Easy to Please

Next to the sidewalk brakes eek and rolling wheels slow to gravel crunching as cars, mostly yellow, file in line, settling closer to the cross walk for a traffic light. Above the wind whooshes then rushes between buildings, as though it too was lost in route and guessing directions; left here, no right. The first street lamps light, the early risers of their night shift. Chris Derwent, too seems more alive then usual, or feels it, because a beautiful woman is walking next to him gaily. Her longish purple skirt flits in the wind and her purse falls in with her sway and on any other day he might be too shy to say, “hello.” But today, she is the beautiful woman coursing the city because of him, with him, in fact.
    “Chris,” she says, “where do we go now, Chris?”
    Panic flashes through Chris’s mind and, never strong under pressure, he abandons his plan to suggest a picnic in the park. He hadn’t brought food, but thought that it might be charming to find a deli and bring some sandwiches to a bench. But after speaking with such condescension over French impressionism at the museum he felt the need to pretend to be rich. Can you blame him? You are not allowed to say, “The Manét’s and Monét’s are all well and good, but there’s something more elegant and robust about the Dutch Masters. See the way the dark streaks accentuate the glimmers of gold, let alone the somber red wine in glass chalices?” without taking the lady to a real restaurante.
    “Well Kelly” Chris said, “I was thinking we could go to a restaurant(e). But I hadn’t decided on one. I thought it might be fun to just see if we pass anything nice.”
    “Okay,” Kelly said. She was more familiar with the city, and tried to think of a place that would live up to his expectations. He was so cultured, so different from what she’d guessed based on his face at work. It was funny how the faces change, she thought, like the first time you recognized an old high school teacher once you’re an adult, and suddenly you’re just two people. That was how Chris’s face had changed. It wasn’t more handsome, but more real to her, than when she’d see him at work puffing his cheeks and raising his eyes to the ceiling in boredom. Perhaps he was more handsome outside of work, and better off than she would have guessed. She decided on a suggestion, “There’s a really excellent place on Walnut, I’ve heard of, anyway. All good reviews, even you would approve,” she added archly.
    “What? I’m not easy to please?” he asked.
    “Oh. It is expensive…” Kelly remembered, suddenly feeling a bit guilty for suggesting a 5 star restaurant.
    “Please,” Chris stopped her, “I can cover us.” That was the point of taking her on a date, after all. He asked her out to dinner, which meant a real dinner, and now he looked forward to enjoying some nice food, if only for the purpose of showing that he was easy to please.

     The queasiness Chris had felt as they waited in line behind business executives and their trophy wives and mistresses had positively swelled into nausea by the time their entrées arrived an hour later. Kelly had asked for the escargot, and even though Chris had taken a painful glance at the prices, he’d accidentally said, “escargot,” when the waiter asked him to place an order. An hour! Chris thought, trying not to be distracted by the table of Wharton alum beside him. Most of the tables were taken up by respectable rich people, only interrupting each other’s formal conversation with smiles and the occasional sip of wine. The men at this table, however, seemed to set their silverware down with authority, so that it clinked against their plates as if to say that they had what might be called “F**k You” money. This was probably close to the truth. Kelly said something about her grand mother, to which Chris nodded in agreement and despondently said,
    “Yeah, I couldn’t stand my grandmother while she was alive.”
    Kelly thought that that was a cold reply to the story of her own grandmother’s recent passing. For the past hour Chris had seemed less and less interested in her, and she wondered if it was something she had done. He was so alive at the museum, and after, when they were just walking alongside other couples through the gentrified areas of the city. She wondered if suggesting this place had been a bad idea.
    Chris saw the defeated concern in her eyes, which despite the tab she was running up, were beautiful as ever. He knew he must have been acting distracted and distressed and depressed and all sorts of things beginning with “D,” so he tried the one trick he knew; displacement.
    “I’m sorry,” he began, “I’ve just been really stressed at work lately.”
    Kelly felt terrible for having misjudged Chris, and worse, for having blamed herself for something entirely imaginary.
    “What’s wrong at work?” she asked.
    Chris waited till the waiter had set down another glass of water for him to chase down his snails with.
    “I could be making more money,” he said, staring at the expensive little b******s. He estimated that each cost about five dollars. Chris had to admit the restaurant gave ample portions. He also had to admit that the escargot was better than he would have imagined. It basically tasted like muscles. But why spend so much on muscles? He wondered, looking around at the easy faces above tables of other glorified dishes. Were these people really getting so much from their delicacies, or was it that people who never spent any energy worrying about money could enjoy simpler pleasures like eating that much more? Nine-fold more enjoyment, if it were indicated by the price. He forced another bite down against his anxiety’s will and imagined himself smuggling the rest out in a to-go box and selling them in a back alley.
    “Hang in their Chris,” Kelly said clasping his hand, understanding, “Maybe next year you’ll get a promotion. And anyways, money isn’t everything.”
    The waiter refilled their wine glasses and Chris, in an honest display of class, resisted downing it in one gulp.
    When the check came Chris had barely eaten, and Kelly had a smidgen left over, so they asked if they “could get the escargot to escargot” (her joke). The waiter returned with their food in the same Styrofoam containers used by all restaurants, but it came in a nice bag. Chris paid with credit so that he could afford the subway home.
    They walked past the park Chris had almost recommended they picnic at. The air was stiller and chiller than it had been, and Chris’s nerves were that way too. He felt that somehow, not being defrauded in the restaurant was really the biggest godsend he could have asked for, and as the rich wine worked on his mind he felt a little closer to Kelly than he had before the day began. After the park they passed more restaurants, none so rich in atmosphere as the one they’d patronized, but nice. They briskly walked through a section of the city where homeless people seemed more comfortable and, growing to the idea of poverty, Chris decided it might look nice if he gave their leftovers to a particularly sad looking scrawny man with extra hair but not enough teeth.
    “That’s sweet,” Kelly said clasping Chris’s hand as the homeless man opened the Styrofoam clam. He puzzled at the contents for a moment.
    “Give it a try, it’s really delicious!” Chris said, excited that Kelly might watch that singular event in history when a homeless man ate snails from a five star restaurant. The homeless man tried one, and then spit it out, tried another, and spat that out too, and then turned a furious face to Chris, for thinking of tricking a homeless man into eating snails.
    “It’s good,” Chris tried to assure him. The homeless man threw about thirty five dollars worth of snails at Chris and set to chase them, but Kelly and Chris moved swiftly around a building and past a few groups of people before the homeless man could see them again.
    “This was still a nice night, Chris,” Kelly said, not that she was trying to convince herself.
    “It was lovely,” Chris said, meaning her. If he could’ve just said that, or even better explained it. But how could he? How could anyone say the words, “I don’t know you, but you’re worth more than money to me. I don’t need you, but I want to. I’m a fake, I’m a fraud, but you like something about me that’s real, and I can tell.”
    Kelly took “lovely” for sarcasm, and decidedly kept her face forward when he placed his arm around her shoulders. But the longer they waited for her cab the more she felt bad for thinking he was sarcastic. Maybe he did like her, she thought, when his hand seemed to squeeze unconsciously as (she could see out of the corner of her eye) he was looking up at the sky. When her cab pulled up she turned her face toward his. He moved in to kiss her but balked.
    On the cab ride back Kelly McCann began to change her mind about the man who’d taken her out on the city. He had strong opinions at the museum, but he was reserved at dinner, and he took the incident with the homeless man like a true sport. Chris Derwent, you’re a champ, She thought.

Author's Note

Review me and I'll check out your work. That's the pact.

Reviews

[Marie]

THis is kind of sweet, kind of charmin kind of funny. But you started it which what seemed to be a surrealistic vewpoint...then you changed it to a real story. I'd suggest you reward those first few sentences to fit with the rest or your word.

[Epipsychologist]

Thanks Marie. I've realized, when I was editing this a few days ago, that I began this in the present tense and then switched it to the past. My problem is that I actually really like the way it begins. I feel like i'm paying homage to the city I love. But then, maybe this is one of those instances where I should kill my darlings.