What Is All This? (8 page)

I'm sitting opposite her. I say “Do you want to?”

“I don't know.”

“You've time. Waiter?”

“Yes?” he says.

“Check, please.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, what do you say?” I say to her.

“I still don't know.”

“You going to make your mind up in the next thirty seconds?”

“Don't be nasty to me.”

“Waiter?”

“It's coming right up, sir. I have to write it up first.”

“Forget it for now. Or give it when you feel like it, not to mix you up. But I'd like another cup of coffee.”

“Another cup?”

“Another cup. You?” I say to her.

“I don't know.”

“Have another.”

“I always get a little high and fidgety with two cups.”

“What'll it be,” waiter says, “another round for you both?”

“Two cups, just to play it safe,” I say.

Waiter goes. She looks at me.

“Well?” I say.

“Well, what?”

“Well, have you made up your mind?”

The place is crowded. People are waiting for tables. We shouldn't have ordered more coffee.”

“Come on, answer.”

“I told you, I don't know. It's not something I can make up about right away—I mean, my mind, your question.”

“I knew what you meant.”

Waiter brings a coffee pot and pours our coffee.

Thanks,” I say.

“You gave me too much,” she says.

“You don't have to drink it all,” I say.

“I know, but I didn't want to waste it. Coffee beans have become expensive.”

“Yeah, but still not as expensive as these restaurants want you to believe. I figured it out once. At least not to warrant eighty to ninety cents a cup.”

“Would you like your check now?” waiter says to me.

“If you don't have it made out yet, don't worry.”

“I have it right here.”

“Sure, put it on the table.”

He takes it out of his shirt pocket and puts it down.

Thank you,” he says.

“You too. Thanks. Should I pay you or up front?”

“Up front or me.”

“Which would you prefer?”

“Long as I'm here, and it doesn't take you too long to check it, you can pay me.”

I look it over. “It seems good.” I give him a twenty and ten and he goes to the cashier with the money and check. People waiting at the door are looking at us.

“What do you mean you figured it out about the coffee?” she says.

The coffee wholesalers, they doubled the price of the beans from what it was a year ago, right? You feel the effect of that by the jump in price of coffee at the supermarket, though I don't think any of them raised it by more than fifty percent. But restaurants, because most of them also doubled the price of their coffee—you know, the excuse that the wholesalers did it to them—are now getting four to five times the profit they used to for a single cup.”

“But you're not considering their larger overhead in a year and that all kinds of wages and workers' benefits and such are more. Cleaning bills for this napkin, tablecloth, the waiter's jacket, for instance.”

“You're right.”

“I waitressed for a while, so that's the reason I know.”

“I know. I wasn't figuring the rest. Cleaning. Overhead.”

“I still don't understand how you got four to five times the profit for a cup of coffee when the coffee growers only doubled the wholesale price of it and the supermarkets only raised it by half. It could be you didn't explain it clearly or it just went past me.”

“No, I think it's my fault. Let me try again.”

“Here you are, sir,” waiter says, “and have a good night.”

“You mean ‘Here you are, ma'am,'” and I put the tray with the change on it in front of her.

“Oh?” he says. “Well, all right.”

“No, I'm only kidding. That was my money. Tonight was my treat, next week's hers. Thanks. You've been very nice, and this is for you.”

Thank you.” He puts the tip in his pocket, takes our glasses, the spoon she didn't use and the tray. Our table's clear except for our cups and saucers, pitcher of milk and sugar—pepper and salt dispensers will stay—and my spoon. He knows I drink it with milk. I pour the milk into the cup and stir it. I drink, she sips. She looks at her coffee.

“I wish I had a spoon,” she says.

“You drink it black.”

“To stir like you. I like to do it.”

“Use mine. I'm finished with it.”

“You used it.”

“Only in my cup. I didn't stick it in my mouth.”

“I wouldn't mind if you had. But it has milk on it. I know it's nutty, but I like my coffee absolutely black.”

“Lick it off,” I say.

That would look ridiculous.”

Then I will.”

“But no milk on it. It has to be licked clean.”

I lick it. It still has some milk on it. I lick it all the way in and out of my mouth, and look at it. It's clean. I give it to her and she stirs her coffee with it.

“Well?” I say.

Just looks at her coffee and stirs.

“Come on. Do you? Don't you?”

That question from before?”

“What
other
questions?”

“You could've asked other questions before.”

“I did ask other questions. But I'm asking now about this one, that one, the one.”

“I don't know.”

“When, then?”

“I don't like to be pushed or rushed.”

“I haven't. I've asked you and you said you don't know and you don't know and you don't know. And now we're having another coffee and the customers waiting at the front want our table and the waiter wants us out of here and a question like the one I asked is best answered right here when we're sitting and comfortable rather than when we're on the street and cold.”

“Give me a little more time.”

“Everything okay?” waiter says.

“Yes, thanks,” I say. He goes. Busboy takes my empty cup away.

“If I had had it black like yours he wouldn't have taken my cup.”

That's why I have it black,” she says.

“To give yourself more time?”

“I don't know if it's that. More because I like it black.”

Busboy passes our table again, comes back and takes my spoon.

“I don't think she's through with the spoon yet,” I say.

“Oh, sorry.” And to her: “You're not?”

“I don't think so.”

He puts the spoon down and goes.

“You could have let him take the spoon,” she says. “I'm through with it.”

“I don't like them shoving us out of here like that.”

They're busy. It's Saturday night. Dinner hour, the night and time they make about forty percent of their week's tips and the restaurant its earnings and which makes up for all the nights they don't have that many customers. I should be more understanding of them and just drink up and go.”

“First tell me yes or no.”

“Maybe I should just leave the rest of the coffee and go. I didn't want a full cup anyway.”

“Yes or no?”

“And you didn't tip him enough.”

“I gave him exactly fifteen percent.”

“You didn't. I calculated it. You gave him about thirteen percent.”

“You must be figuring thirteen percent of the total bill plus tax. I gave him fifteen percent before tax.”

“Oh, maybe you're right.”

“Not maybe; I am. And what do I have to do, consult you about everything at a restaurant?”

“Don't get snappy again.”

“Why not? You're more worried about the damn waiter, nice as he is, and the restaurant's overhead and cleaning costs, than about me or us.”

“Not true, and don't raise your voice to me.”

“Ah, forget it,” and I get up, get my coat off my chair and say to her “If you're ready, I'll walk you home or wherever you want to go.”

“You don't have to walk me anywhere. I'd rather be alone.”

“Good, then,” and I turn to go, turn to her, “Goodnight,” she looks away from me, and I leave.

I go home. Phone's ringing when I get there. “What is it now?” I say.

“What is what?” Murray says.

“I thought it was Vera. How are you?”

“By the tone of your voice, I'm glad I'm not Vera. What're you doing tonight?”

“Nothing.”

“Want to see
Challenges
?”

“Sure.”

“I thought Saturday night you'd be out, but then thought maybe this Saturday, miracle of miracles, you're not. In front of the Laron at nine?”

“Right.”

I hang up. “Right.” I grab a plant Vera gave me and yell “Right, yes, sure I want to go to a movie tonight,” and throw it against the wall. It breaks, earth and planter parts going several different ways, big stain on the wall, mess on the floor. “Sure I do, goddamn you,” and slam my fist through a closet door.

I wash it, iodine and bandage it, dial Murray with my other hand but he doesn't answer. I go to the Laron and see him out front.

“What happened?” he says.

“I called before but you weren't in.”

“But what the hell happened? Your hand. It's bleeding through the bandage.”

“I suppose you already left. I called to say I couldn't go to the movie after all.”

“You shouldn't have come. I would've known something was wrong or you got a better date. But it must have just happened. You get into a fight? Catch it on a knife at home?”

“I just came here to tell you, didn't want to stand you up. I'm not feeling well. I'm going home.”

“Okay, I appreciate that. But how bad's the hand? You can't answer a little question?”

I shake my head and start home.

“What's with you? Look, I won't go to the movie. I'll take you to the hospital if you want.”

I keep going.

He says “Okay, I'll drop it. Hell with your hand. Forget I asked.”

I walk back. “I can't answer because of how I'm feeling, don't you see? I got crazy with myself over Vera and punched it through a door and mashed it, and it was so stupid to do, I'm ashamed.”

That's better. Buzz me if you need me,” and he goes into the theater.

I go home. Vera is sitting on my building's stoop.

There you are,” she says. “I was going to wait five more minutes and then send it by mail.”

“You mean you finally have an answer for me? Hallelu.”

“Answer? To that question in the restaurant? I forgot about that. No. Your set of keys. There was no room to slip them under your door and I didn't want to just leave them there. Here.”

She holds my keys out. I take my bandaged hand out of my coat pocket and hold it out to her palm up. She says “What's this, a joke? No, I don't want to know. I know it's bad. I'm sorry if your hand hurts you the way your face now tells me it does, but I've got to be going, goodnight,” and sticks the keys into my coat pocket.

“I'll tell you what happened,” I say as she crosses the street.

“I told you. Save it for another time.”

“I'll still tell you because I believe in answering a question when it's asked.”

“Good. You got your big dig in. That should be enough.”

“I'll still tell you, and I wasn't trying to get a dig in, because I've nothing to hide from you and I think you'll want to know.”

She's across the street, stops, says “All right—I'm listening. What?”

“I'm not shouting it across the street.”

“You've shouted everything else across, why not this?”

“Come here or I'll go there.”

“I'll come. You're hurt. You are hurt? That bandage with blood isn't a fake?”

The answer is no.”

She waits for a car to pass before she crosses the street. “Now, what? If you're not going to act like an ass again with that ‘The answer is no.'”

“First, how do you feel about me?”

“About what? Which way? What does that have to do with anything? And when are you talking about?”

This way. About everything. Your feelings to me. Before and now.”

“A week before—we both knew. Now—let's be honest—neither of us does.”

“Will you come upstairs with me?”

“Have you been to a doctor or hospital?”

“No.”

Then only to look at your hand and wash and dress it if it needs it.”

“I don't feel too well anyway, so that's okay with me.”

We go up the stoop and into the vestibule. She gets the keys out of my pocket, unlocks the door, and we start upstairs, she in front.

“What was the question before that you asked me in the restaurant?” she says, without turning around.

“One at the end? You don't know?”

That's why I asked. I'm curious because of what maybe it all led to.”

“I forget also.”

“No you didn't.”

“No I did. It was an important one for us, though. First the argument and my storming away and eventually smashing my hand through a closet door, which is part of what I was going to tell you I did and why.”

“It was much more important to you. But maybe we better forget it because of what it could lead to now. More arguing and bitterness, and that's the last thing I want to get involved in again.”

“Now I remember,” I say.

“All right. Though I don't believe you. But what is it? Bad hand, sour feelings, potential explosion, but you want to have it out, let's.”

“No, I suddenly forget. Tip of the tongue, off it again. Probably because of the damn pain and a headache now. I'll remember it, though.”

“Hopefully, when I'm not here, if you did forget.”

“Honestly, I did.”