I didn’t date much in high school, not real dating. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to or hadn’t the chances to. It was that I couldn’t. I didn’t have a car, didn’t have a driver’s license, and didn’t have enough money to date. I’d never had a real job yet, and monthly allowance from my parents just wasn’t quite enough for proper courting. Most of my spending money came from mowing lawns and doing yard work for neighbors, which didn’t pay a whole lot. I even did some baby-sitting. Yet these did not provide me with enough funds to get a girl and keep her right. I chose not to bother with it.
Oh, I’d tried a few real jobs, but those were real work since I had to put up with a real boss every day. My being so young with no experience nor worthwhile credentials, I’d always be given the worst assignments: cleaning the toilets, cleaning the grease traps, setting out mouse traps then disposing of what they’d caught, and such. At the low wages they paid me, it simply wasn’t worth it. Not to mention that my only transportation to and from work was either walking or riding my bicycle. Neither was a viable option in that New Orleans heat of summer.
Once, I’d earned my high school diploma and got a few decent jobs, things were better. I could date for true and soon had a steady girl who would eventually become the mother of my first son.
My parents had made sure that we learned proper table etiquette courtesy of Ms Emily Post, and I grew up in New Orleans, so through osmosis I knew good food from bad. It took me no time to practice my dining skills restaurant style.
One particular Friday during the Catholic Lenten season when the entire city has seafood of some sort as supper, my special girl and I went to Jazz’s Joint, a popular seafood emporium overlooking Lake Pontchartrain. We had the usual dating conversations throughout until after our entrees had been properly disposed. We seldom had dessert, already being full to bustin’, so we chatted until our server Daphne delivered the bill.
“Paul Honey, you know I like you a lot and we get along great. I always have fun when I’m with you. Like tonight, dinner was great and so was our conversation.
“But everything you do is so, …pre-planned.”
That irked me. I hate that ridiculously redundant word. Planning means you’re thinking about what to do, mapping out your actions step by step. You then carry out those plans. Pre-planning means you haven’t even started thinking about it yet. A ludicrous word.
“Wait. I thought you liked that?”
“Oh, I do, you always make 100% sure that everything will be perfect, and that’s the problem. You’re too safe. There is no spontaneity, no surprise moment with you.”
“Surprise, I gotta pee,” and I walked to the men’s room.
Jazz has the best men’s room in the city of New Orleans. Now, in a city with the highest per capita barroom ratio in the nation, bathrooms are a priority. At Jazz’s, the facilities are simple: four stalls, two sinks, black tile floors and walls up to the shoulders. The remainder is sports pages from the local Times-Picayune newspaper shellacked to the walls daily. They don’t take the old papers down, they just slap today’s edition over yesterday’s, pasting them on with another clear coat. The urinal is a floor level, 14-inch-wide trough that lines the base of one wall. About every half hour, one of the busboys comes in with a bucket of ice and refills the urinal. Then he sprinkles a liberal amount of Comet and Bon Ami on top. The melting ice provides automatic flush and cleansing. Yes, there’s plenty to do while peeing at Jazz. But on this night, I was too busy trying to plan a spontaneous action to fully enjoy these perks.
She had insulted me with that safe crack; she’d opened me up. Not that it wasn’t true, of course it was. That’s what hurt the most. I was determined to show that I could be spontaneous. Then I made the mistake of thinking just that as I walked out of the bathroom.
By now the place was pretty full of people. We’d been through dinner and two bottles of wine. Stepping out of the pisser I surveyed the dining room. There was a row of booths, temporary cubbies for couples too interested in each other to even be there—except as their prelude to lust. They had a price to pay and I decided then and there to tax them. The dining room proper was left of these booths; the bar and foyer were just beyond. It was a straight shot from the payphone behind me to the front door. I decided to vagary away.
“Daphne. Com’ere.”
I unfolded a Franklin 100 buck bill added a Grant and pressed it into her palm.
“This should cover it. Now what’s the number to this place? You just bring her the courtesy phone, stand back, and remember to tell your grandkids.
I could see that my Jessica was growing a bit impatient waiting, … until Daphne handed her the phone.
“Hello, Jessie? Don’t say a word. Don’t look over here; she looked straight at me. Just get your purse and casually walk over to the bar. Get the car keys ready, stand by the door and wait for me. I’ll be right there.”
I hung up. She was befuddled. Jessie tilted her head at me curiously, like a puppy. I sent her a quick nod and a sigh across the dining room. Then, she moved.
I took two steps back into the men’s room to compose myself before the mirror. Then I moved.
I saw the whole thing from multiple angles somehow. It’s like the whole thing was Lucasfilmed for just this scene. I still see it table-top level front, sides and rear—slow motion and real time. I see it panoramic and in close-ups, with the entire dining area and individual reactions in perfect focus. I see it from the Goodyear blimp’s 50-yard-line view. I see it through Jessie’s eyes and I see her face the whole way running.
I flung open the bathroom door and bounded up onto the back of the first booth. I stood there a moment to catch my balance astraddle the shoulders of an astounded personal secretary who was working late at the office to get ahead with her elderly boss who hates his country club wife. His blue eyes looked up into my brown, the gumbo spoon still in his mouth. I winked at him, then I jumped. Smack dab in the middle of their table I jumped. Soup bowls and breadbasket buckled. I ran, romping from one booth-back to table-top to booth-back next. Right down the line I kangarooed all the way to the bar where Jessica stood agape. It was great. There were shrieks and curses, blood-cuddling screams and gasps aghast. And there were plates and glasses flying each and every which-a-way. Silverware flew askew. Food Ferris-wheeled. Unwary cups and saucers pinwheeled and somersaulted to the floor. Like a lightning strike, havoc was wrought this Good Friday evening, and I was the good Doctor Frankenstein with nothing to Hyde.
It was a grand mess I left behind as I grabbed Jessie’s hand and pulled her through the stained-glass entry doors. We were in the car speeding three blocks away before she could speak.
She accused me of insanity, of all things. I was laughing so hard that my cheeks hurt; she was no better off. Cutting through a huge invisible parking lot, I almost sideswiped two shopping carts and a guy on a parked bike. We guffawed at it all.
Never again did Jessica accuse me of not being spontaneous. She didn’t dare.
Global English Tutor - Paul Cuadrado 