by Dee Detarsio
Eye Caramba
“Ahoy! Permission to come aboard!”
“Cut it out, Frankie.” I tried to fluff my hair around my eye patch and the funky earring indent in my cheek from my morning nap. I put on my work apron and got my order pad ready.
“You okay?”
“Shut up.”
“What? I’m serious. Is your eye doing any better?” He bumped me with his elbow, his hands encased in plastic gloves, as he sliced his fresh bread. The bump was what I can only assume was his equivalent of a hug and a “there-there.” My covered eye watered like nobody’s business. Sometimes I missed him.
“I swear, Frankie, our relationship was like you and I were reading from two different sets of Ikea instructions.”
“And all we ended up with was a wobbly coffee table?”
Enthusiasm followed by mistakes ending in frustration. I guess I was ready for a decent coffee table. Frankie must have been too, because he had stopped trying to get back together.
People were lined up and hungry enough to not ask about my patch, though there were a couple of “Arghs,” and one smart aleck who said he wanted some crackers. Shiver me timbers, the morning flew by. I couldn’t wait to get out of there. I needed new eye drops and a new plan. And then, once again, the universe intervened. I swear to She Who Must Be Obeyed, I was starring in some celestial reality show for the amusement of the cosmos.
I ducked down behind the counter. If anyone is looking for a killer pair of Achilles tendons and would like to trade for, oh, say, a revved up metabolism, pouty lips, or even flexible hamstrings, go ahead and Craigslist me. I can squat with the best of them. Sad to say squatting appears to have become a lost art. I’m sure I would have been a hit around the campfire, back during prehistoric days. I lifted my forehead to sneak a peek before jerking my head back down. I am pretty sure if I was around in prehistoric times, I would have found a way to be jealous of Ooga’s bigger rock. Of Mooga’s cave wall art that you could tell was a bison, instead of mine, that would look like a scorch mark from a first-day-with-the-fire cooking accident. Of Throat-Clearing Name—whom all the men lusted after, and her lush, hair-covered body. I squeezed my knees together and rocked on my feet. I was good. I tried to channel Lauri and some yoga calming breaths.
What if Ooga’s mate died getting her that big rock? What if Mooga envied me my singing voice? (Trust me, she wouldn’t.) And what if Throat-Clearing Name yearned for my ability to see pictures in clouds? Frankie, of course, had to interrupt my exhale.
He looked out the window and immediately saw what was going on. He put two and two together and came up with one more reason to tease me. He started singing “I’ll Have a Blue Christmas Without You” in a deep voice. He kicked off his flip-flop and pinched me, with his toes. I flinched and my eyebrows gathered, almost meeting in the middle to convey my disgust.
“Get up, Ginger. One of your secret admirers? Huh. That’s what you’re going for these days? Doesn’t look like he surfs. He looks like he could sink, though, ha ha.”
“Shut it.”
“Ginger. Get up and take the man’s order.”
Frankie, “The Chef,” who rarely deigns to talk to the masses unless they’re pretty women, tossed out a head-jerking “Hey, bro.” I gripped the counter and slowly pulled myself up.
Joe Noel smiled at me. If by smile I mean didn’t growl or bare fangs or anything.
“Hi,” I said. “Welcome to Tood Fruck.”
“Say it,” I heard Frankie’s sotto voce threat.
“Good food with attitude.”
“Oh,” Joe Noel said. “I wondered about that.” He tilted his head toward the side of the truck next to the window that screamed “Tood Fruck” in bright graffiti spray paint.
“Told you,” I tossed over my shoulder at Frankie. He ignored me.
“What can I get you?” I was so embarrassed. I mean, I wouldn’t go out with anyone named Joe Noel, but he was cute, and I did want him to like me. And not see me working on this trucking stoopid fruck. I smiled bigger to show how proud I was of my job. My left cheek met the bottom of my eye patch and I reined it in a bit.
“What do you recommend?” Father Christmas asked me. I swear he was asking if I’d been a good girl this year. My face flamed, and I was nowhere near Frankie’s grill.
“What do you like?” Frankie laughed, waving his spatula like a king’s scepter.
“How’s the Makin’ Bacon?”
“Of course,” I heard Frankie say.
“It’s good,” I said, feeling the tips of my ears throb. I took his order and reached down to take his twenty dollar bill. Just like some holiday movie with a tinsel trademark slogan, I could hear an imaginary announcer’s voice, “Movies to Melt By,” as our fingers touched.
“Ow!” I pulled back as we gave each other an electric shock. Frankie gave an evil villain’s laugh as Joe Noel apologized.
“Oh, these Santa Ana winds,” I said. He went off to the side to wait for his order as I swear, Frankie took for-ev-er to grill that sandwich. At least he was competitive enough to make it the best bacon grilled cheese Mr. Noel ever had.
“Joe Noel,” I called out. “Order up.”
He had been texting and looked up with a quizzical look on his face. He came over and reached for his plate. “Thanks, Ginger.” And then came the pause. I knew it.
“Would you want to go out sometime?”
“Aw, that’s so sweet …” I hadn’t gotten far enough to formulate whatever excuse I was going to go with. I’m sure I would have come up with something, until I heard Frankie scoff. Literally, he said, “Scoff.”
“Sure!” I said, maybe even using two exclamation points. It wasn’t enough to bring out a full smile on Joe Noel’s face, but his eyes did seem to sparkle. I gave him my number and we agreed on dinner Friday night in Pacific Beach.
As he left, I turned my head and sneezed into my armpit.
“Cheesus, Ginger,” Frankie hollered at me.
“Dang Santa Ana’s,” I said with a sniff.
I hate Santa Ana winds and not just because they have the word “Santa” in their name, thought that doesn’t help. Santa Ana’s are those hot, stinking dry winds that blow in from the East, dang you, Arizona, and make the hackles go up on my neck. They wreak havoc, I tell you, creating electric shocks, allergy attacks, and other peoples’ bad moods (see electric shocks) to say nothing of increased wildfire danger. I guess it’s time for me to gather up my “wind angsts” and report to therapy, pronto.
So technically, it wasn’t my fault that I was crankier than usual all week. Frankie and I snapped at each other, and he terrorized me by poking me with electric shocks several times a day. I couldn’t believe it when Friday just showed up. Oh well, I would at least get a free meal out of my date and save more money. So while Frankie made fun of me, and Lauri begged me to take it seriously but “be cool,” however I was supposed to pull that off, I finally was able to ditch my eye patch.
($1,530.00 Allergy medicine.)
Chapter 17
Joe Noel
“Joe Noel. What kind of name is that anyway, says Ginger Krinkles.” I was not going to be myself. I was going to be confident, carefree, as if nothing mattered. For the record, nothing does.
Friday came with me jutting my jaw in and out, trying to pop my ears. My allergies were kicking it, big time. My throat was sore, as if I need permission to be super mean. Woe unto those who are around me when I have a scratchy throat. My nose was red and my eyes were itchy, or maybe it was the other way around. Either way, my ear canals were clogged chutes. My vision wasn’t as sharp, as if the pixels were just an infinitesimal notch apart from each other, softening the edges. I was not myself.
Armed with a self-fulfilling prophecy of doom, there was no way I would like this guy. “Hear that, universe? Ginger Krinkles is not interested in pursuing a relationship with Joe Noel.” That mission statement was incredibly freeing. I wasn’t nervous; I planned on practicing my social skills. Of
course, it was all enhanced because I was hopped up on evil allergy medicine, the red devil pills, the behind-the-counter kind, which I know I should never, ever take. I would make a terrible (or awesome) meth addict, depending upon how you looked at it. Game face on, the little reds swallowed, I met Mr. Tannenbaum at Specific Beach, in Pacific Beach, a new seasonal restaurant.
Dang he was cute. I felt my hair curl. But for once in my many, many storied dating life, I was not nervous. Complete absence of butterflies. None. I didn’t even obsess on any hypothetical nose hair. Plus, I was starving, in a psycho weird way since the pills had dampened whatever appetite I had. I hadn’t eaten all day, and was on some kind of manic high, which I guess was the attraction of meth. I wasn’t dressed to impress, I was dressed to ingest. Black leggings are always chic, no?
I walked up behind him and put my hands over his eyes. “Mm mm mm, No-el,” I hummed. “Guess who!”
He pulled my hands off and looked up. No smile. Who cares?
“Hey, Joe. Sorry I’m late.” And I am never late. Damn those Midwestern being-on-time genes. It’s not a cancer of manners, it’s more of a sign of how boring the Midwest is. “If there is anything going on, let’s not only be on time, let’s show up super early to get the good seats.” It was really hard for me to sashay in five minutes late.
I flounced into my seat, channeling every popular girl from every chick flick movie I had ever seen. I loved not being anxious. You should try it.
“So whaddy’a know, Joe?” I asked. I was also reading the menu, so maybe I missed his smile. Gloomy Gus.
“No carbs or cheese for me,” I said.
He tilted his head.
“Tood Fruck? It’s all we serve. I had the Gorgonzola Godzilla yesterday. Yum.” I waited. “Do you ever smile?”
The waiter showed up and before Joe could say anything, or before hell froze over waiting for him to speak, I jumped right in. “My friend, Chatty Cathy, and I would like to try the house chianti.” I smiled at Joe. “You’ll love it.” I’m sure my grin made me look like some crazed emoticon. From Joe? Nada.
You know those serene, comfortable stretches of peaceful silence, where for once you could set aside any burden of expectation? This was the exact opposite. I ate and I drank and I did not shut up.
“Where are you from?”
“What do you do?”
“Were you teased as a child?”
“Are you ready for Christmas?”
“Amen.” I held up a cracker. “These gluten free wafers look like the body of Christ dredged through seasonings.” I crunched.
“What would you do with a million dollars?”
He stared at me. “Are you okay, Ginger?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I swear if I ask you where you see yourself in five years, you’ve got the job.” I laughed. “Or you can just kick me.” He took another bite.
“Wow, dating is hard work. Excuse me.” I tossed my napkin on the table and took off for the lounge. There was a dark, wooden partition separating our table from the bar area and as I walked past it I bent my knees, lower, lower, lower, as if I were heading downstairs. The bartender laughed. Joe wasn’t even watching. I may have hogged more than my fair share of wine. I’m sure that’s a fine complement to sinus medication.
“Did you miss me?” I sat down. “Oh, good. Let’s get dessert. It’s got to be the chocolate cake!”
Joe cleared his throat. My man of few words is a Navy Seal. I interrupted whatever else he had been going to say, because what else mattered?
The cake came and I took a huge bite. I may have talked with my mouth full. “SoGood.” I plowed through the cake, and belatedly remembered my manners. I forked another huge piece. I leaned across the table and waved it in front of Joe’s mouth. “Open wide.” I wiggled the fork. “Did you just smile? Oh, I guess not.”
I put the fork down and shoved the plate away. Not only was I full, I was full of it. “I’m sorry, Joe. I’m a jerk. Please forgive me.” I smiled and heard a weird sound. I think it was a laugh.
“You have such an awesome smile,” I told him. “Where’s that been all night, buddy?”
He hid his mouth in his napkin.
“What’s going on here?” I smiled back.
He shook his head. He dropped his napkin and pointed at his mouth.
“Oh. Do you want a bite?” I reached for the cake. He coughed into his fist. If I didn’t know better, I would think he was shy. He must really like me.
This time, he leaned across the table. “You have … frosting in your teeth.” I clamped my hand over my mouth and reached for my purse. I shrugged my head way down into my shoulders and leaned over to get a good look in my compact mirror. I looked like a hillbilly. The frosting could have been sold to the American Dental Association to highlight tartar buildup. With dignity I straightened my shoulders. “So how about those Chargers?” I asked him, enunciating every word, with a wide-mouthed, chocolate-coated toothy grin as I waited for his answer.
He took my hand and squeezed. “I think their defense …”
Wow. Either I was really drunk or Christmas Carol over there had some mega charm going on.
He paid the bill while I took a final swill so I could swish the chocolate off my teeth. That big strong thick hand of his that went with those thighs pulled me out of my chair. “I’ll drive you home.”
My house was only about ten minutes away, and I was still almost vibrating from the cold medicine’s last hurrah. I hung my head, already knowing the answer. “Do you want to come in?”
Joe rested his hands on the steering wheel. He drove a black Audi in case you were wondering. He blew out a breath. “Why in the world would you ask me in?”
“I’m sorry. I’ve had terrible allergies all week and I didn’t want to cancel our date so I took some pills; you know, the good stuff,” I added. “I cleaned my apartment, groomed ev-er-y-thing, didn’t eat all day, and,” I tried to catch his eye, “had some delightful dinner repartee.”
“Please don’t ever take those drugs again.” He unhooked his seatbelt and gathered me up in a teddy bear hug that squeezed the air out of me.
His just-right-scruffy whiskers, just like in my coffee shop fantasy on those soft white cotton sacks of coffee beans, hit that sweet spot just under my ear. He nuzzled my neck and his hands grabbed my hair and cradled my head as if I were the toy on Christmas morning that he never thought Santa would bring.
This Renaissance man, who I just knew could build a fire because the pile of sticks would be scared of him if they didn’t ignite, walked me to my door.
Blame it on my shoddy metabolism, my guilty conscience or the upstanding goodness of the man beside me, but I didn’t want this to be a one night stand. “Slow down, you move too fast.” I hummed under my breath. “You’ve got to make this moment last.” I was feeling groovy. We stepped inside and my floor creaked. Cue Ming. She skidded to a halt as if she was shocked to see me with a gentleman. I reached down to pet her and tweak her ear, but as I whispered “Behave,” she bolted.
I went to give Joe a California-cool hug goodbye. That hug became an impromptu invitation from my loud-mouthed hormones wanting to get the party started. His oh-so-polite testosterone RSVP’d! Lest we come off sounding like some Young Adult novel where an angst-filled good-girl-meets-tattooed-bad-boy rocker, I was the bad boy in the scenario.
I pushed him onto the couch and straddled him and those gorgeous thighs. I didn’t need to see or hear anything more. He seemed to think that was the way to go, too. I pulled my own shirt off, and congratulated myself for manning up and wearing my pokey, too-tight one good lacy bra. He noticed. He pulled his own shirt up and over his head.
I stared.
He paused. “What?”
I Vanna-Whited my hand in front of him. “Look at you.” I sucked in my stomach as far as it could go, which, while it did push up my boobs, was no match for the Christmas present in front of me. He tilted his head and reached for me. Just in time, my poor stomac
h couldn’t have taken much more.
His hands grabbed my hips and I arched my back so I could cradle his face. I pulled away from his kiss. His pupils were dilated and I felt like they must have matched mine; giant black holes trying to swallow each other. What we didn’t know about each other was no match for what we thought we knew. We kissed with a little more rhyme, a little less reason. It sounded like we were eating carrots.
We paused to take a breath and hugged each other. His arms mirrored my hold around his back. I didn’t need no stinking meditation app to remind me to inhale and exhale gratitude to the universe. Joe Noel pushed my phone to the floor.
My go-for-it neurotransmitters held hands with my hormones, “Red Rover, Red Rover, let Joe come over.” I couldn’t tell where my emotions ended and feelings began. We moved into my bedroom. He flipped me onto my back. I helped him slide off my leggings. I wouldn’t let him take my underwear off, yet, that was the best part. Besides, they matched my bra and I wanted credit.
He smelled so good, especially right behind his ear. I tucked my hands around his neck and then squeezed his shoulders. His hands were rough. I grabbed his biceps. Then his chest. Then he pulled me too close.
I’m ticklish, in a good way. My heart fluttered, swirling all my thoughts down, lower, lower than that, and he shifted his thigh between my legs. His head hovered above mine as he seemed to breathe me in. He wasn’t smiling; it was an even better look.
His whispered voice in my ear, “Ginger,” did it. The way he said my name, nuanced with exactly what I didn’t know I had been looking for, seduced the butterflies deep inside my belly which lay right down and spread their microscopic legs. I felt that hollowed out swooshing in my ears that always happens right before I …
And scene. I didn’t know which came first, me or love.
Joe Noel kissed a random drop of water that valiantly hung onto the outer corner of my eyelid. He sweetly cradled me, making sure I was comfortable beside him. If I didn’t know any better (but dang it, I do), I’d think I’d be comfortable anywhere near him. He covered me like one of my grandmother’s old quilts, which were as heavy as sandbags and kept me warm all night with a promise of sweet dreams.
