“What’d I say?” I say.
“It’s not the words. It’s the way you said them. Your tone. So-. Ugh!”
“I’m sorry.”
“Now you’re just being a dick,” she says.
Julia gets up from the chair, tosses her napkin on the table. It lands on my French fries. I lift the napkin off the fries. Soiled fabric does not enhance the flavour of French fries despite what the Soiled Fabric lobby wants you to believe.
“So, I’m guessing no second date?” I say.
She stops cold, spins around. I quickly make a mental note of the location of the Exit signs. She gets in my face so close I can smell the baked onions with fennel on her breath. It feels weirdly arousing. Our eyes lock. She’s either going to kiss me or bite my face off. I’m hoping it’s not the latter. I’ve got a pitch meeting with a producer tomorrow for a kids show about a happy-go-lucky red balloon called Evan. Half my face torn off might not work with the tone of the pitch. She whispers. “Not even if it could cure pediatric cancer.” She finishes putting on her coat and leaves.
After doing some preliminary research on The Google, I did not come across one peer reviewed study that demonstrates a second date cures any cancer. Still, maybe Julia did have a point. My communication skills could be lacking. Primarily in the communication and skills departments. I let out a sigh. It’s never easy to admit to yourself what’s not easy to admit to yourself.
The Server, accompanied by the Manager, lays the bill on the table. “I didn’t ask for the bill,” I say. “Probably best if you leave,” the Manager says. “The other customers aren’t feeling comfortable with you here.” I look around at the other customers. A couple give me a furtive glance. But not furtive enough that I didn’t notice. Or were they just taking a break from stuffing their faces?
“Can I at least finish my fries?”
“Sure. Make it quick,” the Manager says.
The server glares at me like I had kicked her corgi puppy.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Don’t be a dick,” the Server says. And walks away.
This is the first time I’ve been called a “dick” by two people, not family, within the span of 15 minutes. It’s a record of sorts. I can’t wait to get back to my place and share with my ottoman.
It’s at stressful times like these that I find comfort in the French fry. And these are particularly good fries. Slightly spiced. Hand cut like my mother used to make. No two fries the same. Each a unique character on the plate of life.
I see a thick fry, by itself, drooping over the edge of the plate. That’ll please the taste buds and bring me comfort. I pick it up and am about to introduce it to my mouth when it bursts into a full-blown wail followed by quick short sobs. I frantically look around the restaurant and wonder if anybody else can hear. The Manager catches my eye and taps his left wrist. I indicate I won’t be long. Or will I? In War and Peace Tolstoy wrote: “The two most powerful warriors are patience and time.” With a sobbing fry in my hand, I may need both in large quantities.
“Is everything okay?” I say.
In a deep voice the French fry speaks. “My heart it is breaking. And you, Monsieur, seek to guillotine me wiz your teeth. Does zis seem everything okay?”
“You’re French,” I say.
“You’re a dick,” he says. A third time! It is definitely not the charm. “We are French fry. Not English fry.”
“Sorry,” I say. “How can I help?”
“You! Help? Ha! It’s like ze dog asking ze other dog to not sniff it’s butt. It’s not, how you say, possible, bitch,” he says. “My Amelie, ze love of my life, ze fry of my dreams, she say I don’t do the good communication good. She say I don’t listen. How could this be? I am French fry. We are born to listen to the drivel and l’imbécillité you humans call conversation.”
“You’re on the outs with Amelie and you want back in. You’ve come to the right person. I can bring you two back together,” I say fully conscious that after the Julia experience, I probably couldn’t bring together two lego pieces if they were already stuck together. “What have you got to lose?” I say.
“Mais, my self-esteem, sense of self-worth and meaning in life,” he says.
“Yeah but I mean for real,” I say.
The fry goes silent. The silence veers off the road and crashes into the pole of the uncomfortable. “Did you not hear what I just says?” the fry says.
“Hear what?” I say.
“I am, how you say, screwed in de pooch.” The fry droops even lower.
With time running out, I locate Amelie on the plate. She’s laying on top of another fry that Gabriel, the fry in distress, tells me is his BFF Benoit. “Aha! So that’s it! It is not about the communication. She has tasted ze fruits of the Benoit tree,” he says. “She is not going back.”
“Nonsense,” I say.
“I should know,” Gabriel says. “I have eaten of ze same tree. The fruit, it is irrésistible.”
Well, this puts a uniquely French twist on things. I gather up Benoit and Amelie, hold them in front of my face, and am about to address all three when the Manager and Server appear. “You have three minutes to leave or I call the police, you vile beast.” He sees me holding up the three French fries. Gabriel in one hand; Amélie and Benoit in another. “Playing with your food is strictly prohibited at Le Sigh. Two minutes.” The Manager shakes his head and leaves. The Server mimics her boss and follows.
I address the fry friends. “Hello all. I’m Alan. I’ll be your navigator through these troubled waters.”
“Gabriel, who is this baguette?” Amélie says.
“No need for name calling,” I say.
“My avocat,” Gabriel says.
“Isn’t he ze blaireau who blew to pieces his first date because he couldn’t communicate clearly? We all saw.” She says.
“Don’t always believe what you see,” I say.
“I see you now and I don’t believe,” she says. With a holler Benoit high fives her. So does… Gabriel?
“Et tu, Gabriel?” I say.
“She is my amour. You are my flâneur,” he says.
“I’m a dessert now?” I say.
“Imbécile,” Amelie says. She turns to her confrères. “Gabriel, Benoit, I love both of you equally-.”
Before she can continue, the Manager shows up with the Server and a large Security Guard. The Security Guard lifts me to my feet and hustles me toward the door. “Hey, you can’t do this. I have rights! Think of the fries! Think of the fries!” I call out. The other patrons cheer. For the security guard.
At home, I rehearse the kids tv show pitch a couple of times until it’s solid. Afterward, I get ready for bed. Wash my face. Brush my teeth. Slip into my pjs. In bed, I review the evening’s activities. I won’t lie, it was rough. But I’m reminded of what Tolstoy, again, wrote in War and Peace: ‘All, everything that I understand, I understand only because I love.’
I turn out the lights. Get comfy in bed. “Bonne nuit, Gabriel, Amélie, Benoit,” I say.
After a moment of silence I hear Amélie’s voice. “Such a dick.” I settle into my pillow and smile.
