Tasty Tuesday

 

“We’re running out of time!” Amy shouted, “Drive faster!”

“I’m already going nine miles an hour over the speed limit,” Mark said. “I refuse to go any faster.”

“But …,” she said, sounding panicked.

“If a state trooper stops us, we’ll certainly never make it so stop telling me to drive faster.”

Mark couldn’t understand the urgency. It wasn’t as if this would be their first time. And so what if they didn’t make it tonight? There’s always tomorrow. Of course it wouldn’t be the same, but they would still be there.

“We’re never going to make it in time,” Amy said, leaning toward Mark so she could peek at the speedometer.

“Aren’t you the one who’s always so afraid of hitting a deer while we’re going too fast?” Mark asked.

“That’s beside the point,” she said, crossing her arms in front of her defiantly.

It was all his fault, Amy thought. He’s the one who needed to look at one more car, then one more, then just one more. And he knew just about everyone in the tri-county area so, of course, he had to stop and talk to every person he saw and gather every little tidbit of information about what’s been happening in their lives since the last time they saw each other. As if that wasn’t enough, he had to talk to everyone who was looking at one of the cars he was thinking of buying. “Why do you prefer the Corvette over the Camaro?” “Would you go with a convertible again?” “Do you think that color will lower the trade-in value?”

Oh, please, she thought. Give me a break.

That was just at the car dealership. The movie theater was even worse. She thought they had decided on “Elvis,” but when they got to the theater Mark wasn’t sure he wanted to see another Tom Hanks movie. Nothing Amy said could convince him that it wasn’t really a Tom Hanks movie just because Tom Hanks was in it. She also couldn’t convince him that “Where the Crawdads Sing” was not a chick flick. She’d read the book so she tried to give him a condensed version of the plot, but he wasn’t buying it. His choice – after “Elvis” wasn’t his choice anymore – was “Jurassic World: Dominion.” As stubborn as he was being with “Where the Crawdads Sing,” she was being just as stubborn with the dinosaur movie. She didn’t like the first one – found it boring as a matter of fact – and had no desire to see any of the following Jurassic movies. Even Mark’s “But Jeff Goldblum is in it …” argument didn’t work. They finally decided on “Top Gun Maverick,” although they had decided when it first came out that they would rather wait until it came onto a streaming service to see it.

Then there was the popcorn argument – the same popcorn argument they have every single time they go to a movie theater, which is one of the reasons they rarely go. She wanted extra butter. He wanted no butter. As usual, they compromised and got the regular, normal amount of butter the theater uses. Amy had suggested once – and only once – that they each get their own popcorn instead of sharing one and you’d think she suggested flying first class instead of coach or buying name brand toilet paper over store brand. The man was considering buying a $70,000 Corvette “just because,” Amy thought, but he was going to quibble over spending a few extra cents on toilet paper or a second box of popcorn.

She didn’t realize she was shaking her head as she was thinking, until Mark asked her why she was.

“It’s nothing,” she said.

“Great,” he said, rolling his eyes. “The ‘it’s nothing’ response. You must be angrier than I thought.”

“I’m not angry,” Amy said, although she really was. “I just want to get there.”

“We have plenty of time,” Mark said. “We’ll get there. Stop worrying.”

“I’m not worrying,” she said. “This isn’t something I would worry about. I’m not a sociopath. I just want to get there.”

“So you’ve mentioned,” Mark said. He reached over and patted her leg. “We are almost there, you know. It’ll be fine.”

For the briefest of moments she considered telling him to stop being so condescending but then gave him the benefit of the doubt, thinking that he was just trying to de-escalate the situation. After all, this wasn’t life or death. They would survive even if they didn’t get there on time.

“It’s just that I’ve been looking forward to this,” Amy said. “It might not be the most important thing in the world. Heck, it might even be one of the dumbest things in the world, but I really was looking forward to it and I’ll be disappointed if we miss it.”

“We won’t miss it,” Mark said. “And it’s not dumb.”

“It’s a little dumb,” Amy said, chuckling.

“Remember, you’re the one who said that.”

“I’ll remember,” she said, smiling. “But, as dumb as it is, you do get my point don’t you?

“There’s a point?” he asked.

She playfully punched his arm.

“Yes, there’s a point,” she said. “You start thinking about something, then you start anticipating it, then you get your heart set on it. Then, when you think it might not happen after all, you can’t help but feel disappointed. So, although it’s not important in the whole scheme of things and we’ll survive if we don’t get there in time it’ll be a little depressing. Not “Prescribe me some Prozac” depressing, but it’ll make me sad.”

“Well, we’re almost there and,” he said, looking at the clock on the dashboard, “with plenty of time to spare.”

“I’m not sure fifteen minutes could be considered plenty, but at least it looks as if we’re going to make it.”

“If there’s not a line,” Mark said.

“Don’t even think that. Would there be a line at this time of night when the colleges aren’t in session?”

“You do realize that some kids who go away to college do come home for the summer, right?”

“But it’s not the same thing.”

“It’s a moot point anyway,” Mark said, pulling into the parking lot. “We’re here and there’s no line.”

“And it’s still open!”

“I told you we’d make it in time.”

“And since it’s before midnight, it’s still Taco Tuesday,” she said.

Mark and Amy got out of the car and held hands while making their way quickly to the front door of Tasty Taco. Just in time.

I Hope Daisies Are OK

 

 

Don’t you remember the time you told me I was too good for you? Or, should I say, the first time you told me I was too good for you?

 I told you I was surprised you thought I was stupid enough to fall for a line like that. I mean, look at all those times you said I was smarter than anyone else in my office, and that I was one of the few people you could have an intelligent conversation with about anything. I also told you that I had hoped that you at least respected me enough to tell me the truth: That you liked me, but you didn’t like me that way.

 You insisted it wasn’t me it was you. I said, “Thanks, George Constanza.” You laughed. It was that laugh that made me laugh, too, no matter how pissed off I was. Then we started trading other lines from “Seinfeld.” “These pretzels are making me thirsty,” you said, while actually picking up a pretzel from the bowl on the bar. I think that made it even funnier. At any rate, I laughed way harder than was warranted, which made me a little angry at myself because I was still pissed off at you. But telling myself in my head that I was angry reminded me of, “The sea was angry that day, my friends.” “Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” you said. “I once broke up with someone for not offering me pie,” I said. “Mulva,” you said. Again, I laughed way harder than I should have.

 Yada, yada, yada.

 We had a couple more glasses of pinot. You paid, as usual, and we went to our separate homes. For the rest of the night, though, I couldn’t help but think how sad it was that you believed I was too good for you. Or that anyone could be too good for you. Before that night I never thought of you as having an inferiority complex. Why would you? How could you? You were smart and funny and witty and so handsome, with that great smile. You were a great dad, although you didn’t see Kevin and Kate as much as you wanted to, which made you believe you were not a good dad. But people notice things, and they did notice you were a great dad.  And Kevin did come back to live with you, after all. And, no matter what you said, it was not just because he wanted to be closer to his cousins. 

 Besides all that, you were a lawyer with a successful practice who also advocated for kids dumped into the legal system because of some usually-heinous thing their parents or guardians did. As if that wasn’t enough, you volunteered for the United Way and the Red Cross. How could you think anyone, especially me, was too good for you?

 It’s not like I was Princess Diana out doing good deeds all day and looking gorgeous and totally put together while doing them. I was a newspaper reporter covering the local cops and court beat and felt as if I was having a good day if the part in my hair was straight and I was wearing matching shoes. 

 I was too good for you? Give me a break!

 That could have been the end of our relationship but, obviously, it wasn’t. I figured “just friends” was better than nothing. I was relieved a couple of days later, after court, when you asked if I wanted to stop at The Brew Station for a drink. Like you even had to ask. That night was good, as were the many nights that followed over the next few years. As long as we kept it casual and in the friend zone everything was fine. 

 Then we went a month without going for drinks after court. We had been going out two or three times a week, but that dropped off to just Thursdays. Those Thursdays were the highlight of my week, although I never told you that. I didn’t want you to think – well, know, really – that I still desperately wanted to take it out of the friend zone.  When the fourth Thursday rolled around, I thought maybe you were waiting for me to ask you to go to The Brew Station after court. It’s possible, I thought, that you got tired of always being the one who asked. So, when I asked you I fully expected you to say yes. I’d feel relieved and everything would seem normal again. But you said no. Not no, exactly. You just said you couldn’t. No explanation. Other times you couldn’t make it for drinks you’d told me you were going to Ohio because Kate had an important swim meet, or you had a late meeting with a client or something. But not this time. This time it was just, “Sorry, but I can’t.” 

 Besides the lack of an explanation, there was something else different about your declining my invitation. I couldn’t put my finger on it at the time. It was a look on your face, in your eyes, that I’d never seen before. I wish I could say I figured it out on my own, but I didn’t. Probably because I didn’t want to believe it.  But, in a small town where people talk and gossip, it was only a matter of time – a very short time – before I heard about Vicki.

 Strangely enough, I don’t remember people telling me you were happy. I just remember hearing that you were with her. Now that I think about it, I don’t even remember you telling me you were happy. That was a weird conversation, though. You telling me I made you a better person because, before we became friends, you would never have thought of telling me you were marrying someone else. You would have just let me find out through the grapevine. Then when you said you decided to marry her because when you spent 23 hours driving to Florida, you didn’t kill each other, I just shook my head and thought maybe I was too good for you. I mean, if your standards were that low.

 I wasn’t surprised that it didn’t last. Actually, I was surprised that it lasted as long as it did. I heard rumors. Turns out most of them were true. 

 I was sad that we didn’t get back to pre-Vicki status right away. It was just a friendly wave at the United Way picnic or a nod when we passed each other on the way to our seats at a Bonaventure basketball game. Was it really six years before we had a proper conversation? I remember that day at the charity auction like it was yesterday.  You were looking at a La-Z-Boy recliner and I said, “Perfect way to relax with a grandson sleeping on your chest.” You turned around. Your eyes lit up and you said, “Exactly what I was thinking.” Honestly, I don’t remember what we talked about besides your grandson. I just remember it felt good.

 We didn’t see each other very much after that. Again, I’d heard rumors. I don’t know why I didn’t call and ask you about them. I’m glad you finally told me, though. I don’t know how I would have handled finding out any other way.

 I remember that night so well. It’s like a movie I’ve re-watched dozens and dozens of times. You suggested we go to Players for drinks, which we’d never done together before. After some chit-chat and a couple glasses of pinot you told me you were dying. I knew by the look in your eyes it wasn’t a cruel joke, and the rumors were true. Then you reminded me of the first time you told me I was too good for you and me saying that you must think I’m stupid to fall for a line like that. You told me you certainly did not think I was stupid, but you had been; that maybe I was right and we should have tried being more than just friends. 

 But then again, you said, we might have ended up hating each other. You do have a track record, you said. 

 I told you I could never hate you, and that should have been obvious to you. I mean, you married someone else, for goodness sake, and I was still crazy about you. Instead of replying you asked if I wanted to dance, which you had never done before. I said yes. You nodded to the DJ. At the first few notes of Billy Joel’s “Just the Way You Are” I started crying. You wiped the tears away with your thumbs, pulled me closer and told me you should have asked me to dance a long time ago. I was speechless.

 Not at all like today. I hadn’t planned on talking this long. I was just going to drop the flowers off in front of the gravestone and leave. I don’t even know what your favorite flowers were. I hope daisies are OK. Anyway, the last song we danced to that night? The Beatles? I love you more.

I Don't Care If It's a Screw

 

“No,” Laura said. “That’s not right. It has to be in capital letters.”

“You’re wrong,” Marjorie said, flipping her long red hair over her shoulder, turning her back to Laura and walking away.

“I’m not wrong,” Laura insisted. “It’s capital letters and there’s a reason for it.”

“I’m only going to say this one more time,” Marjorie said, without looking at Laura. “You are wrong.”

“Oh for the love of all that is holy,” said managing editor David as he entered the newsroom. “Tell me you two are not fighting again.”

“We’re not fighting,” Marjorie said. “It’s more of a misunderstanding.”

“Yeah,” Laura said. “You misunderstanding that you’re wrong and I’m right.”

“Did anyone ever tell you how tedious you can be?” Marjorie asked Laura.

“Did anyone ever tell you that you can be a real …”

“Don’t say it,” David interrupted Laura. “We’re all adults here. Certainly we can have heated, even contentious, discussions and still remain civil.”

“I apologize,” Laura said reluctantly, “but I’m very passionate about this.”

“Whatever this is,” David said, using air quotes, “that’s quite obvious.”

“The question is why,” Marjorie said.

“I worked there when I was in high school,” Laura said, “and they were very good to me. I’m loyal to people who treat me well.”

“Understandable, I suppose,” Marjorie said, ‘but we’re still not printing it with all capital letters.”

“Printing it without all capital letters makes us look stupid,” Laura said, “and I have no problem telling people you are the one who made the decision to go with a capital and two lower case.”

“Like anyone would notice,” Marjorie said, laughing, still not looking in Laura’s direction.

“You’re really going with that argument after the ‘Ave’ typo?” Laura asked, referring to the edition two weeks earlier when the newspaper printed Ave Hardware instead of ACE Hardware.

“So, we got a few phone calls,” Marjorie said, now sitting at her desk with her back toward the rest of the room. “Big deal.”

“Big deal?” Laura asked, incredulous. “I will never understand how you got to be an editor. It is a big deal. It’s the name of a local business. What could be more important than the name of a person or a business?”

“You’re overreacting, as usual,” Marjorie said, arranging the piles of papers and notebooks on her desk.

“And you’re being ridiculous,” Laura said. “Listen to me for just a few seconds and you’ll see why I’m right.”

“I’m leaving,” David said, explaining that he had a meeting with the publisher and he would be gone for about an hour. “If you could answer the phones while I’m gone, and not here to prompt  you, that would be splendid. And, I expect this dust up to be over and done with by the time I get back.”

“I expect that as well,” Marjorie said, glaring at Laura, personifying the saying, “If looks could kill.”

When Marjorie didn’t object to Laura’s suggestion that she listen for just a few seconds, Laura dug through the pile of newspapers sitting on a table in the middle of the room, picked up a copy of last Thursday’s edition that included an ACE Hardware ad, slapped it onto Marjorie’s desk and started her explanation.

“The negative space in the ‘A’ is supposed to represent a planing tool,” Laura said, pointing to the ad. “The negative space in the ‘C’ represents a plunger. The negative space in the ‘E’ is an electrical plug. So, you see, it doesn’t make sense if you use lower case letters.”

“Actually,” said Jim, another reporter in the newsroom, and one who felt the need to be involved in every conversation, “I believe the object in the ‘A’ is a level and the ‘C’ is a nail …”

Laura threw her hands up in exasperation and shouted, “I don’t care if it’s a screw, a nail, a plunger or a freaking flashlight! I can’t believe we’re arguing over this! The company spells its name with capital letters. End of story.”

“Not really,” said Wendy, the senior reporter in the newsroom.


“Not really what?” Laura asked, running her fingers through her short, curly brown hair before acting as if she was going to try pulling it out of her head by the handful.


“It’s not really the end of the story,” Wendy said, placing a pencil behind her ear, then picking up a small, spiral bound book from her desk. “In any other context you would be right, Laura. ACE would be spelled with all capital letters, if that is the company’s preference. However, we follow Associated Press guidelines here,” she said, holding up the AP Stylebook, “ and they clearly state that even if a company tends to use all capital letters in its name, you would not use all caps in a story. You would just capitalize the first letter. For example, Ikea and USA Today.”

Marjorie cleared her throat and started to say something, presumably to gloat.

“Don’t say a word,” Laura said, pointing a figure at Marjorie, knowing she was smirking even though her back was still turned to the rest of the room.

 

“I still think the ‘C’ is a nail,” Jim said, failing to read the mood of the room, as usual. One of the few things Laura and Marjorie could agree on was that Jim’s mansplaining was getting out of control.

“It’s a plunger,” Laura insisted, through gritted teeth, hoping Jim would take the hint and stay out of this.

“I really never thought of the flashlight until …” Marjorie said.

“I realize Laura said this just a matter of minutes ago,” Wendy interrupted, “but I can’t believe we’re arguing over this!”

“It’s not an argument now, though,” Jim said. “It’s more of a discussion.”

“I’m not going to argue semantics either,” Wendy said. “Can we at least agree that the ‘E’ is an electrical plug?”

All of the reporters, and Marjorie, looked at each other and, without saying another word, turned to their computers and went back to working on their stories for the day.

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