The Cost of Lunch, Etc.: Short Stories

by Marge Piercy

  “You don’t drink. AA?”

  “It’s poison,” he said. “I don’t willingly pollute myself. We take in enough every time we breathe.”

  “Too true.” She smiled. It felt as if they were the only two staid and sensible people in the room as the evening got rowdier. The press had come and gone before the party got going.

  They stood together watching the room. He cleared his throat. “I’ve had enough celebrating … Want to get a coffee? The fumes are getting to me.”

  “The coffee shop on the corner stays open till ten.”

  Quietly they slipped out into the mild September evening. Brian was a quiet sort, thin and trim with a bit of brown beard a shade lighter than his head hair, neatly trimmed. Everything about him was well kept—not fancy but clean, tidy. She liked that in a man. He wore button-down shirts and neat jeans. She knew he had some kind of job, so she asked them about it as they brought their cups to the table. He was drinking herb tea, she noticed. She had ordered decaf, in deference to the late hour she would get to bed this night.

  “I’m a systems analyst.”

  She drew a blank. “What kind of systems?”

  “I work with programming languages.”

  She guessed he didn’t mean English or French. She had no idea what a computer language actually was, so she asked him. He explained. He explained some more. After a while she was only noticing his mouth was rather nicely full and his eyes were a sparkly blue behind his glasses and his fingers were long and shapely.

  “You’re a nurse practitioner.” It was not a question.

  She was startled that he had bothered to find out. Was something happening? She couldn’t remember the last time she had been on a date. “Yes. I work in women’s health.”

  “So how is that different from a regular nurse?”

  “A couple of college degrees different.” She paused, never certain how much to explain. “I’m one step down from a ‘real’ doctor. I like it. We can get closer to patients and we’re into prevention as much as cure.”

  That seemed to satisfy him. “I never understood how people like doctors and nurses who work with sick people keep from catching all those diseases.”

  “We wash our hands a lot.” She smiled and he changed the subject.

  During the next month, they had coffee, pizza together. Between her job and the campaign, she had little time to think about Brian, but she was comfortable with him. Obviously he was interested in her, but in no hurry to push things. She liked that. That was how things poked along until Robin lost the election to a vastly better funded campaign that flooded TV with ads depicting her as a someone who would raise taxes on everything in sight and turn the Commonwealth socialist.

  For two weeks she did not see him, a bit depressed in the wake of a campaign into which she had put so much of herself. Then he called, asking her out for supper at an Indian restaurant. It was a low-key evening but pleasant. For the first time, he kissed her. She apologized for not asking him in, but she had a seminar early Saturday morning on new HIV medications and combinations.

  The next weekend they spent the night together. He was an efficient lover, for someone had taught him to find the clitoris and use it. He was not passionate, but careful, considerate, patient. She was pleased. She’d had enough in her adolescence of men ramming themselves into her and banging away. She appreciated a man who thought of her pleasure as well as his own.

  Sunday morning they rose late. She always had the Sunday Times delivered, but she would forgo it this morning for his company. She liked the way he looked tousled from bed, wearing her blue terry bathrobe after their mutual shower. I could get attached to him, she thought as she prepared French press coffee.

  “None for me. I don’t use stimulants.”

  She said mildly, “I doubt I could get through a day of patients without it. Medical personnel drink tons of coffee. It keeps us alert, and we have to be.”

  “I rely on meditation. I clear out the detritus from my mind, the same way I cleanse my colon.”

  She was not sure she wanted to know a great deal about his colon; in fact she was sure she did not. “Bacon and eggs? Or we could run out and get some croissants from the bakery in Davis Square.”

  “As a nurse, you should know that disease comes from impurities in the diet. I don’t put anything you mentioned into my body. I avoid sugar, salt, animal fats and animal proteins of any kind. I’ll take some tofu and rice milk.”

  “I don’t have any …”

  “I’ll bring some next time I sleep over. I’ll bring enough for you.” He looked at her carefully. “I see your eyes are a bit bloodshot. Too much stimulant. You have to cut back.”

  He rose, took her coffee cup and spilled her lovely French roast into the sink. She sat with her mouth slightly open in shock.

  He beamed at her. “You need to be far more aware what you consume. I also recommend a juice fast every two weeks. I’m surprised you aren’t more careful and it makes me wonder what kind of prevention you recommend to your patients. I can help you.” He took her hand. “And I want to. You’re basically a good person, but you have bad habits.”

  “Well, if you won’t eat anything I have, I hope you won’t mind if I …” she was about to say ‘fry’ but thought better, “poach myself a couple of eggs.”

  “Please don’t. As a vegan, I grow ill if I have to inhale the scent of animal protein.”

  She wanted to ask how he had endured the pizza parlor, then, or the campaign office where half the volunteers were chowing down on hamburgers or sandwiches. “What would you like to do this morning?”

  “I brought my running shoes. Why don’t we go to Fresh Pond Reservoir?”

  She poured herself a bowl of cereal. He picked up the cereal box and began reading out the ingredients. She interrupted the recital. “I don’t think I’m up for a run this morning. I may be coming down with a cold.” And if I’m near the reservoir, I might not be able to resist pushing you in. She ignored his lecture on the herbs she should be imbibing as she headed for the bathroom. Maybe when she came out, he would be gone. Permanently.

  Mid Oughts

  Jessie met Aidan at one of those flash dating lunches where she sat at a table and a bevy of men passed through one at a time for two minutes each. Her impression of him, fleeting certainly, was that Aidan was unusually polite and put together. He was one of only two of the prospective dates she filled out a card saying she’d see again. The other one never called.

  Jessie had worked at a battered women’s shelter until she burned out. She could not even contemplate associating intimately with a man for a couple of years afterward, when she had gone back to school and gotten a Masters in social work. In her job for an agency that handled foster children, she worked in an office full of women of all ages and races. When she finally decided it was time to look for male companionship, she had no idea where to start till one of the married women in the office recommended this online site where she could sign up. It sounded benign enough, just two minutes with a guy and no dangerous contact or information given. She had to eat lunch anyhow.

  Aiden and she met for their first date in a restaurant in midtown mostly popular with younger and more affluent customers. He was already waiting when she arrived, nicely got up in a navy blazer and neat khakis, a shirt checked in pale blue. He had short blond hair she remembered and attractive glasses. Behind them his eyes were hazel with rather long lashes for a man. His hands gripping the menu looked manicured. She felt conscious of her own that were not. She couldn’t remember ever having her nails done, although some of the younger women in her office sported multicolored talons.

  He ordered a steak; she ordered a Cobb salad that almost fit into her budget. They each had a glass of wine, making small talk about the weather, the Yankees, although she herself preferred that underdog perennially heartbreaking team, the Mets. They exchanged information on their families. Both of them came from similar backgrounds, she was pleased to note: she had be
en born in Jersey, in East Orange. He was from Hicksville on Long Island. They had both intended from early adolescence to move into the city. Her father was an insurance salesman, not a very successful one. Her mother, when she and her brother were old enough, worked as a receptionist in a doctor’s office. His father had a shoe store that went broke and his mother was a nurse in pediatrics. He had one sister; she had one brother, both younger than themselves. She began to feel this might go somewhere.

  She explained her job. He commented, “Can’t be much money in that.”

  “A lot more than where I worked before, in a battered women’s shelter.”

  Silence.

  “What do you do?”

  He was in derivatives. The more he explained, the less she understood. Finally she decided to change the subject. “How do you see yourself say in five years? Your goals …” It felt a bit formal, as if she were interviewing him for a job.

  He liked that question. “I want to move up at Stepler and Coakes. I drive a BMW but I want something … finer. A Lamborghini really says success. I’ve bought a condo in the Back Bay, but I want a water view, not the alley behind.” It was as if he had lit up from within. His face was suddenly animated. He removed his glasses and his eyes shone. “I’d like a house in the Caribbean to take a winter vacation where it’s warm. I rent a place for two weeks in January, but it’s pretty primitive—just three rooms half a mile from the beach in Santa Lucia, although it does come with maid service. But you can’t leave anything lying around, of course … A wife, I guess.” He nodded at her. “Kids, eventually. But the main thing is to move up and get the lifestyle. I’ve been accepted into a couple of useful clubs, but until I do better, I can’t move up there either. If I’d gone to Harvard … I did go to Harvard Business School, of course, but I don’t have the connections those dudes who came up through prep schools and then Harvard have to ease their way …”

  Jessie slept alone that night, as always. She decided that two minutes was not nearly enough to get a fix on someone.

  Recently

  “But I thought girls were into vampires.”

  “My wife was a real bitch. She kept trying to pussywhip me and tie an apron around my balls.”

  “Those girls who walk around in low cut tops and short skirts are just asking for it.”

  “I bet Hillary has fat thighs and stretch marks.”

  “So I got fired just for watching porn at the office.”

  “Why don’t you sext me some hot photos of you touching yourself?”

  “But we’re separated and I’ll be getting a divorce any day now.”

  “I’m into Scientology … The Fundamentalist Church of Utter Humiliation for Women … The Flat Earth Society … New Creationism … The Tea Party … The Illuminati … The KKK … etc.” The list keeps growing as does stupidity.

  Any Old Time

  When Rachel met Seth, he invited her over for supper. He cooked a delicious chicken cacciatore, put on an apron and washed the dishes afterward. He was considerate and knowledgeable in bed. He consulted her before making mutual dates or appointments. When she spoke, he actually listened. His politics were fine.

  Of course after they moved in together, she learned that chicken cacciatore was one of the only three dishes he knew how to cook, but to this day, he puts on an apron and does the dishes. He still listens when she speaks. She is happy she met him.

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