m giving $57,420, to be exact,” I said. “In addition to my half of the sewing machine money.”
“I’ll give $49,000,” he said, “because you owe me a grand. A bet’s a bet.”
“That’ll work.”
“Good karma brings good karma,” he said. “Maybe I’ll win the lottery.”
“Maybe so,” I said in agreement. “Transfer the money. Ninety-nine k, total.”
“Take me with you when you donate this shit,” he pleaded. “Maybe some smoking hot nurse will give me some pussy in appreciation.”
“If I were you, the last person I’d be fucking right now would be a nurse,” I said. “They’re exposed to this infection all day, every day.”
“They’re not touching it with their twats,” he argued.
“They’re touching it with their hands, and then their wiping their twats after they piss, aren’t th
ey?”
“Son-of-a-bitch,” he grumbled. “I can’t win.”
“Send the money. I need to pay for this stuff before someone else buys it.”
“Will do,” he said.
“Appreciate it, Pratt.”
“Tell Annie I said hi.”
“Anna.”
“That’s what I meant.”
“I’ll let you know when this deal’s secure,” I said.
“Talk to you later.”
I hung up the phone and pushed it onto the island. “I hate talking on the phone with him. He’s impossible to argue with in person.”
Anna peered over the top of her laptop. “How many masks does $100,000 buy?”
“In the middle of this mess? They’re $5.00 each. So, it ought to buy 20,000. On this deal, I talked him into accepting a pre-pandemic price. 80 cents each. Shipping is what’s killing me.”
“Are you friends with any of the people you work with?” she asked.
I wasn’t really friends with anyone, other than Pratt.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Any of the Hollywood types? Are you on a first name basis with any of them?”
“Oh. Sure.”
“A lot of them?”
I shrugged. “On a professional level, I’d say there are quite a few. Why?”
“Do you have an Instagram account?”
I gave her a look of sheer disbelief. “Do I look like I fuck with social media?”
“Well.” She lifted her phone. “I do. And I’ve got several thousand followers on my dealership page. Get one of your Hollywood friends to donate their time or give you a signed movie poster or something or the other, and then use it to sweeten the pot with your supplier. See if he’ll throw in shipping. You can tag the person who makes the donation on my Instagram account when you give the hospital the stuff. We’ll do a fancy picture of you bumping elbows or something within the limits of the social distancing measures.”
It sounded like a hell of an idea. “I like it,” I said. “Let me see who will do what.” I nodded toward her laptop. “How’s the email campaign coming?”
“I’m just getting started.”
The Man I Hate Page 20