“Ladies,” he says. Juvenile. “Sorry I’m late.”
I can just hear God in heaven. We’ll make this one short and squat with arms too long for his body and a bombastic voice that turns off women. But it’s hard enough down on Earth, so let’s give him piercing blue eyes and a strong jaw so he doesn’t blow his brains out when the midlife reaper scratches at his door. But it’s not all bad. I slide in to the wall. At least this way I’m across from you. “Joe,” you say. “I’ve been so excited for you to meet Seamus.”
You say that like he’s not the one who’s lucky to meet me but I am Good Joe. Convivial Joe. I ask him if that’s his hardware store as if the question needs to be asked and the waitress delivers coffee—he didn’t even have to place an order—and he laughs. Smug. “Last time I checked.”
The three of you gossip about some guy you went to high school with who got a DUI. You’re leaving me in the cold and I don’t have history with you and this is beneath you, using your friends to ice me out. I sit here like a mute monk and I should step outside and call Fuck You Slater, Ushkin, Graham, and Powell to file a class action against Marta Kauffman et al., because they made Friends and that show is the reason we’re in this mess. On a show like Cedar Cove, the goal is love. You watch because you want Jack and Olivia to get together. But on Friends, everything is an inside joke. They brainwash you into thinking that friendship is more valuable than love, that old is inherently better than new when it comes to people.
I dump ketchup on my fries and you reach onto my plate, reestablishing our intimacy. “Is this okay?”
I nod. “Go for it.”
Seamus wrinkles his nose. “No fries for me,” he brags. “I’m doing a Murph later. You wanna join, New Guy?”
I dab the corners of my mouth with a napkin. “What’s a Murph?”
Melanda grabs her phone and Seamus “enlightens” me about the wonders of CrossFit, telling me a Murph will kick-start my body transformation. “I have more muscle now than I did in high school, and in a couple months… six tops… you could too, New Guy, if you join up.”
Melanda is fully checked out and you’re not eating my fries anymore. You’re paying attention to him, bobbing your head as if exercise is a thing that interests you—it isn’t—and this is why people don’t bring friends on a first fucking date, Mary Kay.
You pound your fist on the table. “Wait,” you say. “We have to talk about Kendall.”
Melanda cuts you off. “No, we need to talk about my queen. Shiv.”
I open my mouth. “Who’s Shiv?”
Seamus laughs. “You’ve never seen Succession? Come on, New Guy. You don’t have a job. You have all the time in the world!”
Off you go, raving about Kendall and Kendall is a stupid name, a few letters away from Ken Doll. It’s no fun when three people are talking about a show that one person has never seen. You reach for a fry and your hand lingers on my plate and I can’t stay mad at you.
“Hey, guys,” I say. “Did anyone see the movie Gloria Bell?”
None of you saw Gloria Bell and Seamus isn’t sold—sounds like a chick flick—and Melanda shuts down—I can’t add one more thing to my list—and you smile. “Who directed it?”
“This Chilean guy,” I say. “Sebastián Lelio.”
Melanda makes a face. “A male director telling a woman’s story… how lovely.”
“I hear you,” I say. “But Julianne Moore is incredible. And the dialogue is top shelf… it has a Woody Allen vibe.”
Melanda’s nostrils flare. “Okay, then,” she says. “I think that’s my cue.”
You tense up and she waves for the check and I will fix this. Fast. “Whoa,” I say. “I just meant that it’s a smart film.”
Melanda doesn’t look at me. “I don’t condone Woody Allen or his art.”
You dig your credit card out of your purse and we will not end like this. “Melanda, I’m not defending Woody Allen. I was just trying to say that Gloria Bell is a good movie.”
“And you think Woody Allen is a synonym for good? Great. White male privilege for dessert! Ugh, where is that check?”
You’re staying out of it and Seamus is giggling like an eighth-grade boy in sex ed. “Melanda, I really do think you misunderstood me.”
“Ah, must be my lady brain on the fritz again…”
Seamus laughs and you show your teeth. “Oh, you guys… come on now. Truth is, Joe, I think Melanda and I watched Beaches and Romy and Michele so many times back in the day that we missed a lot of good movies and never really caught up.”
Melanda grunts. “Sweetie, don’t bother. We can go.”
“Look,” I say. “I only mention Woody Allen because say what you will about him… his movies have a lot of great female leads. And Julianne Moore is incredible in Gloria Bell.” You are staring at me like you want me to stop but I can’t stop now. “Melanda, I think you’d like the movie, I’m sure of it.”
“Of course you’re sure. You know everything!”
I’m taking the heat for all the monstrous men in the world—who can blame Melanda for using me as a whipping post?—and you reach for my ice-cold fries, you’re stress-eating and I won’t let Melanda Peach me.
“Melanda,” I say. “I don’t know everything. No one does.”
“Pff,” she says. “Least of all me, a woman…” She shakes her head. “A librarian who endorses a child molester. How nice!”
Shortus drops a twenty and makes a run for it and you pick up the bill and Melanda’s on her feet, lecturing me. “I’m sorry I get passionate.”
“Melanda,” I say. “You don’t have to apologize.”
“I’m not apologizing to you,” she says and she looks at you like Can you believe this guy? “As a teacher, I know that we can’t separate the art from the artist. And I won’t praise a man for telling a woman’s story. But you do you, New Guy.” She smiles at you. “You ready, sweetie? Do you need a ride?”
You squirm. Message received. “Thanks,” I say. “But I feel like walking.”
Melanda smiles. “I would too if I ate all those carbs.”
You look at me but what can you do? She’s your friend, your old friend, and you get into the car with her and I am on foot. In hell. I fucked up my hazing and by the time I get back to the library you’re gone—you have a conference in Poulsbo—and I don’t think I made your coed frat.
At the end of my shift, I test the waters and post a page from a diner scene in Empire Falls and two minutes later…
@LadyMaryKay likes your photo.
Okay, you wouldn’t like it if you didn’t still like me and of course you like me. We have our books and the Brooklynites are right. Books are magic. We are magic. You send me a text.
You: Did you have fun at lunch?:)
I know it’s considered rude to respond to a text with a phone call but it’s also inconsiderate to haze a guy before you have sex with him. I walk outside. I call you.