Wednesday, February 18, 2009

The Menu

Two coffees, an order of beignets and extra powdered sugar on the side.

My sister always said I was meant for college boys. She clung to this logic because she needed something to explain why I never dated in high school; lesbianism just wasn’t an option. I hoped she was right, and when I told her about Alex she nearly had a heart attack.

He was the first person I met that I wanted to know everything about. We had class together and when he found out that I was new to the city he insisted on taking me to his favorite restaurant just around the corner. I agreed, and followed him down sidewalks with cracked and uneven pavement, attempting to will my clumsy feet into a graceful state of dance. He took me to Café de Lune, off of Hurst Street. It boasted the best meal of sugar and caffeine, and was one of the few places open 24 hours.

He walked into the restaurant and gave a nod of the head, acknowledging the bearded waiter. The waiter returned the nod and said, “Hey man, table for two?” Alex said yes; it was obvious he was a regular. I was already envious of him. This reminded me of my father. Both Alex and my father were instant buddies with everyone they met and had friends at all the places they frequented. Alex had friends at restaurants and coffee shops; my dad had friends at gas stations.

“What’s up, guys? What can I start you out with?”

Alex took the lead.

“Two coffees, an order of beignets and extra powdered sugar on the side.”

I smiled and nodded along, something I was good at doing.

As we ate, the powdered treats left evidence of indulgence on our faces. I watched him intently whenever he spoke, attempting to memorize the contours of his face. When he smiled, his mouth and eyes drew upward creating wrinkles that pointed in the same direction. His thick, dark hair was unruly—it matched his eyes. Sometimes Alex didn’t say anything, he just looked. That look of amusement and intrigue was too disruptive, so I always lost my train of thought.

“Tell me everything about yourself.”

This made me laugh, but I caught a flash of hurt and realized he wasn’t joking.

“Well… I want to live in a trailer park, and a houseboat, and possibly a tree house. Also, I love mummies and zombies. Dead things or things that were once dead fascinate me.”

“I don’t think you really want to live in a trailer park. You wouldn’t be able to handle it.”

“But, I really do.”

“No, you don’t.”

“This is one of those moments where you should just nod your head and smile. Disagreement is my least favorite thing in the world.”

He laughed and took a bite of beignet.  After that, he asked twenty questions and I gave twenty answers. When I was done explaining my family’s history of mental illness and my affinity for smelling old books, we watched awkwardly as the couple sitting next to us let their eyes wander around the room.

“I hate that,” he said. The girl seemed to take a sudden interest in the napkin sitting in her lap and the boy was focused on the wall.

“Hate what?”

“Dates that end up like that. Nothing to say. Just sitting there, looking around hoping someone says something.”

“Yeah, me too.”

We would never have had that problem.

 

Water, water, veggie burger and fish tacos.

            I knew what would happen before it all started, and that is my problem. I know how fucked up I am, but I can’t change and I kind of have to accept it. I know that when I went to high school I didn’t want to be the fat kid anymore so I stopped eating and started working out. I obsessed over calorie intake and shedding pounds, I was a member of three different online diet programs, and I put slim fast on the grocery list. In retrospect that’s a drink for girls, but I do love embracing my feminine side. I know that there is a difference between the girls I would make-out with and the girls I want to date. The former is any girl who sits on my lap at a party while the later is preferably black or bilingual. She was neither of these things, yet she was what I wanted.

Noelle occupied every waking and sleeping moment I had. We met for breakfast almost everyday. I resisted waking up from those dreams about her, so I was usually late.  She didn’t say much in the mornings; her eyes were still tired at eight a.m. yet she could manage a shy smile. During the day, we explored the city, discovering hidden secrets in the rotting streets. On these adventures, Noelle had a camera around her neck and a journal in her bag. Whenever she was inspired, Noelle stopped what she was doing to jot down some poetic line about a street musician or dilapidated building. I envied how she could find beauty in the most unloved things like abandoned homes where vines intertwined with the structure, left without any warning to the things living there. I couldn’t love things like that.

“Noelle, Why do you like these places? They were left for a reason.”

“People forget to give love. Sometimes, they just need reminding.”

She always had to leave her mark on those places. It was usually a small handwritten note with a few sweet lines on it, like “love travels with the wind, step outside.”  When we returned to the houses, she would look to see if any one had left a reply but the world never responded. By the end of the day we’d be too exhausted to cook anything for dinner, so we used our weakened state as an excuse to go out to eat.

She would let me order first so that she could get something different. It was a safety net for our culinary enjoyment, if one of us didn’t like something we would swap. Or, I would just end up eating both of our meals.  

“A water. No straw.”

“Me too.”

“And a veggie burger.”

“I’ll have a fish taco, please.”

The end of the meal was always the same. The waiter would bring our check, she would slowly reach out for it but I always won. She would fumble with her wallet, trying to get exact change, and hastily toss it to me across the table. I tossed it back. She argued. I insisted. Then she would mutter, “Thank you, Alex” in a strange combination of defeat and pleasure. What she didn’t know was that I liked having someone to pay for.

 

The late night special, two waters, one coffee.

            I was great at waiting for him. I think I resented the fact that he had such a hold on me; I didn’t like feeling weak. But I accepted that I was and he wasn’t. When I had nothing to do, I would wait for him to call. I never called him. I didn’t want to bother him, or make him think I was desperate, or show any sign of truly being attached. I would just hope that he was thinking about me and would call. He usually did. 

            I would follow him to the restaurant at anytime. If he called in the middle of the night, I would scramble out of bed, throw on some clean clothes and rush outside and wait under the street lamp. When he finally came, I felt like a dreamy high school couple from the 1950’s. I was the head cheerleader and he was the quarterback hearth throb. We would waltz into the local diner, run into our friends from school and exchange pleasantries before sitting down to share a meal of burgers and milkshakes—one milkshake, two straws. When I got cold, as I inevitably would, he would offer me his letterman jacket. The patch-covered jacket weighed heavy on my shoulders but I would wear it proudly. After he walked me home, we said our solemn goodbyes. Wishing the night didn’t have to end, I would shrug off the jacket and reluctantly return it. A kiss on the cheek would end the night in blushing and smiles.

            These little daydreams only lasted a few seconds. When Alex finally arrived, we walked in silence. At first, I looked forward to our walks. They were usually accompanied by playful arguments about film and music; for some reason he didn’t find any cinematic merit in zombie movies. But as the seasons changed, so did we, and the walks started getting colder. He wouldn’t offer me his jacket, I would have to ask. 

            When we got to the restaurant, we were seated in our favorite spot and the silence wasn’t broken until the waitress with the missing tooth and grey, unkempt hair came up to the table.

“What’ll you be having tonight?” Her voice was rough, her fingers stained. I wondered if she had once been homeless.

            “The late night special, and a water.”

            “Make that two waters, one coffee.” I needed caffeine to stay awake while I watched him eat.

            We were quiet for most of the meal and it made me nervous. I didn’t like silence, unless of course I was in a silent-dinner-kind-of-mood. But I wasn’t and I want him to speak. When the toothless waitress brought the check, Alex looked up at me for the first time since we had placed our orders.

            “Hey, um, would you mind paying? I bought us dinner last night, so—“

            “Oh, yeah. Sure.”

            “I mean, if this were a date I would pay and all.”


Chocolate cake, coffee, and queso. In that order.

The make-out corner was perpetually occupied by a couple with magnetized lips and hands. The horniest couples sat on the same side of the table and they didn’t waste time. Most of them were drunk, and their belligerence usually provided great entertainment. The first time Noelle and I deemed it the “make-out corner” was when a middle-aged couple came in at two in the morning, ordered beer, pancakes and more beer, and proceeded to pound their fists on the table. We re-enacted this scene several times over the next few days, it was hilarious.

Then it was our turn. 

“You know where we are, don’t you?”

“Yes I do.” I winked and blew her a kiss. She fake-winced and then laughed.

“I don’t want you to feel pressured into doing anything. We can take it slow if you want to.” She spoke so dryly, and with such a serious face I could never tell when she was joking.

“Well, um, for starters, we should probably get married. Then, I’m thinking, have about seven kids. Maybe nine? Then we can go from there.”

I realized that I couldn’t imagine us fulfilling the duties of a couple in the make-out corner. I wanted to, but I didn’t think I could. I wanted to take her face in my hands and show her, not tell her, how I felt. I wanted to rest my fingertips on her lower back, putting a light pressure on the bottom of her spine to let her know I was there. But I didn’t do any of these things and she didn’t ask me to. The waiter appeared at our table and broke my train of thought, I was glad. I didn’t like thinking about this. I just wanted to be happy with where we were.

“My name is Jean-Marc and I’ll be your waiter this evening. Can I get you started with anything? Drinks? Appetizers?”

“Nothing for me, thanks.” I wasn’t hungry, but I didn’t mind watching her eat.

“Just chocolate cake and coffee please.”

“Alrighty folks, I’ll have that right out for ya.”

“Oh, Jean-Marc? Could we also get an order of queso?”

“You’ve got it.”

I gave her a surprised look, and she returned it with one of nonchalance.

“What? I’m hungry.”

 

Water, please, and two buttermilk pancakes with scrambled eggs.

            I had been displaced by lust. My roommate had stumbled into our room with her girlfriend and proceeded with the fumbling and moans that result from getting shitfaced at three in the morning. They were shrouded in darkness but their presence was made known by the wet noises of their hunger. I decided to leave. I considered my options: sleeping in my car, call Alex and hope that he answers the phone, or got to the restaurant. I didn’t really want to talk to anyone; fuming over food alone in a restaurant sounding much more appealing. Besides, Alex had been in one of his moods lately and I didn’t want to fight for his attention this early in the morning. 

It was my first time to eat alone there and it was depressing but at least I could get something to eat. The three a.m. crowd at the restaurant was drunk and hungry too. I had the toothless waitress again; I think she always worked the night shift.

            “Where’s your boyfriend?” I didn’t correct her by saying we were just friends.

            “He’s asleep, I came alone this morning.”

            “Catching up on his beauty sleep, I suppose. What can I do you for?”

            “Water, please, and two buttermilk pancakes with scrambled eggs.” She smiled at this.

            “That’s what my father used to make me when I was a kid.”

“Me too, I still ask for it when I go home.”

“It was my favorite meal. Whenever I hear the batter sizzle on the pan, I feel like I’m eight and its 1958, and my daddy’s making me pancakes for breakfast with a glass of milk on Sunday morning after church. Buttermilk pancakes will always remind me of where I was at that time.”

Her leathery skin and graying hair was deceiving; when you look closely, you notice that her eyes hadn’t aged along with the rest of her body. I hoped that mine never would either, but I think they had already begun.

 

The special, crawfish fettuccini, two waters, and pecan pie for dessert.

            I hated those talks. I had so many of them, in cars, in restaurants, in the special spots I would take them to. This one was different. It wasn’t the end of anything. It was more like a pause. Noelle knew it, too. We had grown so comfortable with everything, but nothing would come of it.

            We hadn’t been to the restaurant in a long time. I told her I was trying to save money but really I just didn’t want to be there. The same people went there every day. They ordered the same food and gave the same shitty tips to the same over worked waiters who regurgitated the same “Thanks guys, come again” even when they wished they wouldn’t come again. I loved being a regular, but I didn’t want to fall into that pattern with them. I don’t think Noelle would have minded the pattern, most of the time I think she only went there for me.

            I thought it was right to take her back there. I considered the possibility that it would go horribly wrong, she would storm out of the restaurant and I would have to chase her down the sidewalk before she took off into obscurity. But then I remembered it was Noelle and she would never do that and I would never have to chase her.

            The lunch crowd was pretty heavy but we ended up in our favorite section with our favorite friendly waiter, Jean-Marc.

            “My name is Jean-Marc, I’ll be your waiter this afternoon. Can I get you started with anything? Drinks? Appetizers?” Yes, we know your name is Jean-Marc.

            “I think we’re going to share the special, crawfish fettuccini. And water for me, please.”

            “I’ll have water also.”

            We sat there without saying anything for too long. I watched her face and she didn’t look away from my eyes until I spoke. Somehow I always ended up speaking first.

            “So, I’ve been thinking.”

            “Mhmm.” She rested her elbows on the table and let her hands curl up under her jaw. This was her ‘I’m ready to hear what you have to say but it better be good’ stance.

            “I was thinking about us. I think we should just stay friends.”

            “I’ve been thinking about that too, I was—”

            “We’re too comfortable. Where we are is good. I wanted to go somewhere, but I can’t.”

            “Right, I totally agree.” I don’t think she did.

            “We’re still best friends, right?”

            “Of course.” She blushed and looked away.

            I said something crass involving the word “vagina” to break the tension; I kept forgetting that never worked with Noelle. We enjoyed our meal, or at least I did. She didn’t eat much but agreed to share a slice of pie, she never could resist sugar. She smiled a lot. I wondered if she smiled because she was actually happy or because she thought that was what I wanted to see. I didn’t ask. 

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