Kissing in Manhattan (2 page)

“It’s busy in here,” said Donna, looking around.

Donna had never eaten at Flat Michael’s. She’d had a drink once in the lounge, where there were no televisions, a wooden bar, and chairs. Everything about Flat Michael’s was simple. The owners brewed their own beer, and the taps on the draft handles read simply: Lager, Pilsner, Stout. The owners also fetched their wines from a vineyard of undisclosed origin, and their liquors from unknown stills. The racks behind the bar held unadorned bottles labeled Vodka, Gin, Rye, or Chardonnay, Chianti, Port. As a rule customers never quibbled over these libations. If you demanded a brand-name sherry or a particular year of a champagne, you were asked to leave.

The dining room was no different. The tables were wooden, with one white, lighted candle on each. The chairs were wooden, too, and the menu had just ten items each night. These items were listed on a giant chalkboard, with no prices or side dishes assigned. On this particular night the menu was: Trout, Tongue, Eel, Veal, Moussaka, Shoots, Lamb, Brains, Noodles, and Snake.

“It is busy,” confirmed Checkers.

Checkers and Donna were right. Flat Michael’s was busy. The dining room was filled with patrons, who, unlike the restaurant itself, were a menagerie of details. There was a couple seated two tables from Checkers and Donna, a man and woman, the man in a fedora, the woman in silk. This man and woman—one ate Lamb, one ate Snake—were discussing their marriage in audible tones, arguing fine points of sympathy and sexuality. Meanwhile, four skinheads with razored hair were hunched over another table, feasting on Brains and Schnapps.

There was a regular customer, a young accountant named James Branch, dining alone at a table far from the bar. He had sleepy blue eyes and straight teeth, and, as was his habit, he was talking to himself quietly, whispering the name of his entrée as he waited for it to arrive.

“Moussaka,” whispered James. “Moussaka.” As he sat and whispered, James Branch was also admiring a pair of opal earrings that lay in his palm.

Finally, at a corner table, sat a woman in a purple, wispy dress. She ate only Noodles and drank only water, but she possessed a terrible beauty. Her face was pale and sorrowful, and her throat looked as if it ached. Her ankles, naked and fragile, seemed about to crumble into dust.

Among all these were Checkers and Donna, meeting for the first time.

“Trout,” said Checkers, when Juan came for their order.

“Veal,” said Donna.

“Pleasure,” said Juan, and off he went.

Checkers took a draught of beer. “I’ve never had the veal here,” he said. “I hope you like it.”

Donna smiled, her first of the night. Try, she thought to herself.

“I hope so too,” she said.

“I wouldn’t want you to be bereaved,” said Checkers.

“Excuse me?”

Checkers jutted his chin toward the strangers, the other patrons.

“Manhattan’s full of people,” said Checkers. “People who have one meal they don’t like and become immediately bereaved.”

“Bereaved,” said Donna.

“Never mind Manhattan. People all over the world.” Checkers licked his lips. “The world is full of people who have one meal they don’t like and become immediately bereaved.”

Donna thought about this. She was smart.

“Disappointed, maybe,” she said.

“Oh, no,” said Checkers quickly. “They’re bereaved. Absolutely.”

“Hmm,” said Donna.

Checkers searched Donna’s face. “People take food very seriously. It’s amazing. You have clever-looking ears.”

Donna had been sipping her vodka. She sputtered. “Excuse me?”

Checkers frowned. “Stop saying, ‘Excuse me,’ whenever I bring up something new. It’s just that your ears are clever-looking, is all. Like an elf’s, or an otter’s.”

Donna digested this information. Her date felt she looked like an otter.

“Oh, you know what I mean, for Christ’s sake. Don’t you?”

“Well.” Donna forced a smile. After all, Checkers looked good in his sweater. Also, his legs were long. “Well, do you
like
elves and otters?”

Checkers stared at her. “You’re going the traditional flirting route.”

“Excuse me?”

“Excuse you?” said Checkers. “Excuse you? Excuse you?”

“Sorry,” said Donna. Then she wished she hadn’t said it.

“The traditional flirting route,” said Checkers. “You know, I say you have clever-looking ears like an elf’s or an otter’s, and you feel compelled to ask whether I like elves and otters. As if elves and otters were necessarily cute, implying that you’re cute too. Well, otters I’ll give you, but there’ve been some nasty elves in stories I’ve read, you know? Freaky elves, with fucked-up-looking feet. Never mind all that, though. I mean, I already told you you look great. What more can I say?”

Donna’s eyebrows were officially raised. “I have a feeling you’re going to say a lot more.”

Checkers laughed. “I knew you were clever.”

Donna learned some things. Checkers had been born in Germany to military American parents. He’d grown up in Washington, D.C., Minneapolis, San Diego, and Wheeling, West Virginia. He was double jointed, he worked as a headhunter, he drove a souped-up Plymouth Duster.

“In Manhattan?” asked Donna.

Checkers blinked. His eyes had spent time on Donna’s neck and breasts, which Donna felt was a good sign. On the other hand, he had a vicious scar down his left jawline that looked like it had been carved by a knife.

“You assume,” said Checkers, “that a souped-up Plymouth Duster would be more at home in the yard of some West Virginia hick?”

Donna cleared her throat. “I don’t know.”

“What you also don’t know,” said Checkers, “is thatmy souped-up Plymouth Duster purrs like a kitten. It’s got eight cylinders, comfortable upholstery, and just last week, a very mature female client of mine said what a refreshment my souped-up Plymouth Duster was among the cabs and limos of this metropolis. That’s the word my client used. Refreshment.”

“I don’t like cars,” said Donna.

“I don’t drive a car. I drive a mature, souped-up refreshment.”

Donna wondered who this female client was. Checkers leaned back in his chair. His Trout and Donna’s Veal hadn’t materialized.

“I’ll bet you’re a certain kind of girl,” said Checkers.

“We all are,” said Donna.

“I’ll bet you’re the kind of girl who, if you were walking down a street and a guy pulled up in some macho car and said, ‘Hey, sexy mama,’ you wouldn’t even smile.”

“I probably wouldn’t,” she said.

“I’ll bet if the guy got crude and said maybe you and him could get some together, you
still
wouldn’t smile at him. You’d be too sophisticated for him.”

“Right again.”

Checkers slapped the table. He looked angry. “Goddammit,” he said loudly.

Donna was surprised. She thought they’d been talking.

“Goddammit,” said Checkers. “Who the hell do you women think you are?”

Donna frowned.

“You think men are subtle? You think we’re all just happy as clams to go the traditional flirting route? Take a girl out to dinner and make conversation? Jesus!”

The diva and the skinheads turned toward Checkers.

“Don’t you understand?” Checkers’s eyes were locked on Donna’s. “Don’t you understand how perfect it is when a guy says, ‘Hey, sexy mama,’ to a girl because that’s all he can say?”

Donna stared at Checkers. His face, which had been so easy with smiles, was grave. Donna didn’t know what to say. She considered leaving, but Juan appeared, bearing a tray.

“Pleasure,” he explained. “Dinner.”

“How’d you get that scar on your jaw?”

Checkers ate his Trout quickly, efficiently. He worked his utensils like a surgeon.

“In a knife fight,” he said, “with a West Virginia hick.”

Knife fight, thought Donna. I am absolutely not going home with this guy.

“And your name?” she asked. “How’d you get that?”

Checkers looked at his watch. “Not bad. You went sixty-seven minutes without asking.”

“I’m sorry,” said Donna. “It’s an unusual name, though.”

There was music in Flat Michael’s dining room. It was a bass guitar track, with no other instrumentation.

“My name is Checkers,” said Checkers. “It has nothing to do with the game of checkers. It’s the name my parents put on my birth certificate.”

“Did they ever explain why?” said Donna.

“It’s what they wanted to call me. It’s something I can’t control.”

Donna ate her Veal.

“There are other things I
can
control, though,” said Checkers.

“Like what?”

“Like I want to be happy. I don’t want to be bereaved. I want a woman.”

Unbelievable, thought Donna.

“That’s why I wanted to meet you,” explained Checkers. “Lee said you were a beautiful woman. ‘Great,’ I told Lee. ‘A beautiful woman is what I’m looking for.’ You know?”

“Is this how you talk to everybody?” asked Donna.

“Oh, come on. I could go the traditional flirting route, but for Christ’s sake, look at yourself. Look at your lips and your cheekbones.”

“Checkers,” said Donna. “Please.”

“Look at the tiny down whiskers around the edges of your mouth.”

Donna blushed. Women weren’t supposed to have whiskers.

“They’re almost invisible,” said Checkers. “They look very . . . I don’t know. Gentle.”

“They do,” said one of the skinheads.

Donna ducked her head. She put down her utensils.

“Please stop,” she whispered. “Stop talking about . . . my face.”

Checkers lowered his head so his eyes met Donna’s. “Say something, then. With a mouth like yours you could say all sorts of beautiful things.”

Donna kept her head lowered. “I have to go to the rest room,” she said.

In the rest room Donna imagined the kind of women that Checkers had had. She imagined waitresses, mermaids, philosophy majors. She wondered if his mouth tasted like smoke.

“Try,” she told herself in the mirror. “You’re thirty-two years old. Come on.”

When she was nineteen, Donna had dated a man in his late twenties, a man with a passion for skydiving. Donna had loved him deeply. She hadn’t understood his battles with gravity or his country music. Still, she devoted herself to him, and he gave her irises on the first of each month. Donna thought he was the man of Ms. Vivian’s prophecy, the man to whom she would belong. But that man died on her—died horribly, in a skydiving accident. He crushed himself into the ground instead of Donna.

“Come on,” Donna told the mirror.

“He likes your lips,” she whispered. “Come on, girl.”

When Donna got back to the table, she’d missed something. Checkers was laughing. He was talking with the waiter, Juan, and laughing like an animal.

“What?” said Donna.

“Listen,” panted Checkers. He was out of breath from laughing. “Say it, Juan.”

“Knock on boot,” said Juan.

Checkers erupted again.

“Exactly,” said Juan. “Knock on boot.”

Checkers wiped a tear from his eye. “Knock on wood. He’s trying to say, ‘Knock on wood,’ Donna.”

“Yes,” said Juan. “Knock on boot.”

“He can’t pronounce wood,” tittered Checkers. “He keeps saying boot. It’s his accent.”

Donna took her seat. She tried to focus on Checkers, her date, tried to smile at him. But Checkers was focusing on Juan.

“Try it slow, Juan,” said Checkers. “Concentrate.”

“Yes,” agreed Juan.

“Wwwood.” Checkers looked gleefully at Juan. “Wwwood. Wwwwoood.”

“Boot,” said Juan.

“All right, Checkers,” said Donna. She meant, That’s enough.

“Wwwwood,” said Checkers.

“Boot,” said Juan.

Checkers lost it. He slapped at the table. His laughter came in yelps. Donna could see his diaphragm working. People were watching.

“Stop it,” pleaded Donna. She was frightened. Laughter, like cars, could frighten her.

“Oh my God,” howled Checkers.

“Stop.” Donna’s voice rose. You’re ruining it, she thought. Stop.

Juan grinned at the two of them, oblivious, ready for more.

“Oh my God,” begged Checkers, waving Juan off. “Oh God.”

Juan left.

“He didn’t know.” Checkers exhaled, got control. “Wood and boot. He couldn’t hear the difference.”

“That was cruel of you,” said Donna. “Laughing at him.”

Checkers collected himself. He drained his beer, his second. The plates were gone.

“You had to be there when it started,” said Checkers.

Donna hadn’t been there. She looked on him with wrath.

Checkers tried to explain. “It was just one of those things,” he said.

There was no dessert. The candle burned at half mast.

“What are you thinking?” asked Checkers.

“Nothing.”

Donna finished her vodka. She thought about what it was like to lie beneath a man, his weight on her weight. She thought about Charles, with his books and handcuffs. She thought of her sky diver, the way he’d tugged on his shirts.

“You’re thinking I do strange things,” said Checkers. “You’re thinking I’m strange.”

Donna nodded.

“You aren’t planning on seeing me again.”

Donna shook her head.

“Why? Because I laughed at Juan?”

The married couple, the skinheads, and the diva were gone. The bass music was fading. Only the young accountant remained, still staring at the opal earrings in his palm. Outside, on East Fourth Street, it was close to November.

“It’s not just that,” said Donna.

“Well, why, then? Do you want me to be bereaved? Do
you
want to be bereaved?”

Donna sighed with an ancient despair.

Men are doors, she thought. They close in my face.

“I just . . . don’t think I’m good at talking to you.”

“So what?” Checkers seemed astounded. “I’m good at talking to you. I can do the talking.”

“I’m sorry,” said Donna. “I just want to go home.”

Checkers gazed at Donna. Flat Michael’s was emptying out.

“I’m a headhunter,” said Checkers quietly. “I spend all day matching people up with their lives. Don’t you think—”

“I can’t explain it,” said Donna. She almost shuddered. “I want to go home.”