by M. E. Roufa
By the time the appetizers were cleared away, and the arrival of small crystal dishes of pink dodo sherbet to cleanse the palate (nothing like dodo to prepare you for the taste of more dodo), Norma realized her conversational opener was also going to be its closing statement. Nearly half an hour had gone by, and Stuart was still talking about himself and his job, without having stopped for even a moment to ask anything about Norma at all. Though to be honest, aside from the ego pinch of being ignored at close range, this suited Norma just fine. He already knew where she worked, and where she worked pretty much encompassed what she did. She didn’t want him to know anything about her personal life, and this was the best possible way not to divulge any of it. Plus, people who never stopped talking about themselves were generally easy to stop dating, because all you had to do is stop feigning interest. Once they realized their favorite subject didn’t fascinate you, they were very good at arriving at the conclusion that you had “too little in common” all on their own.
Norma didn’t know much about the people who earned a living working for the theme parks, but there were enough of them to constitute a small city, and the Mouse ran the biggest ones of all. Everyone she knew seemed to have a story about a friend of a friend who had been there, who had seen the secret underground tunnels that stretched for miles underneath the parks, or heard rumors about the hidden trash tubes that shot garbage straight from the can to the dump ten miles away at speeds of up to a hundred miles an hour. That all the workers were called “cast members” and were sworn to secrecy in a closed society that was almost as tight as Yale’s Skull and Bones, but with far sillier outfits. Or so she suspected, never having been to Yale. No one knew what was true and what was false.
And now she was on a date with one of them. And he wasn’t just any cast member—he didn’t sell any of the millions of hats with ears or stand behind a counter hawking lemonades in novelty cups or work with the seemingly hundreds of thousands of other employees whose only job was to walk through the park with dustpans and brooms making sure not a single gum wrapper ever touched the ground for more than three seconds. He was a featured performer. His only job was to smile and sign autographs and be seen. He was, in fact, a prince.
“It’s a pretty good gig, especially since I don’t have to wear a head. You really feel bad for the guys who have to wear the heads, especially when the heat gets up in the high nineties. You know, they put fans in the things, and some of the big heads have ice packs—the bears with the hats you know, but still… they fine you if you pass out.”
“Really?” Norma tried to look fascinated, but she was mostly appalled. She concentrated on her spoon. It was a very nice spoon.
“Yeah, and twice as much if you pass out in front of the kids. Especially the little ones, because they think they killed you. Traumatizes them for life. It’s like going to war every time you go out there wearing one of those big heads. You get hazard pay if it goes over 100 and you only have to work half-hour shifts. But you pass out once in front of the wrong toddler? Oh, it’s over. You’ll be lucky if they let you push the vomit mop under the coasters they run in the dark…”
“The only guys who get to have no heads are the princes, so I’m kind of lucky. It’s great because of the no-head thing, like I said, plus I get a sword, which doesn’t mean anything from a combat point of view, but it’s a nice touch if any of the kids get too close. Some of them don’t always wash their hands, and forget about remembering to wipe their noses—you got to learn how to distance yourself or you’re totally gonna get drenched in it, know what I mean?” He grimaced and took a large bite of sherbet. As she watched the pink ice half melting on his lips, Norma thought she could still hear the viscous lump as it made a wet, smacking sound against the back of his throat. Norma, about to take a bite of hers, changed her mind entirely and replaced her spoon on the plate next to its dish. So much for that.
“I don’t like the tights, though,” he continued. “The big shoulder pads I can live with, but I hate the tights. All the princes have to be ‘broad of shoulder and slender of leg.’ Some sort of medieval thing I guess. Makes us more phallic, I think. Separates the Princes from the boys, if you know what I mean.” He took a giant bite of his breadstick, leeringly. Norma choked on her glass of wine. She wasn’t sure what to make of Stuart at all, she absolutely didn’t want to be out with him, especially not where anyone could see them together, but she couldn’t say he was boring. “But the tights chafe like a bear. A couple of the guys get a codpiece, but I just have a long doublet and have to deal with it. And I’m lucky because if I walk a bit bow-legged people think I’m in character. But man it can aggravate you when you get a pair where the seams don’t line up right on your thighs and it’s one of those really hot days when you start to sweat. And they fine you if they catch you scratching. Especially in front of the kids. Still beats a head, though.”
Stuart paused in his monologue to take a gulp of his chardonnay. His vaguely amphibian lips wrapped greedily around the lip of the glass and his eyes half closed as he sipped it down. She could tell that he was enjoying himself, that the restaurant, and the wine, and the way he was dressed and her presence all added to a sense of suave sophistication for him, which he was clearly trying to play up. As he took another sip of wine, his eyes met hers, and his lips made small bubbles on the surface of the wine, with a tiny slurping sound. He cocked an eyebrow as he lowered his glass. He really thought he had every move in the book. But clearly he was not on the same page. Something just didn’t add up.
“So… you’re a Prince?”
“Yup.”
“Like Prince Charming?”
“Nope.”
“What do you mean, nope?”
“Guess again.”
“I’m supposed to guess?”
“There aren’t that many princes. Most women figure it out eventually.” He grinned.
“Okay,” Norma gave it some thought. “Are you Cinderella’s prince?”
“He’s Prince Charming, too.”
“That’s what I thought. Aren’t they all Prince Charming?”
“Pretty much, yeah. Though they have names—Prince Phillip, Prince Eric…The Snow White one is just called ‘The Prince,’ though. Man, he’s got an ego. Most people can only tell them apart because they have different-colored hair. But I’m a whole different kind of prince.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you’re barking up the wrong princesses. Think of the guys who get their own storyline.” Upon saying this, he speared a tomato on his fork with such force that the pulp and a few seeds splattered over his plate like bloody entrails. He clearly loved his work. Norma scoured her brain for all the princes from every fairy tale she could remember from her youth, but the only one that kept coming back to her was the one she would not, could not say to him. Still, he kept looking at her, wanting her to try. “The Prince and the Pauper?”
“Nope,”
“Prince John?”
“He was a lion! And he wears a head!” Now he seemed almost scornful.
Norma decided not to go with “The Prince of Tides” as her next guess. He might not have the sense of humor she thought he did after all. And then she did have that one other thought, the obvious one, but she just didn’t dare.
“I’ll give you a hint.”
“Okay.”
“Ribbit.”
Oh no he didn’t. “What?!”
“You heard me.”
“I think you said ‘ribbit.’”
“That I did.”
Oh yes he did.
And then he did something even more unbelievable. He bugged his eyes out even farther. And then in a move that she really really wished she hadn’t seen, he closed his mouth, sucked in a mouthful of air through his nostrils, and expanded his throat into the most froglike display she had ever seen in her life, outside of an actual nature documentary starring the real thing. And then he said “ribbit” again—only still in his same quiet, slightly
nasal tenor voice.
Norma couldn’t help it—she burst out laughing, loudly enough to get some aggravated glances from the diners at the next tables. It was all she could do to keep the wine still left in her mouth to continue on its route down her throat and not forge a new path upwards through her nasal passages. Somehow, insanely, she had become the social disturbance, and not him. She didn’t want to admit to knowing the answer, even now that he had made it obvious, didn’t want to say it out loud, even though it was now an established fact. It just seemed too cruel. And also too good to be true. “You’re the Frog Prince!”
“At your service, milady. Certainly took you long enough.” He stuck his tongue out at her, which fortunately did seem to be a normal length, though he did so in a seamlessly amphibious flicking motion.
“I thought the Frog Prince would wear a head. A big frog head.” She had to say it. It was the only polite thing to say.
“He used to. Till I came along. I’m that good.” And again he made the frighteningly froglike smile that Norma had noticed when they first met. “Now if I could figure out a way to convince them I don’t need the tights, I’d be set for life. Those things chafe like a bear.”
13
The night was balmy, with the mingled noises of lazy nocturnal insects and frenzied highway traffic. Somewhere a radio was playing a song about love, or maybe about dancing, or maybe about drugs. The singer was roughly 14, already plastic-surgeried to look twice that (or what twice that used to look like, 28 year old women now being required by the dictates of fashion magazines to look 19). So the lyric come-ons were coy nothings, ensuring that her audience knew precisely what she meant, and no one else did. On every lawn, a sprinkler was making a symmetrical arc, spitting a curve of warm slightly sulfurous water just shy of ankle-height, carving out the grassy territory into wedges that stretched beyond onto the pavement, which after much trial and error Norma had learned exactly how to circumnavigate to protect her shoes. Stuart paid no attention to the passing jets, the cuffs of his khakis slowly becoming speckled in moist patterns as he walked Norma to her door.
He wasn’t supposed to be there. They had come in separate cars, of course, her first rule of first dates. And she had already told him she had a lovely time, had already shaken his hand and done the lean-in that made the handshake seem just intimate enough not to feel insulting, without allowing for any further contact (a clever trick she had picked up from a fellow perfume spritzer with even more bad-date experience). She had already said goodnight. She hadn’t suggested he come over. She certainly hadn’t told him where she lived. The date was over. And yet, the whole way back from the restaurant, she could not avoid the sight of his headlights in her rear-view mirror. At first she thought nothing of it. After all, everyone had to take I-Drive at some point or another. Then she assumed it was a coincidence. Then it just started to get creepy. She briefly considered stopping for gas, or taking a roundabout route specifically in order to lose him, but she knew that if she did so, and he did follow her, she wouldn’t be able to handle it at all. With every turn bringing her closer to home, she sent out a silent prayer, hoping he would turn off in another direction. But every time she looked back, his car was always there. She was going to have to confront him.
Fortunately, there was only one space in front of her building, her space, reserved for her, and she slid her convertible into it, turned off the ignition and quickly headed for the front door. He would have to find a spot farther away; hopefully it would buy her enough time to get away without having to say anything. If she closed the door before he got to it, he would get the message that the evening was over, and she wouldn’t have to be rude to him. Well, not actively, verbally rude anyhow. That was the best solution. That was her plan.
And yet as she headed up the path, there he was a half step behind her, half-hopping to keep up with her as she walked purposefully up to the door of her apartment. There was no way around it. She was going to have to face him.
“Stuart,” She said, in the most businesslike voice she could manage. “I don’t know—”
“Whoa, slow down,” Stuart said, panting slightly. He was out of breath from his sprint after her through the parking lot, and his body language was far from amorous; in fact, he seemed a bit annoyed. “You know, you’re really fast on your feet—I guess you didn’t see me. Anyhow.”
“Stuart,” she tried again, but was again interrupted.
“Yeah, yeah. I know. Don’t worry, I’m not here to try and get into your bedroom or whatever. I’m not the guy who follows girls home or stalks women, or hides in the bushes and watches them when they’re getting undressed later that night—that your window?” He pointed to a nearby window, which as it turned out, was hers.
“No!”
“I’m kidding! Come on… I’m a Prince! Valiant of conduct and true of heart? Okay, okay, really, I just wasn’t sure if you were going to want to see me again, you know, I hope you will, I had a really nice time, but that’s not the point. The point is, I didn’t want you to worry. You dropped your earring back in the parking lot. At the restaurant. I figured you’d want it back.”
He held out his hand to her and she reached out and took the long piece of silver. It fell into her palm and glittered softly. “Thank you,” she said. “I can’t believe you came all this way just for that.”
“Well, you know,” he said, giving a courtly half bow with a froglike bend to his knees. “Prince.” He straightened up and turned away—he didn’t even reach to shake her hand again. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Stuart.”
She smiled as he headed back down the walkway to his car. She also watched till his car drove away, and continued watching until she was sure the car wasn’t coming back. Joke or not, that comment about hiding in the bushes was probably going to linger for a week.
Still smiling, she turned and let herself into her home. Other than the stalker thing, it had been a really lovely evening. Weird, but lovely. She kicked her shoes off and instinctively reached up to remove her earrings, taking off first one, then the other, and laying them next to her keys by the door. Then she realized what she had done and looked down at her hand. Too late, she realized that the long strip of silver wasn’t her earring after all. Looking at it more closely, she wasn’t entirely sure it was an earring at all. It had no hook or post attached, though it did have a hole at the top… maybe a pendant? It was beautiful, anyhow. A thin strip of silver with a small rounded red disk set into the tip, almost like a garnet. Well, maybe it was a ruse Stuart came up with to get girls—part of the whole gallant, chivalry thing. If so, you had to hand it to him. It certainly was an ambitious approach. And he had excellent taste.
She supposed she would go to the restaurant tomorrow and turn it in to their lost and found. Or at least call them and see whether anyone had reported it missing. First thing in the morning, she would definitely call them. Or at least see if she had a chain that matched.
14
Hey, lady.”
Norma felt her hip get bumped and instinctively swung her hand around and upwards to slap, only to find her hand several inches too high. She recognized the deep contralto just as she stopped her palm from making contact with Shosha’s forehead and hair. Smacking your boss was never a good route to career advancement, no matter how satisfying it might feel at the time.
Shosha just chuckled. “Hey—hey! It’s just me… don’t be so touchy!” she protested, holding her hands up in mock surrender. She really had a way with words.
Norma pointed her bottle of Illusions at her with both hands, like a revolver, gamely playing along. Don’t be so touchy yourself. But instead she only asked, “You always hip-check your top sales professionals in the line of duty?” Trying to achieve a good balance of professionalism and play—saying “don’t touch me” as clearly as she could, while still saying “don’t fire me.”
“Nah, just you,” Shosha said, and winked. Actually winked. “I really like your pendant. Where’d
you get it?”
Norma looked down, noticing again Stuart’s gift as if for the first time. She stroked it protectively, loving how strangely warm the silver (or white gold? platinum?) felt against her skin. After much (well, okay, a very small amount of) (well okay, next to no) soul searching, she’d left a message at the restaurant saying she’d found a piece of jewelry and if anyone had lost something they could call her and describe it and she’d gladly return it. She had deliberately kept her description very, very vague so her chance of making it hers would be as large as possible. And then left the wrong phone number, so if anyone did call, they would get a local pizza place. So that was taken care of. But one thing continued to puzzle her about it: if Stuart really did get it for her as a ruse to see her again and track her down to where she lived, then why did he tell her she had dropped an earring? Why would he buy her just one earring? Did he have a whole drawer full of single earrings? Or pendants he called earrings? She knew she was overthinking, but it was so strange. And he really acted as if he thought she had dropped it. Could she have accidentally picked it up in the restaurant without realizing it? Had her kleptomania actually progressed to stealing items without her own knowledge? The whole thing was just too strange. She shrugged it off. What was important was that it was hers now. And it was beautiful. And it was getting compliments.
“Thank you.” She smiled coyly and decided not to answer where it came from. It was far easier than making something up.
“No really, where’d you get it?” What was it about Shosha, that she never gave anything up? Norma was again reminded of a terrier, all bounce and single-minded determination, and completely unable to read signs. If you could find a terrier who could wear Dolce and Gabbana without drooling on it. “Do we have them here? I think I’ve seen them here… Would you mind if I got one like it? We could work out a schedule, so we didn’t wear them on the same day… I could base it on your shift schedule.”