The maid takes Rachael’s coat and ushers us inside while Rachael leans in and whispers in surprised delight, “So fancy.” Fancy indeed, like the streets paved in gold to the gates of hell.
“Jason my dear, you didn’t tell me you were bringing a guest,” announces my mother as she walks in to greet us. I’m smiling, which I can see throws my mother off. “Mother, I’d like you to meet Rachael. Rachael, my mother.”
Rachael steps forward as eager as a girl scout and grabs my mother’s hands and says, “It’s so good to finally meet you!”
My mother pulls her in, kisses both sides of her cheeks as if we’re from Europe and replies, “Likewise my dear, I am delighted.” She sends a quick little glance my way and I start to reconsider the wisdom of my plan.
“Come, we’ll have a drink in the front room before dinner. Julie, please prepare an extra plate for Miss Rachael.”
“Your house is amazing Mrs. Davis.”
“Thank you dear and please, call me Robin. What would you like to drink? Jason, I assume you will have your usual vodka martini?”
Rachael looks at me and says, “Your usual? I’ve never seen you drink one of those.”
“I only drink them here.”
“He used to be fascinated by James Bond as a child,” my mother adds. “Loved all the gadgets, the way he said his name and of course his drink of choice. Too bad he never picked up Bond’s sense of style.”
They giggle at her little joke and I smile wanly. I sense an alliance forming between them. Tonight will indeed be miserable, for me. A glint in my mother’s eye reinforces the fact that she is too smart and too devious for me to manipulate. I should’ve known better than to try to outsmart her. My plan is going to back-fire. I can only hope the result isn’t disastrous.
“Rachael,” I say. “Tell her what you want to drink.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Let’s see. I’ll have a Gin and Tonic, thank you.”
“Coming right up,” my mother says as she walks over to the wet bar.
Rachael leans in and says quietly, “Your mom is so nice. I can’t believe how young she looks! She looks more like she should be your sister than your mother.”
“Well, when you make deals with the devil you don’t come away empty-handed.”
“Jason!”
My mother returns with a tray carrying our drinks. “My son, who can be very inconsiderate, hasn’t told me a thing about you.”
Rachael looks at me a little askance and says, “Really? Well I work for a marketing firm in the NBC building next to the mall. I grew up in Vermont—”
“Oh! We have family in Vermont. It’s such a gorgeous state. I’m sorry dear, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Rachael smiles and her expression of concealed amusement makes me see her in a new light. She grabs my hand and holds it comfortably and naturally and says, “That’s okay. Yes, it is very beautiful but it doesn’t compare to the weather out here.”
My mother nods and dives into her interrogation, “Marketing you say? Tell me all about it.”
***
“That was so delicious! I can’t believe I’ve never had duck before. It won’t be the last either. Thank you so much again for dinner Robin.”
“It was my pleasure dear. I look forward to many more with you. Now, for dessert we have tiramisu, chocolate ganache cake, or blueberry financier with corn bread streusel.”
Rachael waves her hand and says, “My lord, that all sounds delightful but I am way too full.”
“What about you Jason, care for some lovely dessert?”
Normally, dessert is mandatory. Even if I don’t eat it, it is served and I am never questioned as to whether I want it or not. The whole evening has been one of twists and turns. Nothing has gone as expected or as it normally would. My mother has been exceedingly pleasant and warm. Her scathing wit was nowhere to be seen. She told embarrassing stories about my childhood, but nothing deserving more than a slight cringe. And the scariest part is that she really seemed genuine. My stomach is twisted with knots of anxiety.
“No thank you,” I reply weakly.
“Jason honey, you’ve been so quiet all evening. Are you feeling well?” asks Rachael.
“Yeah, I’m just a little tired. I opened today and I open tomorrow.”
“My poor little baby, I don’t know how you do it. What time do you have to get up then?” asks my mother.
“3:30 in the morning.”
“Oh my, that is brutal.”
“Isn’t it? I don’t know how he does it either. I don’t think I could.”
All this loving attention is making my stomach churn even more. “Yeah, it’s crazy, but whatever. Have to make a living somehow.”
“Well, whenever you want to stop being a stubborn fool our deal still stands,” my mother replies.
“What deal?” asks Rachael.
“It’s nothing. Look, we better hit the road mother.”
Completely ignoring me my mother says, “Any school he wants to go to, I’ll pay for it and a nice apartment. On the condition that once he’s finished he’ll work for the insurance company for at least a year. A pretty good deal if you ask me.”
Rachael has a look of astonishment on her face and says, “Wow. Jason, that is such a good deal.”
“Yeah, well, not to me.”
My mother sighs and says, “I just don’t understand why—”
“You do know why! I’ve told you over and over mother; I don’t want anything to do with Dad’s company. Rachael, are you ready? Thank you for a lovely dinner mother. I have to get up really early, so if you’ll excuse us, we have to go now.”
The air feels like I’ve sucked all the fun out and filled it with awkward petulance. My ears are burning as I head out of the dining room. I can hear Rachael and my mother hurrying their goodbye’s as I get to the door. Julie hands Rachael her coat and I usher her out before she has the chance to put it on.
“Jason. Are you okay? What happened back there?” she asks as she tries to keep pace with me as we head to her car.
“It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”
She grabs my arm and forces me to stop, looks into my face and says, “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but I’m here for you if you need to.”
The look in her eyes is pleading me to accept her help. I don’t want it and I don’t want any more questions so I reply, “Look, my dad passed away. I don’t want to be reminded of it for the rest of my life by working at his company. If you don’t mind, I’d rather not talk about it.”
“Oh Jason, I’m sorry.”
“No,” I say. “I’m the one who is sorry. I honestly didn’t expect the evening to go so well and I ruined it at the end.”
Stepping in closer, she says with a glint in her eye, “Evening’s not over yet.”
A Shit Barcode
Jackhammers beat my alarm clock to waking me up this morning, again. Rachael sits up in bed next to me, her hair in wild disarray, confusion and anger stamped on her face. The light of the early morning illuminates my small studio and Rachael’s pretty figure beneath my sheets. Rolling over, I engulf her in my arms and pull her in for a lazy snuggle. The sound of the Jackhammers continues to reverberate through my walls. A small moment passes before Rachael squirms away and stands up next to the bed. Her nude form is pleasant to look at first thing in the morning.
“Why are you smiling? Isn’t that racket bothering you?” she asks imperiously with her hands on her naked hips.
Continuing to smile, I reply, “Those jackhammers have been waking me up every day for almost a month now. I’m kind of used to them. But what’s making me smile, is that I’m wondering who is enjoying the view more: me or the old men at their windows in the Sarah Francis Hometel across the street.”
She blanches and darts back into the bed, under the sheets. “Jeez Louise! Do you think anyone saw me?”
Laughing, I answer, “I can’t be sure, but I do know a few of them sit at their win
dows all day with binoculars.”
“Stop it!”
“I’m serious, that’s why I don’t walk around naked.”
“Then why don’t you close your blinds for crying out loud?”
I shrug while stretching away the stiffness of sleep and yawn. Catching the contagion, she yawns as well before saying, “I’m tired still, didn’t sleep well last night.”
“Mattress too lumpy?”
“No, I just haven’t been sleeping very well lately. I keep having these coughing fits. I’m surprised I didn’t wake you.”
“I sleep like the dead.”
“I’ll say,” she says smiling. “Well, I’m going to get in the shower. Care to join me?”
“I would love to,” I reply. “But I need to get a load of laundry started before work and I was thinking about making breakfast. How does French toast sound?”
Trailing a finger through the hair on my chest she looks up and says, “Not as good as a shower, but good enough as long as there’s bacon.”
“I’ll grab some at the store.”
In a quick burst of movement she springs from the bed, wrapping herself in the top-sheet before grabbing her duffle-bag next to the nightstand. “Okay, so I’ll take a quick shower and since you’re going to the store, that’ll give me enough time to blow-dry and straighten my hair.”
“You’re hair’s curly?” I ask, not quite believing it.
She smiles at me and says, “No silly, but it’s definitely poofy. Straightening it makes it lay nice and flat.” I watch her skip to the bathroom, duffle-bag in hand. This is the first time a girl has stayed over at my place and brought clothes for the next day. A small wave of guilt washes over me. The Flower Girl swims through my thoughts. I force the image of her with the man from the crosswalk into the forefront of my mind and shake away my guilt. But the image of her face still lurks in the corners of my mind.
***
After getting dressed and starting my laundry I head out to pick up the bacon. Locking my door, I’m not surprised to see Adam doing the same thing. “Hey there Adam.”
“Jason,” he says. “Ready to tackle the day?”
“Pretty much, those damn jackhammers are still getting me up bright and early.”
Walking down the stairs with him to the outside, he replies, “Yes, I can hear them faintly once I wake up.”
“Yeah, well they aren’t so faint for me, being right underneath my window.”
I pull out my lighter and a cigarette while Adam lights his own clove cigarette. “Well, at least they don’t run them too long,” he says looking over to the gaping hole in the street and sidewalk right beneath my window.
“Yeah, but their construction vehicles take up the whole street. Parking is hard enough without them taking up a block,” I grumble.
“You don’t park in the back?” Adam asks, surprised.
“No way,” I say. “$120 a month is too steep for me. I just find parking on the street. It wasn’t so bad until recently, but they keep putting meters up on the free parking street. Just last week they put them in along Ninth Avenue.”
He nods knowingly and says, “And you have to worry about street sweeping.”
Streets fall into either Monday, Wednesday, Friday days or Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday days for street cleaning. Whichever group of days a side of the street falls into are the days you can’t park on that side of the street from 2:00 a.m. to 8:00 a.m. This is a little confusing at first because when you’re parking for the night and you find a spot, you see the sign telling you this is a Mon, Wed, Fri side and you’ve gone around all day certain in the knowledge that today is Tuesday. You don’t give it a second thought, you’ve been working all day and you’re ready to relax and zone out watching T.V.
The next morning is Wednesday and you roll out to your car and find a lovely little yellow envelope underneath one of your windshield wipers. Confusion swirls through your foggy morning mind and you look at the sign again and this time you realize that yes, you parked there Tuesday night. Realization begins to set in and the confusion is replaced with annoyance because Tuesday night turned into Wednesday morning while you were sleeping comfortably in bed. The street sweeper made his way down the street during the wee hours of the morning and gladly wrote you a ticket for $45.
“How many street sweeping tickets have you gotten this month?” Adam asks.
“None,” I say proudly.
“How many expired meter tickets have you gotten?”
Scowling, I reply, “Two.”
“How about for being in a spot for more than two hours?”
“One,” I grumble.
“Any for being too far away from the curb or having your wheels pointed the wrong way?”
“Yeah, yeah, I get your point. I’m probably paying almost as much in parking tickets as I would for the parking lot.”
“And,” he replies. “You have the stress of finding parking, moving your car and feeding the meter. But then again, I guess you don’t have to put up with the Shit Barcode either.”
Finishing my cigarette, I just about ask him to explain his last remark but then realize it could take a while and I still need to grab some bacon from the store. “On that note, I have to go. See you later Adam.”
“Remember, your wheels should be no further than a foot away from the curb. And meter maids are ruthless, so err on the side of caution.”
“Will do,” I reply and wave him goodbye.
***
Coming back from the store, I see Eddie standing in front of the hometel. I haven’t seen him in a while, so I walk up to say a quick hello. He used to work at the coffee shop upstairs in Horton Plaza, all the way up until last year. You’d never guess he’s in his eighties. His seventies-style afro is barely peppered with grey and his dark skin is still mostly smooth.
“Hey there Fast-Eddie, where you been lately?”
He looks up at me from his electric-powered Rascal and laughs. “I ain’t so fast anymore.”
“Right,” I say. “I see you whizzing down the street in that thing. Motorcycles take these streets slower.”
He spits and then says, “That’s cause you don’t see no real riders around here anymore.”
I laugh a little and ask, “How’s things?”
“Oh, I was up in the bay area visiting my grandkids. I finally saw a doctor about getting this old hip replaced. Not looking forward to that, I can sure as hell tell you. No sir.”
“Hopefully it goes well and you’ll be walking along nice and fast.”
He scoffs at this and says, “I ain’t so concerned with walking so much as I am about driving. Won’t be driving for quite a while after the surgery. Car’s just gonna sit back their next to that damn wall and the Shit Barcode.”
Wondering for a second time what that means but needing to move along again, I simply reply, “Well, good luck with all that. I’m running behind, should’ve had breakfast started by now. Good to see you Eddie.”
He waves me goodbye as I cross the street and head inside.
***
“That was delicious.”
Picking up her plate and stacking it on top of mine, I reply, “It wasn’t bad, I just wish I hadn’t burned the bacon.”
“Oh that’s the way I like it, nice and crispy.”
I’m washing off the sticky remnants in the sink and Rachael comes up from behind me, wraps her arms around me from behind and nuzzles the side of her face into the space between my shoulder blades. A sigh of content escapes her lips and her whole body settles comfortably against mine. I continue to wash the dishes, enjoying this moment but also thinking about how much further I want things to go with her. For a while, I didn’t really find her that interesting. She seemed too perfect, too much the product of the “right path”.
She was popular in high school, cheered for the football team and didn’t get into much trouble. She went straight to college from there, joined a sorority, partied with fraternities, and obtained a degree and an int
ernship that turned into a well-paying job. She’s dated a little and has had a couple of short-lived relationships. She’s vacationed in Vegas and Hawaii and wants to go to Thailand. And all of that is nice and no one should be found wanting because they did what they were supposed to do, but it just doesn’t excite me.
But then again, things are easy with her. We don’t really bicker, she’s not easily upset and her mood doesn’t fluctuate at the drop of a hat. She’s really understanding and compassionate. And even though she’s not the most exciting girl in the world, she’s not as boring as I previously thought.
“Penny for your thoughts,” she murmurs while shifting around to look up at me.
Smiling, I reply, “I was just thinking about how easy you are.”
Jerking back suddenly and with an over-the-top tone of outrage and a thickening of her accent she says, “I beg your pardon sir, but I am a southern bell. I am many things, but I am most certainly not easy.”
Laughing, I reply, “That’s not what I meant.” Putting the last couple of pieces of silverware into the drain board, I continue, “What I mean to say is that I find things are nice and easy when you’re around. It’s nice.”
“Naturally,” she says haughtily. “But still, my sensibilities have been insulted and I demand recompense from you, good sir.”
Still wearing a big grin on my face, I reply, “I shall do my best m’lady.”
“See that you do,” she says before her face explodes with a bright smile. Surprising me, she runs up and jumps onto me, wrapping me in a crushing embrace. I almost fall from the attack hug.
“Alright,” I say. “We better get going if we want to enjoy a coffee before I start work.”
“I wish you didn’t work on the weekends,” she says with a pout. “But I’m glad you’re not opening. Can’t be you lied to your own mother. Tsk, tsk.”
The Dark Roast Page 13