A Comedy of Nobodies, page 4
“Oh, IHOP.” Nora tilts her head, fascinated by this suggestion. “You’re joking, right? Very funny? Ha, ha, ha? I’m in a robe, Charlie.”
“Where else is there, the YMCA? I can’t think of anywhere that’ll be open in two hours except there and McDonald’s.”
Nora suggests the dorms, but all Veritas-encrusted buildings are a no-go. Any Harvard faculty member, even an old security guard, recognizing Johm from Dennis’s “take your kid to work” day is bound to lead to questions. As we race-walk around the corner to where Felix is parked, I try to convince Nora that she’s dressed fine for IHOP. She argues in short, feisty steps, gripping Johm’s hand. He looks like Paddington Bear stuffed into that coat. I find the car, a 1990s minivan, and we cram into the back, Johm in the middle.
“What kind of a man are you, abandoning your child and co-babysitter at the International House of Pancakes?” Nora grumbles, securing Johm’s seatbelt, and then his teddy bear’s.
The car smells like a dollar store. I tell Felix to drop us off at IHOP, four or five blocks from Casablanca. He is the silent type and doesn’t even confirm the name. We’re at A, and whoever hops in, he’s taking them to B, no questions asked. He turns on his screamo metal and drives. Nora mutters French profanities under her breath.
“Have a good night,” I wish Felix. He offers one brief wave.
We step into the crisp October air, once again reminded that reality has a windchill. In fifteen minutes I am to meet Miranda Maxwell. It is a six-minute walk to Casablanca from here.
The IHOP near the Kennedy School of Government is open until 3:00 a.m., when no other affordable establishment is. Two-thirds of the tables are occupied with a zoo of diners. Three cops sit in one booth, and next to them is a table of Harvard seniors in suits, returning from a party. Construction workers doing the late shift, in for a lunch break of chicken and waffles. A clatter of noise from both throaty Boston accents and accentless college types.
“Can I help you?” the manager asks us.
This is neither the greeting nor the tone of a man welcoming us into his business but of one wondering why a James Bond wannabe, a woman in a robe, and a kid walked into his restaurant.
“Table for three,” I request.
He looks down at Nora’s attire, his stern tiger eyes pondering my request like it’s a negotiation. After an uncomfortable three seconds, he snatches menus from under his lectern and walks to a corner booth without a word. We wriggle in. Decaf is brought to our table. I restrain, looking at my watch. Ten minutes till showtime.
Johm looks around. I doubt he’s ever traveled this low in the social echelon. “Blue is my favorite color. Can we watch Spider-Man when we get back?”
“You’re okay here for the next two hours?” I ask Nora, checking the time again.
“Where are you going?” Johm asks.
Nora chimes in. “He’s going to see another woman.”
“You’re leaving us?”
“What—no, I’ll be right back. Hey, don’t tell him that.” I look at Nora. Her eyes are glued to the menu.
“Don’t you like us?” Johm asks. Jesus, this is getting out of hand.
“I’ll be right back, I promise. And look, the second I get a call from the fire department, I’ll order you both a car home, and then you can watch Spider-Man.”
“What’s your favorite color?”
“Green.”
A waiter brings tap water to our table.
“I have to go. I’ll be late even if I leave now.”
“Ah yes, go. Go on your date, have a beautiful time with a beautiful girl while we wait here dropping carbohydrates into our bodies, pondering death,” Nora rambles, pouring and stirring cream into her coffee.
As she reaches for another sugar packet, her left breast pops out of her robe. The waiter halts, holding his notebook halfway open about to take our order. It hangs there like Lady Liberty’s in Eugène Delacroix’s painting, Liberty Leading the People.
“But no, not for Charlie. Responsibility is not his friend. You take what you want when you want it—”
“Nora,” I say.
“His desires are king. His vanity is poetry.” She rips open more sugar and stirs.
“Nora,” I say.
She looks up. I point at my chest, for reference. She looks down. Like a snake striking for a mouse, she covers up and locks her wrist there in eye-bulging disbelief.
The waiter clicks his pen, puts his notebook into his apron, and walks to the front with no bounce in his step, like he’s gliding. Nora clutches the front of her robe, holding her temple with the other hand.
“What are they doing?” She can’t bear to look.
I turn around. The waiter returns with the manager, their faces tolerant but stern.
“Please leave the premises,” the manager demands.
“Look, this was an honest mistake,” I plead.
He steps aside and palm points to the exit. “Before I report this to the police. Please.”
“It was nothing,” Nora says. “No one saw anything.”
“Please.” He closes his eyes, gesturing to the exit.
“No one saw anything,” I repeat. “It was out for what, three seconds? A boob is a boob.”
“Boob or no boob, I want you all out! Out!” he yells. His baritone silences the room. All eyes twitch in our direction.
Knowing she cannot win this, Nora inhales through her nose and stands up.
“Let’s go, Johm,” she projects, loud enough for the whole room to hear. “It seems this establishment has a problem with the beauty of breastfeeding.”
This earns a few mild gasps from the female diners, then a hushed murmuring begins. The skin behind the manager’s ears tightens. Holding Johm’s fingers with one hand and the teddy bear with the other, Nora throws her shoulders back with pride and marches out. It would make for terrific TV if Oprah were here.
We’re back outside. My reservation at Casablanca started three minutes ago. This is just beautiful, absolutely perfect.
“What was that?!” Nora cries. “What in the Jesus Christ was that? What kind of a man yells ‘boob’ in crowded place? That is not free speech, that’s just terrible manners!”
Miranda Maxwell won’t give me another chance, no matter what excuse I give. No woman buys an excuse from a man. It’s just bad business. This will be another chapter in the series of disappointments that is my life. I am stuck in a loop of losses.
No, not again. I’m not giving in.
“I know where we can go,” I tell Nora.
“Has the fire department called?”
“No, but in the meantime, I know somewhere we can wait.”
Casablanca is one of those alleyway basement restaurants that tenured Harvard professors and wealthy students dine at. Waiters will give the “who are you” look. The place only just achieves the minimum legal lighting standards of a commercial establishment, which is great for getting drowsy with wine and passion, but terrible for dipping a french fry.
“Oh, by the way,” Nora mentions as I speedwalk down the alley. “I’m sorry about your date.”
“My what?”
“Your date. You were all dressed up.”
“Oh, she’ll understand.” I look down in shame as I open the door for Nora and Johm.
Nora enters, but her momentum quickly slows. I rush the hostess before she can stare me down.
“Hi, I have a reservation for eight thirty under Charlie.”
“Your table is ready, sir.” The Russian hostess looks me judgmentally in the eye. “A member of your party is already seated.”
Nuts, I look like an inept little boy who can’t arrive on time. I’m praying Miranda doesn’t see this as indicative of other aspects of myself.
“Charlie, what is this?” Nora asks.
“Also . . .” I nervously avoid her eyes and focus on the hostess. “We’ll be adding two more diners tonight. Can we have two extra chairs?”
The hostess gives Nora the up-and-down. I can guess what she’s thinking: this is either a homeless person or a celebrity. What will it be? After a four-second stare-off, the hostess unclenches her jaw and retrieves three menus. Celebrity it is.
“Right this way, please.” She walks with the posture of a ballerina.
By all counts, this is probably the worst thing I’ve ever done to anyone, surpassing the whoopee cushion I left under the piano seat of my high school’s valedictorian during a musical recital. My back is drenched with nervous sweat. As I am realizing what a mistake this is, I half consider ditching the whole evening. But then I see her, Miranda Maxwell, sitting alone at a candlelit table in the middle of the restaurant, her hair smoothly blond atop a classic black dress.
The world slows down. This is it.
“Hi, Miranda,” I greet her, my arms diplomatically low, nice and cool.
“Hello.” Her eyes land on Nora, and then Johm. “Oh, what’s . . . ?”
“Oh! Forgive me. This is Nora and Johm—like John but with an m. Johm, Nora, this is Miranda Maxwell.”
Nora swallows and sticks out her hand. Miranda stares at it and then shakes it. All is awkward.
A waiter brings the extra chairs in a studied dance. Johm is seated next to Miranda. His face just barely reaches the table.
“What about Fred?” he asks, pointing to his teddy bear.
“Can Fred stay on your lap tonight?” Nora quietly negotiates.
“I need a seat for Fred,” Johm addresses the waiter directly, “one of those high ones so he can see the table.” His brief, wealthy upbringing has trained him to ask for whatever he wants.
“Of course. One moment, please.” The waiter disappears.
“Sorry for the wait, we had a carbon monoxide issue,” I explain to Miranda.
“Carbon monoxide,” she repeats, her neck stiff, almond eyes unblinking.
Nora breathes through her nose, also not blinking.
“Well, I see you’ve already ordered drinks,” I say, trying to distract. “What are we drinking? Water?”
“Yes.” Miranda Maxwell’s eyes dart back and forth from me to Nora to Johm, trying to figure out what’s going on.
The waiter returns with Fred’s high chair, and either in jest or to make a good impression, he places a napkin on the doll’s lap. A few diners look our way, amused.
“I’m a big water drinker,” I say. “Do you like water?”
“Yes. Yes, I drink lots of water,” Miranda says.
“That’s good. Water is very good for you.”
“I don’t like water,” Johm interjects. “I like grape juice.” He plays with a spoon, putting it over the candle flame.
I calmly take the spoon and place it in front of him. “I drink water first thing in the morning. What about you, Miranda?”
Miranda places an elbow on the table. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to— Are these your friends?”
Johm picks up the spoon and places it over the flame.
“Well, I’m just babysitting Johm, you see.” I take the spoon and place it back in front of him.
Miranda points her chin at Nora. “So, she’s not your best friend or anything?”
I try to sound casual. “No, my best friend lives in Cleveland. He’s a great guy, you’d love him.”
We sit through a pained silence. Johm places his spoon over the flame.
“Would you like something to drink, sir?” the waiter asks.
“Yes!” I yell. Diners from other tables glance over. “I’ll have what she’s having.”
“So, water?”
“Yes. Water. Are you drinking a special kind of water? Tap, distilled, spring?”
“Just water,” she says.
“Just water then.”
“I’ll have chocolate milk,” Johm demands.
“And you, ma’am?” The waiter makes no spectacle of Nora’s attire.
Nora clears her throat. “I’ll have a bottle of Merlot with an order of caviar and brie.”
I deserve that.
The waiter marches off, his presence instantly missed. We linger in another painful bout of silence. The bossa nova music playing from the speakers somehow makes everything worse.
“So, how’s it going?” I ask Miranda.
Her jaw is clenched. My hands are clamped together under the table, rekindling my religion, praying she doesn’t ask why Nora is here and what the bathrobe is all about.
“I want dino nuggets,” Johm says.
“We’ll get you dino nuggets,” Nora says, taking his spoon from the flame and placing it in front of him.
“You know that part in Avengers when Hulk turns big?” Johm says, bouncing restlessly in his seat. “How does Hulk’s underwear stay on if the rest of his clothes rip off?”
My phone rings. I answer. It’s the fire department. We’re good to return home.
“That was the fire department,” I announce. “They said the carbon monoxide problem is all taken care of.”
Everyone blinks.
Knowing I can’t delay the inevitable much longer, I decide to address everything. It’s either that or I break down in tears.
“Let me just address the elephant in the room,” I start.
“Thank you,” Miranda says.
I take a deep breath, bracing myself.
“I want to tell you the truth, because I don’t think this night is going to last much longer without it. The truth is, I couldn’t believe you would even give me a chance. You’re smart, accomplished, and beautiful. I mean, look at me. I’m a liberal arts student who can’t change a light bulb. I know a date is so simple to you, but for a guy like me, you never forget things like this. This is the stuff that changes a guy. For a few hours, he thinks to himself, ‘Maybe I’m not so bad after all.’ I’m sorry for tonight, Miranda. It was very selfish of me. I didn’t consider how it would make you or anybody feel. I wanted you to like me because I wanted to feel wanted by someone like you. That’s all.”
Nora’s gaze drops to her lap. Johm picks up his spoon and places it over the flame. Miranda stares at me through the dancing candle. In the delicate silence, she slowly lifts her glass of water and takes a sip without breaking her stare. She swallows, pats her lips with a napkin, and takes a deep breath.
“If you think this vulnerable sad-boy thing works because it’s okay for men to cry now, I’m here to tell you that it doesn’t,” she says. “No one cares about your insecurities, least of all me. I understand you’re trying to figure yourself out, but I’ve known capable, secure men before. They’re on time, they have actual jobs, and they aren’t so neurotic as to bring another woman on a date. No matter how progressive you think these times get, women will always want men who know themselves, so get that in your thick, boring head. Confessing your feelings is what’s wrong with men. You don’t want to fix yourselves; you want to justify yourselves. I came here because I wanted to give you a chance. I knew you were some bespeckled noodle-boy from the Midwest. But I’m sorry I looked past my assumptions. I have never been treated like this in my life. You’re a self-loathing neurotic who will piss off every woman you know because you don’t have a clue who you are. Thank you for this night. It was a great learning experience. You need to grow up. Goodnight and good luck, Peter Pan.”
She takes another curt sip of water and pats her lips with a napkin, then she stands and slips her arms into a Burberry coat, adjusting her hair before buttoning it up. In moments like these, I never know where to look. Up? Down? There is nowhere to hide. One must face the humiliation of his own fiasco with open eyes.
“Goodnight, Miranda.” Nora speaks up, unexpectedly.
It feels like the whole restaurant stops moving.
Nora’s nose points at Miranda Maxwell like a cocked gun. “I’m glad you’ve decided who you are, because so have I. You’re unkind, cruel, and ugly. You are going to find yourself an unkind, cruel, and ugly man who is very sure of who he is, and you’re both going to live happily ever never. And when you’re a forty-year-old WASP with kids who hate you and a husband who cheats on you, you’re going to wonder why life didn’t turn out as beautiful as it did in the mirror. In that moment, you’re going to remember this night and realize the cost of not being kind. Have a good life.”
She takes Johm’s spoon away from the flame and places it in front of him.
Amidst all her luxury and sense of security, Miranda Maxwell stands totally still, her fingers on a button of her coat, staring at Nora in her robe and tennis shoes.
The waiter walks up.
“And here you go, ma’am, caviar with a wheel of brie. Are we on one check this evening?”
The restaurant with the best ratings in Cambridge packs the remains our artisan $70-a-plate dining experience in the same white to-go boxes as any Chinese take-out. Johm swears the six-dollar chocolate milk is Nesquik.
We return to the townhouse and plop onto the suede sofa with an oversized wool blanket. The humiliation of the evening subsides. Nora warms up dino nuggies for Johm, and we eat caviar while watching Friends, which Johm insisted on, claiming Ross looks like his karate teacher.
He falls asleep after one episode.
“I’m sorry for such a lousy evening,” I tell Nora.
“Take me to dinner and we’re even.” She takes a sip of wine. “She was a jerk. You don’t want a girl like that.”
“She was a pretty jerk.”
“With pretty people, the jerk usually comes with it. It’s a package deal.”
“But you’re pretty,” I say.
“You think so?” This makes her frown, one cheek bulging with a caviar cracker. “I always thought my face was too long.”
“No, I like your face. It’s nice.”
“Honest?”
“Honest.”
The intro music to Friends plays, and it starts to rain. It is warm here, with Johm asleep in Nora’s arms and Nora lying in mine, like clustering house cats.
“You’ve turned into quite the mother,” I tell her.
She looks at Johm. “It’s comforting to take care of someone else for a change.”
“That’s a good sign.”
“Is it?” She turns to the TV. “I thought it was, but when the excitement of taking care of a child settles, it’s the same thing all over again. I know I can do great things with my life, and yet I have no idea what I’m supposed to do, no idea how to unlock myself. A kid isn’t going to save me any more than love will.”
