by Mary Carter
“I wanted to see how much I could fit. I’m taking them to the city for the week and I needed to know how much I could fit in their coats,” I say. “I had to make sure I wasn’t overstuffing them. It took me forever to make their little outfits, and I wouldn’t want their pockets busting at the seam, you know?” Neither manager is smiling but no one has reached for the phone to call the police, so I continue. “I’ll prove it to you,” I plead. “Come with me to the car. My purse is in the glove compartment.” It is true too. I had taken my credit card out of my wallet and put it in my pocket. I left the purse in the glove compartment so I could have my hands free for the boys. “Let me get my purse and pay for everything. I swear. This is a huge misunderstanding.”
“Okay,” the manager says finally. “Let’s go out to the car. If your purse is there we’ll work something out. If not, I’m calling the police.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you,” I say again. We’ve been to the car and just like I told him, my purse was in the glove compartment. Now we’re standing at the register where I’ve charged everything to my credit card. I had to bend down as if I were tying my shoe so that he wouldn’t notice me pulling my credit card out of my pocket. “Consider yourself warned,” the manager says. “If a mistake like this happens again, we’re calling the police.”
“I understand. Believe me, it will never happen again.”
Oh. My. God. Who would’ve thought five little dogs could weigh so much? These crates should come with wheels. By the time I get onto the train (they were covered in a sheet just in case anyone wanted to question whether or not you were allowed to travel with five Bichon Frises in one carrying case) I am exhausted. My arms are killing me, and I can’t wait to sit down. But I needed three empty seats for me and the boys, and the train is packed. After a fruitless search, I’m forced to stake out a corner of the floor near the bathrooms. I put the crate down and sit on it. Now that I’m safe I have time to think about what just happened.
I just got caught stealing. It was terrifying. It was humiliating. It was exactly what I needed. It’s hard to imagine that it would take something so embarrassing to make you really sit up and take notice—but this was definitely a good thing. I think I’m cured. All these years without being caught had made me complacent. The Saints were showing me what fate awaited me if I didn’t stop. Maybe I could have Greg after all. He’ll never even need to know that I’m an ex-klep-to. Yes, this was definitely a good thing. I lay back and close my eyes with relief.
The boys, who had been perfectly content with their new Shrek chew toys a minute ago, are getting restless. It begins with a faint scraping sound. Then I hear a whine. Then a little yip. Finally, a full-out bark. I kneel down by the crate and stick my finger through the holes. “Shh,” I say. My finger is immediately licked and then bitten. “Ow.” I yank my hand back and throw in a few cookies. Mom owed me big time. By the time we reach Penn Station, I’ve fed them the entire bag of cookies just to keep them quiet. After a while I was able to time when the conductor would walk by, and a few seconds before his appearance, I’d throw in more cookies. So, except for a few dirty looks from passengers sitting near us, we got by unscathed. But by the time we are in a taxi heading for my place it’s already 5:30. I would only have forty-five minutes or so to get ready for my date. It soon became obvious I’d have to take them on a little potty walk when we got home—the boys were stinking up the cab. To his credit the taxi driver didn’t mention the smell; he simply rolled down his window.
“It’s not me,” I say. “It’s the dogs.” I can tell he doesn’t believe me; he doesn’t even turn around. The dog are farting like they’re marines who have just eaten a mess of chili cheese dogs. I’m sure the Saints are punishing me for trying to steal their biscuits. By the time we get to my place, all four cab windows are rolled all the way down. I tip the taxi driver an extra five bucks, and I can see him spraying a can of air freshener in the cab as he peels away, swearing under his breath. I glance at my watch again. It is rush hour and it had taken us fifteen minutes just to cross the park. It was now 5:55. I just didn’t have time for this. I couldn’t walk the dogs and get ready for my date. Luckily I knew just who to ask for help.
I find him across the street rummaging through a trash can. “How would you like to earn fifty dollars?” I say.
“Your boyfriend needs me to open your car doors again?” he answers without looking up from the garbage. “I charge a hundred for that.” He chuckles at himself and then turned to face me. “What can I do for you, doll?” he says.
“Do you like dogs?” I ask.
Jimmy is thrilled to take the five little monsters for a walk around the block. He’s less thrilled when I hand him a fist-full of plastic bags and tell him he has to pick up their poop or risk the fifty bucks I’m offering him (and then some) on a city ticket if he doesn’t. “Fifty dollars you say?” he says, looking at the plastic bags in his hand. “I used to be a professional dog walker and that sounds kind of low.”
“Okay sixty,” I say. “But that’s my final offer.” He sighs and, with a fistful of leashes and bags, takes off with the boys.
Tavern on the Green is a New York institution and I’m a virgin! I can’t count the number of times I’ve stared longingly from Central Park at the lucky diners inside, wishing it was me in there being wined and dined by a handsome man. I have to hold my tongue to keep from squealing when I read the menu. I don’t want to come across as greedy by ordering the most expensive item, but then again if I order the least expensive dish it’s like implying I think he’s a cheapskate. “Order anything you’d like,” Greg says, reading my mind.
“I’d like you on a stick,” I refrain from saying. I was known for saying obnoxious things on first dates. It was usually due to fear, but it didn’t make it any less repulsive. So this time I was censoring myself big-time.
If only we could pause the incredible moments of life and fast-forward through the rest. If we could, the first half of this dinner would go down in history as the most romantic, alive, beautiful evening ever. I wish I were a surgeon capable of surgically removing the first half of the evening from the second. I wish I were a chef who could pick out the rotting bits, throw them away, and serve the rest with a sprig of alfalfa. Greg had ordered a really nice bottle of wine and several appetizers. We had shrimp cocktails, brie, and crackers. Greg asked me about my father, and I talked about him for the first time in a long time. I admitted he had changed so dramatically after I had graduated from high school that sometimes it felt as if our father had died. Greg noted that change is a type of death, and I thought he was extremely profound. Then he said that maybe I could make more of an effort to have a relationship with my father, and I thought he was extremely annoying. But I forgave him because he understood my silence meant I didn’t want to talk about it and he gently steered the conversation on to other topics.
I asked him about his family. He told me he had four younger sisters and they all live in California. His parents lived in Santa Barbara, two sisters lived in L.A. (actor/waiters), and two lived in San Francisco (lesbian computer genius and wife and mother). I read once that you’ll know how a guy would treat his wife based on his relationship with his mother so I listened carefully for hidden resentments, neediness, bitterness, or other weirdness, but he spoke about her with love and confidence. It soon became clear that Greg Parks was the perfect man.
So you can see why I completely freaked out. What did he see in me? Why wasn’t he after a woman who had it all together? He could have a lawyer, a doctor, or a beautiful seismologist. This city was crawling with beautiful, successful women. Maybe I was just a diversion. Or maybe he was intimidated by strong, successful women. Maybe he was a chauvinist. You see how I started to ruin the evening? And then in the middle of my nasty thoughts he has to go and say, “You have no idea how beautiful you are, do you?” And then he gets up to go to the restroom.
I wonder if things would have been different if I had wa
ited until the end of evening. I could have waited for dessert. Yes, I could have at least waited until our dinner plates were being bussed, and no one would have been the wiser. But Greg left the table while I was in the midst of a mini-freak-out session and I did it without thinking. So the next thing I know, Greg is back at the table and our meals have arrived. That’s when I realize the error of my ways. Greg’s eyes are roaming the table. He looks at his baked potato, pondering his next move. His beautiful arm shoots up, and in an instant the man in black and white is by his side. “Sir?”
“We need salt and pepper,” Greg says. The waiter nods and slides his eyes across the table and then toward me. I meet his gaze defiantly. This was Tavern on the Green after all, and we were the patrons. The waiter’s gaze drops to my purse. Oh no.
“Sir,” the waiter says to Greg, “I distinctly remember placing the salt and pepper shakers on your table five minutes before you arrived.”
Greg’s brows crease even further, and he scans the table again. “Well I don’t see them, do you?” Greg asks. The waiter looks at my purse again. I clamp my hand over it and look down at my silverware. Thank God I didn’t take anything else. How in the world did he see me? I had been extremely quick, even stealthlike, while performing the removal. Damn career waiters. They’re way too vigilant.
“Maybe something happened to them,” the waiter says. “Maybe she knows.”
Greg follows his gaze to me and throws his napkin on the table. “Just what are you suggesting?” he asks, his voice raising a notch. A few heads turn our way. “I think you had better bring us a set of salt and pepper shakers and your manager,” Greg continues.
“Maybe they fell,” I say, maneuvering to look under the table.
Greg grabs my arm and stops me. “Your manners are appalling,” Greg says to the waiter, whose face is now the color of a beet, but to his credit he’s standing his ground. “I’ve been coming to this establishment for the past six years and I have never encountered service so rude.”
“Is there a problem, sir?” another voice pops up. He is dressed in the same tux but is older and carries himself more authority.
“Yes, there is,” Greg says. “I simply asked this gentleman for salt and pepper.”
The older man does the same sweep of our table with his eyes minus giving me evil eye. “Of course, sir,” he says. “I’m so sorry. Right away.”
And that should be the end of it. Greg’s posture relaxes, and the older man turns to retrieve the salt and pepper. But the younger man’s hand shoots out, he points a long, manicured index finger directly at me, and he says in a loud voice, “They’re in her purse.”
Greg stands and throws down his napkin. The manager swiftly pulls the young waiter out of the way, speaks to him in low harsh tones, and propels him out of sight. Then he bows slightly to Greg. “Apologies, sir. I’ll get you salt and pepper right away.” Greg nods but remains standing. I want to shout at him to sit down, I want to dump the salt and pepper shakers out of my purse and pretend they had fallen to the floor, and most of all I want to stand up and throw my arms around Greg for standing up for me. But the biggest urge I have is to run out and never come back.
We get our salt and pepper, but the rest of the dinner is strained. Another waiter is assigned to our table and our dinner is on the house, but the light, airy mood is gone. Greg is sullen and withdrawn. Being an intelligent man, I know he has to be wondering why the waiter accused me of stealing the salt and pepper shakers. He doesn’t come out and ask me, but he’s on full alert. After dessert the manager approaches to offer his apologies again. The waiter who was so rude to us, he tells us, has been let go. “Thank you,” Greg says. I feel like shit. “I’m so sorry, Melanie,” he says to me on the way out. “I wanted this evening to be special.”
I give him my best smile and lightly touch his arm. “It’s not your fault,” I say. “The first half was wonderful.” He is holding the door open for me; we are stepping out onto the brick patio. He suggests a walk in the park before going home. In the end, some might say what happens next was purposeful. Some may say I wanted to be caught. It’s a lie. I’m a klutz. It’s that sad and that simple.
I trip in the doorway and land facedown on the brick patio. The recently fired waiter steps over me and shouts “See, see” as my purse tumbles out of my hands and snaps open. The sleek, silver salt and pepper shakers spin out from the depths of my purse and roll downhill like a wagon detaching from its horses. They travel underneath tiled patio tables, between Manolo Blahnik heels and Prada purses, rolling until they reach the edge of the brick patio floor and land in the dirt beside a large oak tree where a squirrel stops to sniff them.
I continue to lie facedown on the warm bricks, listening to the murmurs of the nearby diners as they gather around the vindicated waiter who is shouting, “I told you. I told you she stole them.” All the while, the outdoor lights of Tavern on the Green bathe our chaotic little scene in a warm, romantic glow. Sometimes losing your virginity isn’t what it’s cracked up to be.
“I’m sorry,” I say for the third time to the rehired waiter. He rolls his eyes and smirks at the manager. We are standing at the register and the young waiter is grasping the salt and pepper shakers in his hands like they’re the Holy Grail.
“I’ll just return these to the table,” he says as he flounces away.
The older host hands Greg our bill. “I’ll get it,” I say, reaching for my purse.
“That won’t be necessary,” Greg says, taking the bill.
I reach for it anyway. “Please,” I croak. “It’s the least I can do.”
The manager looks back and forth between us.
“Melanie,” Greg says in a low whisper.
I back off. Humiliating him worse was not going to help matters. I was dying to know if they had charged us for the salt and pepper shakers (because if so, weren’t we entitled to them?) but there was no way I could ask, and Greg was just handing the bill back with a credit card, so it was too late to peek.
“I assume we won’t have this problem again?” the manager says, looking at me. I shake my head. We’re quickly shown the door. I was hoping Greg would still want to take that walk in Central Park, but he was heading out to the street. He hails a cab, and by the time I reach him, one is waiting. Greg opens the door and gestures for me to get in. I do so, scooting over to give him room beside me. Greg leans in, gives the driver a twenty dollar bill, and shuts the door. Before I know it, the cab door is closed and I’m headed home alone. I turn around and look back. Greg is already gone.
Chapter 30
Jimmy is waiting on the steps with all five dogs curled up in his lap sleeping. If I wasn’t so miserable I would have thought it the cutest thing in the world. I sit down next to him.
“How did it go?” I whisper.
Jimmy smiles and looks lovingly at the dogs. “They like me,” he says happily.
I nod and bite back tears. “We should go in,” I say.
Jimmy looks up at me, clearly appalled at the idea.
“We can’t wake them now. I’ve been sitting here forty-five minutes not movin’. No. They need their sleep.” And so we sit.
After another half an hour, the dogs wake and Jimmy reluctantly lets me take them inside. “How about tomorrow?” Jimmy asks. “Should I walk them tomorrow?”
“Why not?” I say. “I’m sure they’d love it.” Jimmy flashes me a grin and is gone. I head to my room. All I want to do is throw myself on the bed and pull the covers over my head. I kick off my shoes, throw my purse in the corner of the room, and dive in. I’m never coming out.
She would have made a terrible thief. First of all, she’s wearing high heels, and even in my half-asleep state (the other half of me never did go to sleep; it tossed and turned and tortured me with thoughts of Greg and what he thinks of me now) I hear her clicking across my floor and I smell her perfume. Kim is a perfume addict; you can smell her a mile away. I never know exactly what she’s wearing because she changes s
cents constantly, but you can count on it being new and expensive. Tommy is clomping after her, and as if their secret mission wasn’t botched enough, here comes the dogs. All five of the dogs trip into the room after them with high-pitched yips. “Oh, they’re so cute,” Tommy squeals.
“What the hell is going on?” I say, snapping on the bedroom light.
“You’re home,” Kim says. “I thought you were on a date.”
“What are you doing?” I ask again, but this time it’s a rhetorical question. My closet glows behind them like a lighthouse beacon. “How dare you!” I say throwing off the covers and jumping out of bed. Kim is holding something behind her back. I’m sure it’s the key to my closet.
“How dare I?” Kim repeats. “How dare I?”
“What the hell are you doing sneaking into my room?”
“You come into my room all the time,” Kim says.
I’m surprised at how hurt and angry she sounds, given she’s the one breaking and entering.
“I don’t sneak in when you’re sleeping,” I retort.
“I told you I thought you were out,” Kim says.
“And that gives you the right to go through my closet?” I yell.
“Your closet?” Kim says.
“Just give me the clown,” I say, holding out my hand.
“What clown?” Kim cries.
“Kim, just show me what’s behind your back.”
Kim brings her hands out into the open. She’s holding her baby blue cashmere sweater. The one I spilled coffee on and was supposed to dry-clean. I had forgotten all about it. I had left it lying on the floor with the rest of my mess. My stomach drops. “Oh,” I say. “Oh. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Kim.”
