by Tara Wylde
She isn’t quite laughing, but I feel like there’s amusement there, just beneath the surface. “And what is the gardening type?”
“Practical, humane... Oh, and I couldn’t help noticing, when I was holding you so close, you use unscented shampoo. So—the nature type. Environmentally conscious. No perfumes or dyes.”
She makes a sound somewhere between a snort and an exhale. “How do you know I don’t just buy the cheapest shampoo?”
“’Cause the scented stuff’s more popular, so it’s produced in greater bulk. That makes it cheaper. And easier to find. If you don’t want to be walking around smelling like a bouquet of shampoo and soap and deodorant, you’ve got to put some work into it.”
That earns me a sharp look. “Can’t keep much hidden from you.”
“So I’m right?”
“That I’m this...gardening type?” And there it is, finally, a real smile breaking through. “Yeah. Yeah, I suppose I am.” Her smile widens into a grin. “You, though—you smell like shoe polish. What type does that make you?”
“The type who was getting ready for a hot date, and realized he had scuffed loafers?”
“Ah—the vain type!”
I elbow her playfully. She elbows back. I’m starting to feel good about the rest of this date.
133
Elina
The succulent smell of roasting lamb and warm tzatziki is making me weak in the knees. I honestly can’t believe I’m this ravenous—didn’t think I’d be able to eat at all. Digging into the past felt a lot like scooping out my guts and presenting them for inspection. I’d never really talked about my humiliation before. Never had anyone who wanted to hear it.
“Didn’t think it’d be this...hipsterish.”
I startle a bit. “Mm?”
Nick gestures wide. “The décor; the... My God, are they eating off chopping boards?”
I hadn’t noticed. But...yep. Those would be chopping boards. And Mason jars. And—
“Sorry—I haven’t actually been here before. Someone at work said it was great, and, uh....” His train of thought gets derailed by a waitress carrying a soup-filled fishbowl. “Did I just see—?”
It’s ridiculous, all right, but all I can concentrate on is the rich, sharp smell. “Avgolemono. In a goldfish bowl.”
“We don’t have to eat here.”
“I don’t know—it smells pretty good. The presentation might be a bit—“
“Wack?”
“Yeah—wack—but the food still seems fine.” Besides, I’m way too hungry to leave. I didn’t have time for breakfast, and by the time lunch rolled around, my stomach was in nervous knots.
He pulls a face. “It does smell delicious. Just... Don’t start thinking I’m one of those food snobs who won’t eat anything that isn’t, like, locally-grown quinoa on an organic avocado bun.”
The hostess is looking our way, so I hide my laughter behind my hand. “I...don’t think that’s a thing. And besides, weren’t we originally going to do McDonald’s, before you heard about this place?”
“Good point.”
We end up seated in a quiet booth, tucked away behind a concrete column. When our food comes out, we barely manage to rein in our laughter till the waiter’s out of earshot.
“What...in the actual fuck is that supposed to be?” Nick’s eyeing up my Greek salad—or rather, my large cube of feta cheese, my snifter of chopped vegetables, my raw onion flower, and my glass of vinaigrette dressing.
“How do I even eat this?” I poke at the cube of feta to break it up. It crumbles messily off the side of my chopping board. There’s no spoon to sprinkle it over the vegetables—or am I supposed to dump everything out on the board? Won’t the dressing get everywhere?
“Maybe you do it like a body shot? Like, you lick the cheese, take a gulp of the dressing, and bite on a cherry tomato?”
“Oh, that’s gross!” I’m laughing too hard to even try. “And didn’t you order the gyros?”
“I thought I did.” Nick pokes at his appetizer. “This is...kind of a bread bowl? Filled with, uh...grated lamb? Tzatziki? And a pickle?”
“Think there’s some lettuce round the edges.”
“And this lonely tomato cube.” He lifts up a leaf of lettuce to reveal what does, indeed, appear to be a tomato cut into a cube. “Why? Seriously, why?”
“Wanna just scarf down our, uh...whatever these are...and hit the nearest McDonald’s?”
“God, yes!” Nick tries a cautious bite. “It doesn’t taste terrible, but I don’t think I could handle two more courses of this.”
“Me neither.” I end up pouring the dressing over the vegetables, and ignoring the feta and onions entirely. I may be turning over a whole new, less self-conscious, leaf, but this—this is too messy to attempt. Especially in front of someone I’m really starting to like.
Munching Big Macs in his car isn’t necessarily less messy, but the last of the bubbling tension seems to ebb away as we mock the “secret sauce” for obviously being Thousand Island dressing, and speculate on how most people probably like McDonald’s because it makes them nostalgic.
“It’s totally a childhood food,” says Nick. He takes a sip from his soda. “Mm. Their Coke is amazing. But it’s like... Where did you go, when you were a kid, out with your friends, and you got hungry? The one place you could afford, and the one place you kind of weren’t supposed to go, ‘cause it’s cheap crap.” He motions with his burger. It gloops secret sauce on his cuff. “Shit. Oh, well. I take a bite of this, and I’m twelve again. I can practically feel the curb outside the arcade digging into my ass.”
“Now you’re making me nostalgic.”
He grins. “Remember when their menu had maybe ten different things?—hamburger, cheeseburger, Big Mac—and those scalding hot apple pies?”
“I remember those. And their pancakes.”
“They have pancakes?”
“Yeah—those are my big McDonald’s memory. My mama—she’s this amazing cook, so, like... If I asked for McDonald’s, she’d take it as a personal affront. Like I was saying, I preferred fast food to her cooking. But once a year, we’d drive out to Indiana to see my aunt. It’s a twelve-hour trip, so we’d set off about five in the morning. And when the sun started to come up, we’d pull over for a McDonald’s breakfast. Pancakes and sausages.”
“They have sausages?”
“Menu’s totally different if you go in the morning.”
“It’s like... My world’s been turned upside-down.”
His world.... “You know... It occurs to me, I still don’t know that much about you.” I stir the ice cubes around with my straw, suddenly nervous. “I mean... You volunteer at the food pantry, you like Christmas, you do something involving banking, and you’re kind of a slob.”
“And ruggedly handsome.”
“And—“ I can’t repeat that back to him with a straight face. He’s definitely handsome, but the lumberjack type he’s not. More...polished. Refined. With a hidden steel underneath. “You’re very handsome. Really.”
“That didn’t sound so sincere!”
“It’s the rugged part, not the handsome part. Maybe if you had a five o’clock shadow, one of those Clint Eastwood growls—“
He looms over me suddenly, the effect only slightly spoiled by the burger he’s still brandishing. “Well...all I have to say to that is... This is a Big Mac, the most powerful burger in the world. It’d blow your tastebuds clean off. You’ve got to ask yourself one question: do I feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?”
I shove him off, laughing. “You sound more like Batman than Clint Eastwood.”
“Ohhhh; clipped my funnybone on the steering wheel!” He rubs at his elbow.
“That’s what you get, trying to be all manly in confined spaces.”
“Way I remember it, you liked me getting manly in this particular confined space.” He raises one eyebrow. I feel myself reddening.
“Well... Now you’re just changing the subject.”
“What do you want to know?”
I have to think about that for a moment—not because I can’t think of anything to ask, but because I don’t know where to start. The remark he made earlier about a rough childhood springs to mind, so I go with that. “Where’d you grow up?”
He gestures at the window. “Here. The city. Around.” If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was avoiding the question. He takes a big bite of his burger—now I know there’s something he’s not telling me. I’m curious, but we’re having too good a time. Don’t want to risk pushing and spoiling the mood.
“All right: what kind of music are you into?”
“Well, I like—“ He cocks his head suddenly. “Actually, y’know....” He digs in his pocket and fishes out a brazen red iPod. “Do you have one of these?”
I nod and hold up my purse. “In here.”
“Okay—let’s trade. Just till our next date. You listen to mine, I’ll listen to yours—no going through camera rolls, or anything personal.”
“No camera, no problem.” I fork mine over. It’s the original video iPod, nothing on it but music.
“Shit—haven’t seen one of these in years!”
“I’ve been insanely careful with it.” I really have: this’ll be the first time it’s been out of my reach since...since I can’t even remember. There’ve been times when it’s been more or less my only comfort, my only escape. I don’t tell him that.
“I’ll tell you one thing: I’m a big music lover. I’m... I have, like, a soundtrack for every era of my life—does that make any sense?”
“You mean, songs you were listening to back then, and when you hear them, it all comes rushing back?”
Nick nods. “Only, more than that. I swear, there were certain songs, certain times—I’d be holding onto them like lifelines; maybe you....” He shakes his head rapidly, like he’s trying to clear it. “Sorry. That probably sounded more intense than it should’ve.”
“No, I....” I do know what he’s talking about. “Hell, by the Squirrel Nut Zippers—whenever I was freaking out about something, it used to start playing in my head. And it was so cheery, so silly, I’d start to calm down in spite of myself. It got to be part of my chilling out routine, like before a job interview, or if I had to do something I didn’t want to.”
“That Eminem song with the falling rain in the background, for me—the one he did with Dido. It was just the one line, though, about it not being so bad—don’t think I ever learned the rest of the lyrics.”
“Oh, yeah, I know that one: years go by; something-something...get out of bed....” I realize that’s all I know. “Guess I never learned the rest either.”
He nudges my foot with his. “Pretty sure there’s no line in that song, or any song ever written, that goes like that.”
“It is calming, though. Just that part. Not the whole Eminem part, with the murdered girlfriend.”
“Yeah, I pretend that part doesn’t exist.”
I take my time polishing off the last of my fries. The last of the sunset’s faded from the sky, and I’m cutting it fine with the babysitter. I said I’d be home by seven. The dashboard clock’s flashing six forty-five.
I can’t put it off any longer. One more sip of Coke—mostly water, by now—and it’s time to go. It shouldn’t be this hard to tear myself away. Obviously we’re going to see each other again: we’ve got each other’s iPods. But I can’t shake the feeling there’s a timer somewhere, ticking down the seconds on our romance.
I barely register Nick’s lingering kiss goodbye: I’m off in my own little world, wondering if we’ll ever have the technology to save a memory like a file on a computer, play it over and over and over again. Put it on repeat and live in it.
My walk home is short, but by the time I’m paying Maria and getting Joey ready for his bath, the full weight of my worries is back on my shoulders.
134
Nick
I seem to remember a time when I looked forward to Mondays—back when work was about numbers and code and problem-solving, full of challenge and excitement. I felt like I was getting in on the ground floor of something. Creating systems that had potential far beyond the movement of money. I thought I saw a future where variants on the infrastructure I’d built could increase efficiency and reduce waste in everything from the farming industry to public transit.
Instead, I’m barely involved with the math that drew me to high-frequency trading in the first place. I’ve heard of people getting promoted beyond their competency, but when I decided it was time to open my own investment management firm, I think I...promoted myself beyond my interest.
This board meeting, for instance, became a bored meeting an hour and a half ago. Ten minutes after it started.
I have enough money now. Too much money. More than I could spend in several lifetimes. I could walk away. Get some of those old dreams out of mothballs. It wouldn’t be abandoning Mark: I can’t believe this was what he wanted. Not in the way—
My phone vibrates. I raise my hand for silence and pick it up. “Go ahead.”
It’s Harold, my secretary. “Mr. Carter, you have a call from Rich, on line one. Shall I put it through?”
I look around. It’s not a secret that I’ve been devoting more time to charitable activities lately. The board even agrees it looks good. But it still feels crass to take a call from my other job right in their faces. “Tell him to hold. I’ll take it in my office.”
I’m all too happy to make my excuses and duck out for a few minutes. But my relief is short-lived.
“Yeah, look—sorry to bother you at work, especially with something like this, but...aw, man.” Rich sounds genuinely uncomfortable.
“What’s the matter?”
“It’s—I hate to even bring this up, but, uh... Those little girls, they painted something in the window yesterday at the downtown location, and...someone’s painted something...else...over it.”
I feel a headache settle between my eyes. “Could you—are you near the window now?”
“Yup. Looking right at it.”
“Could you text me a picture?”
“On it, boss.” Rich hangs up. A few seconds later, a shot of the display window pops up. Katie and Cindy filled it with a fountain of smiley faces in neon colors, with “HAPPY HOLIDAYS!” underneath. Only now, each face sports a bright red, dripping bullet wound, smack in the middle of the forehead. And there’s something else scrawled over “HAPPY HOLIDAYS!”. It takes me a minute to decipher it, but when I do—
“Oh, come on!”
—GET A JOB. It says GET A JOB.
I dial Rich back. “I take it you’ve tried to wash it off?”
“Yup. Think they’ve used some kind of enamel, like nail polish, or... I don’t know. Soap and water won’t touch it. Matt’s gone for some acetone.”
“Okay, just—just, I don’t know. Try the acetone thing. If that doesn’t work, get some paint. White it out. Ugh!” I feel anger in my gut, coiling tighter and tighter. “I mean, ‘Get a job?’ ‘Get a job?’ Because everyone’s hiring people who’ve been retired fifteen years!—not to mention—“
“Hey, hey! Take a breath!”
“Sorry, Rich. Preaching to the choir. I know.”
“You coming in later?”
“Yeah.”
“We’ll have it good as new by the time you get here. Promise.” Normally, his deep, soothing voice would be like a pat on the back, but I’m seething. About to boil over.
“Put something over it till Matt gets back. People coming in don’t need to see that shit.”
“Sure thing. I’ll let you know how it goes.”
“Thanks, Rich.”
I disconnect the call, and instantly swipe over to Twitter. Katie’s last tweet’s a cat gif, timestamped ten minutes ago. So she doesn’t know. But it could easily have gone the other way: she goes right past there on her way to school. She’s too young to find out what it feels like to do something nice and get slapped in t
he face for it.
I can’t go back to the meeting like this. My frustration’s on the verge of boiling all over the place. Nobody needs to deal with that.
Lina’s iPod’s still in my coat pocket, from last night, promising distraction. If she’s into techno, or—or anything 80s—heaven help us all. I think I might explode if I hit play and Tom’s Diner or Heaven is a Place on Earth comes blasting out.
I plug in my earbuds, take a deep breath, and press play.
The rushing static of an old recording fills my ears. It reminds me a little of the soft rainfall in the track we were talking about last night. I didn’t tell her, couldn’t tell her, how I clung to that sound when Mark’s death was still fresh. When I never knew whether I was hovering on the precipice of a panic attack or a temper tantrum—when I needed something, anything to moor me to reality.
A woman’s voice joins the static, sweet and hesitant, almost breathless. She’s singing in some language that isn’t English, and doesn’t sound like Russian either. Maybe French or Italian. There’s a wounded, despairing note to her song that only intensifies as a second voice joins, and then a third. I find myself straining to make out the words, though this isn’t a language I understand.
I’m not sure this track’s actually doing much for my mood. If anything, it’s stirring my anger. It sounds almost like the three voices are arguing. Upbraiding each other. The original voice rises above the others, full of indignation.
My thumb hovers above the skip button, but I don’t press it. I don’t hate what I’m hearing, just... I might not be quite in the right frame of mind for it.
I check the video display. It identifies the song as Bellini – Norma – act I – Oh, di qual sei tu vittima!
Opera, then—that’s unexpected. I wonder if she’s ever actually been to one. I could give her that. I’ve always kind of wanted to go, myself—seems like everyone I know has season tickets. I’d have jumped on that bandwagon, if not for fear of coming off like a total rube. Like if I bumped into someone I knew at intermission, and they were all Oh, how divine; she’s so... Uh—I don’t even know what you’d praise an opera singer for, what qualities might be considered impressive. So I’d be nodding along like, yep, yep, uh-huh, pretty groovy, and Cindy Rajania’s mother would be there to roll her eyes and call me nouveau riche, and my social stock would plummet. Further.