by Stan Rogal
“Strange.”
“Umm.”
“What happened and what are they up to, do you think?”
“Don’t know.” Martin adds cream to his coffee. “Can you tell me something?”
“What?”
“Chelsea and Katie, right? Which was which?”
“Which was which? Good question. One had a mole above her breast. Chelsea, I think. Though it may have been Katie. Things are a bit of a haze.”
“A mole, yes. Which side, left or right?”
Maggie absentmindedly checks her breasts through the housecoat. “No idea.” She shakes her head. “Not a clue.”
“Me neither.”
“Curiouser and curiouser, said Alice.” Maggie looks at Martin who rattles his mug with a spoon. “Gotta get ready for work. Dinner tonight. Thoughts?”
“Dunno. Pizza?”
“Good idea. Thin crust Quattro Stagioni. Arugula salad with grape tomatoes, oil and balsamic vinegar dressing and shaved Parmegiano-Reggiano cheese.”
“Accompanied by a full-bodied Ripasso Valpolicella.”
“Sounds yummy. Pizzeria Via Mercanti Neapolitan in Kensington Market, yes? Can you place the order and pick it up?”
“Can and will do.” Martin turns away slightly and looks out the window.
Maggie sets her coffee cup on the table and pokes at the thank you card with her fingers. “Fantastico,” she says.
Martin catches her action from the corner of an eye. He smiles, nods, sips his coffee. “Fantastico, yes. Molto Fantastico!”
A ROGUE’S DECAMERON:
EPILOGUE
A hot summer night. The large corner patio at the Dip is, as usual, a buzz of activity, with all tables crammed cheek to jowl with a mixed clientele, though mostly young people, the men dressed casually in cut-offs or shorts or jeans and T-shirts, the women in brief tight-fitting skirts or loose flowing skirts and light cotton blouses. All are shod in sandals or sneakers, cowboy boots or high heels. They eat pizza and pasta dishes and drink cold frothy beer poured from plastic pitchers or wine from litre decanters. There’s a waiting list, and a similar group of people spill onto College Street. The line bends north up Clinton street. They talk, joke, text, check out their social networks, smoke and/or generally pass the time while waiting to be seated. They haven’t arrived for the menu, specifically, which is of average quality and, while not unreasonably expensive, is not cheap either. No, they’ve gathered for the atmosphere, the history, the reputation. What reputation? The reputation of being the Dip, of course. Or moreover, the patio of the Dip. And everyone is content to stand in line for the opportunity simply to be sat and served at the Dip, despite the slow service, cramped quarters, soiled tablecloths and tolerable menu in order to say: Meet you on the patio at the Dip. Or: I was at the patio at the Dip. Or simply: The Dip at eight and everyone understanding and knowing the place to be; to see and to be seen.
While most customers are gathered in pairs or else small to medium-sized groups, one man sits alone at a rear table with his back to the wall. He’s in his mid- to late-fifties and bears a striking resemblance to the late actor Charles Laughton: roundish, fleshy with a large porcine head, thick damp lips, balding, dressed in a faded pale-blue, sweat-stained polo shirt, torn khaki shorts, worn black socks and scuffed brown loafers. He uses a paper napkin to wipe perspiration from his forehead and neck. He struggles with his breath and displays a slight wheeze. There’s a wiped-clean spaghetti plate in front of him alongside an empty bread bowl. A half-litre carafe of red wine is two-thirds done while his glass is topped up. He uses a pudgy hand to bring the glass to his lips and take a sip. He smacks and licks his lips with the bulk of a fat, moist, pink tongue. He places the glass on the chequered cloth and pushes at a loose pile of papers. He takes a pen and makes a flourish at the bottom of a page, sticks the pen in his shirt pocket, leans back and drums the table with his fingertips. He straightens the loose pages and attaches a paper clip to the top left corner. Next, he pokes two fingers into his breast pocket, retrieves a playing card and tucks it under the clip. On one side of the table are strewn several other stacks of paper, also clipped, also with a playing card attached. He proceeds to put the separate stacks into one large pile and binds the lot with a black ACCO clip. Again, he withdraws a playing card from his breast pocket and jams it underneath the metal rim.
The card is the knave of spades.
He presses his palm over the stack, picks it up and eases it into a large manila envelope. He licks the flap and seals it. He opens his shoulder bag, drops the package inside and zips the bag shut. He downs his wine, coughs and wipes his mouth with the back of a hand. The waitress approaches. Tally, skinny gal, with bare, tattooed arms, freckled face and short-cropped spiky red hair. She dumps the remains of the carafe into his empty glass.
“Another?” she asks, friendly and direct.
He takes a quick glance around, surveys the clientele and the line up. He smiles, shrugs expansively and points to the carafe.
“Another,” he says. He reaches for his pen, gives it a click and hunches over a fresh sheet of paper. “Why not? The night is young, even if I’m not.”
She makes with the obligatory smile, like she’s heard and seen it all before, a seasoned veteran at — what? — maybe thirty-two. Maybe.
“Sure, honey,” she says. “No problem.” She’s in a rush to keep up with the crowd.
He cocks his chin, taps the paper with the pen nib and begins to write: While most customers are gathered in pairs or else small to medium-sized groups, one man sits alone at a rear table with his back to the wall. He’s in his mid to late thirties and bears a striking resemblance to actor James Franco: slim, muscular, handsome, thin beard, shock of spiky black hair, piercing brown eyes. He’s dressed in an immaculate robin’s egg blue silk short sleeved shirt, white cargo shorts and Birkenstock sandals. He reaches for his cigar and taps the ash against the glass. He takes a long slow drag and blows a thin cloud of smoke toward the sky. The waitress approaches with a glass of red wine. The man regards the bare tops of her ample breasts as she bends to place the glass on the table. He smiles at her and she returns the smile. From the woman seated near the fence, says the waitress, with a mischievous wink. The man winks in return.
It promises to be an evening rapt in intrigue and adventure.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks to Selina Martin for the use of her song lyrics, “Johnny’s Just a Boy.” Also thanks to the magazines that first published some of these stories: Scrivener Creative Review, Existere, and Front&Centre Magazine. As well, to the OAC Writers’ Reserve Program and the publishers who made recommendations on my behalf to help further the manuscript’s completion.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Stan Rogal was born in Vancouver. He now lives and writes in Toronto. His work has appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies in Canada, the US and Europe, some in translation. He is the author of 21 books: five novels, five story and 11 poetry collections. He is also a produced playwright.