The Spellman Files (15 page)

ISABEL
: I apologize. So, Daniel, what brings you here today?

DANIEL
: I play in a dentists’ league, so I had a few matches this morning.

DAVID
: You’re a dentist?

ISABEL
: I thought we weren’t going to talk about work.

DAVID
: You’re a dentist?

DANIEL
: Yes, I’m a dentist.

DAVID
: Did you know that, Isabel?

ISABEL
: Yes, I did, David.

DANIEL
: So, David, what do you do?

DAVID
: I’m a lawyer. Corporate. Mergers and acquisitions. That sort of thing. Did my sister tell you her profession?

DANIEL
: Yes, she did. When we first met.

DAVID
: So you know? Ouch.

DANIEL
: Yes. I know.

ISABEL
: I’m a teacher, David. Why would I keep that a secret?

DAVID
: A teacher? I had no idea. I mean, I have no idea why you’d keep that a secret.

ISABEL
: Actually, I’m a substitute. But once I get my credentials, then I’ll probably look for a full-time position.

DAVID
: Or you could join the family business. Ouch. Isabel, do you understand that when you share a table with others that also implies sharing the space beneath the table?

ISABEL
: I’m sorry. Was that you?

DANIEL
: What is the family business?

ISABEL
: Teaching. We’re all in the business of education.

DAVID
: Not me. I think I’ll have that beer, if you don’t mind.

ISABEL
: No, that’s my beer. Go get your own.

DAVID
: You know, I think I’ll call Mom and ask her how her teaching career is going. Ouch. You should have the tic in your leg looked at. You might have a neurological disorder.

ISABEL
: David, there’s a pay phone over there. Go.
[David limps over to the pay phone]

DANIEL
: Your brother doesn’t have a cell phone?

ISABEL
: He does. I was just trying to get rid of him.

DANIEL
: Are you two always like that?

ISABEL
: Like what?

DANIEL
: I believe you were kicking him quite a bit.

ISABEL
: David has a tendency to say inappropriate things. I was simply trying to keep him in check.

DANIEL
: I see.

ISABEL
: It’s really quite exhausting.

DANIEL
: So why do you do it?

ISABEL
: He is my brother.

DANIEL
: That doesn’t mean you have to play tennis with him.

ISABEL
: I suppose not. But I do like this club and he has a membership.

DANIEL
: So do I.

ISABEL
: Yes, you do.
[David returns to the table]

DAVID
: Mom says hi.

ISABEL
: How is she?

DAVID
: She’s thinking of retiring. They don’t make kids like they used to. Speaking of kids, do you have any?

DANIEL
: Ouch. No.

ISABEL
: I’m sorry. I thought that was David.

DANIEL
: I assumed as much. [removes card from his wallet] Here’s my card. Call me if you’d like to play tennis sometime. That is, if you don’t mind, David.

DAVID
: You can have her. Ouch.

ISABEL
: That wasn’t me.

DAVID
:
I know that.
I bumped my knee.

DANIEL
: Good-bye.
[Daniel is out of earshot]

ISABEL
: Could you be more of an ass?

DAVID
: Sure. I could have told him the truth.

Tennis Dates #1 to 3; Normal Dates #1 to 3

After the disastrous introduction at the club, I phoned Daniel under the guise of wanting to play tennis with him. The only problem with that plan was the tennis part. Each match ended with a calculated but seemingly random result. Daniel won two straight sets, each win was either 6-2, or 6-1 if he got sloppy, and occasionally 6-3, if Daniel was feeling particularly generous. While I found his sliding scale of competitiveness intriguing from afar, it annoyed me when I was its recipient. The truth was, tennis meant nothing to me. Sure, I loved watching his cocoa-colored legs bound across the court, but I came for the beer, pretzels, and stilted conversation that followed. I don’t mind losing. Losing is like breathing to me.

Sometime during the fourth game of the second set of my third tennis “match” with Daniel, I walked over to the net after he made a particularly clumsy and badly performed sloppy forehand. He met me at the net and complimented my last return.

“I’ve kept my mouth shut long enough,” I said.

“Excuse me?”

“Unless you’re planning on turning this Jerry Lewis impression into a paying act, how about we just play a normal game of tennis?”

“You want me to play normal?”

“I’m not sure you know what that is anymore.”

“But then I will win.”

“You’ve
been
winning.”

“I will win faster.”

“Agreed. Your serve.”

Seven minutes later, Daniel and I were in the bar, halfway through our first beer.

“So how was that?” he asked.

“Maybe next time you could scale it back a bit.”

Daniel stared pensively at his pretzel. I got the feeling the phrase
next time
didn’t agree with him. I prepared for the brush-off.

“Must we play tennis?” he asked.

“No,” I replied.

“Could we do something else?”

“You mean like bowling?”

“No,” he answered, louder than usual.

“I take it you’re not much of a bowler.”

“I’d like to avoid all competitive activities.”

“Because there’s no fun in winning all the time?”

“Isabel, the polite thing to do would be for you to make this easier on me,” he whispered.

“Sure. What are you trying to do?” I whispered back.

“Are you playing dumb?”

“No,” I said, not whispering at all.

“Do you like me?”

“Yes.”

“Then what do you say about us going on a normal date?”

“Sure,” I said. But then I had to ask the obvious question. “What is a normal date?”

For Daniel, a normal date was pretty much defined by a home-cooked meal followed or preceded by another activity such as a movie, happy hour, or tennis. But I came to the conclusion that playing tennis should only be a normal date activity for people who actually enjoy tennis. I was still undecided in that regard and grateful for the respite. We would play one last time, but I’ll get to that later.

Normal Date #1

Three days after Daniel asked me out at the tennis club, we met for drinks at a wine bar in Hayes Valley. A hovering sommelier with a few too many “suggestions” prompted us to leave. Then Daniel had a suggestion of his own: I come back to his place for a “home-cooked meal.” Eventually those words—home-cooked meal—would carry an air of doom with them, but on that very first night, Daniel and his home-cooked meal seemed almost perfect.

Dr. Castillo resides on the first level of a three-story apartment building. Two bedrooms, one bath, clean—but not obsessively so—and tastefully decorated without even a hint of a professional’s touch. It was far too modest a space for a man whose name is followed by the letters DDS.

Daniel defrosted a plate of enchiladas from his freezer collection. I questioned whether defrosting really qualified as a home-cooked meal, but Daniel explained that he had indeed made the dish (from his mother’s recipe) and therefore it counts. I didn’t argue once the food was served. I’ll give Daniel this: He sure knows how to make a good enchilada. Unfortunately, that was the only thing he could make.

Normal Date #2 (five days later)

After a walk in Golden Gate Park, Daniel invited me over for another home-cooked meal. This time he tried a chicken cacciatore recipe that he found in a
Gourmet
magazine sitting in the reception area of his office. The dish might have been edible, but when Daniel failed to locate a spice, he would substitute it with one that was similar in color or name, but not necessarily flavor. So instead of oregano, he used thyme. Instead of black pepper, he used cayenne.

The charming thing about Daniel was he didn’t seem to notice that the failure of the meal was his own failure. He simply thought that the recipe wasn’t properly tested. With each bite came a comment along the lines of, “Interesting combination of flavors.” Then a few bites later, “I probably won’t be making this again,” and lastly, “But I do enjoy experimenting.”

Still, I have fond memories of Normal Date #2. After Daniel cleared the table, he pulled a six-pack of beer out of the refrigerator.

“Let’s go up to the roof and look at the stars.”

There were no stars that night, but I didn’t say a word, since rooftop drinking is one of my favorite activities.

We sat on plastic lounge chairs under the dark, foggy sky, mostly in silence, but there was nothing awkward about it. Just two people quietly enjoying each other’s company. I was fairly certain he’d brought me to the rooftop to make his first move, but three hours later, when it got too cold to sit there any longer, I realized I was wrong.

Normal Date #3 (three days later)

Once again, Daniel insisted on making me a home-cooked meal. Nothing could prepare my stomach for the sweet-and-sour stuffed cabbage that was presented to me. Daniel, of course, blamed the recipe: “Don’t they test these things out?” he said. “I’m definitely not making that again.”

“I kind of liked it,” I replied.

That entire statement was a complete untruth. But I figured since I was lying about my entire biography, the least I could do was lie about his cooking.

While Daniel washed dishes, I roamed his living room, scanning his bookshelves. It was then that I made the discovery that would change everything—at least it would change our range of activities. I pulled one of the DVD box sets off the shelf and walked into the kitchen.

“Daniel, I noticed you have—”

“Speak up. I can’t hear you over the water.”

I moved next to him and showed him the DVD. “I noticed you have the entire
Get Smart
collection on DVD. I didn’t even think this was available.”

“It’s a bootleg copy,” he replied.

“Was it a gift?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “A gift to myself. I love
Get Smart.
”

“No, I love it,” I said enthusiastically. “My best friend [censored]
6
and I used to [censored]
7
watch this show all the time.”

Daniel turned off the water and dried his hands. “What do you say to a marathon?”

Ten episodes and an inestimable number of shoe phone calls later, Daniel yawned and I realized that I had to be up at seven the next morning to be at school by eight.
8
It was time to go.

Daniel turned off the DVD and said, “When I was a child, I thought for sure I would grow up and work for CONTROL.
9
”

“Me, too,” I replied, although what I really thought was that I’d work for KAOS.
10

Normal Date #3 ended much on the same note as Normal Dates #1 and #2. Daniel walked me to my car, followed by a handshake (on #1) and a brief hug (on #2). It was the pat on the head (on #3) that ultimately shattered my patience. After three tennis dates and three normal dates, I still had not gotten my first kiss.

I sat in my car as Daniel disappeared into the foyer of his building. I started the engine, prepared to leave, prepared to accept yet another night of dentist rejection. But then I changed my mind. I had waited long enough.