Not What I Expected
We both agreed: eff it, let’s not cook. It was the first hot night in May, and the air had that 7 p.m. green/grey heaviness. This usually heralds the kind of thunderstorm that, in 15 minutes, cleans the air of the fragrances of the now-ubiquitous reefer and garbage, to be replaced by ozone and the leaves of the valiant sycamores in Central Park.
Our jobs were energy vampires: Vanessa endures her waitership at an expense-account Midtown restaurant where Amex Platinum holders pay $32 for a mediocre burger. I’m an IT guy for a hedge fund. Our life-force was too low that evening for us to weave around each other to cook in what was risibly described by the coiffed realtor as a Manhattan “kitchenette.”
So, after we changed into our civilian gear (jeans and Converse for me; pale blue sundress for Vanessa) we headed out to Wok Cottage, our default neighborhood joint about 6 blocks away on Amsterdam. Yeah, it’s nothing to look at, but the food was consistently good, and we loved the whole old-school Chinese restaurant vibe: the grimy plastic-encased menus with the red edges still dangling ancient gold tassels; the torn leatherette booths; the paper placemats with the Chinese Zodiac (amusingly, we were both Year of The Rat); the hint of orange in the fortune cookies.
Right away, I could tell something was off the moment we sat down. Vanessa usually sits next to me in the 4-person booth that we always gravitate towards. Tonight, though, she sat opposite me; what was that? A classic Vanessa move would be to suggest some absurdly gross item (rabbit head is always a sound choice, as is duck blood soup). But this evening she immediately suggested the usual Szechuan beef.
If I’ve learned anything from stand-up comedians, it’s to not ask questions, but to let your girlfriend get there on her own dime. So, I waited. And sure enough, it came before the waiter did.
“Dave? Can we talk?”
Oh, shit. “Sure, of course. What’s up, V?”
“So listen. Are you happy?”
Is there a right answer to that question? If you say yes, and they disagree, you’re an asshole. If you say, “uh, not really,” but they are happy, you’re still an asshole. I warily cocked my head.
“Anyway, I’ve been thinking,” she continued. “We like the same music, we like the same bands, we like the same clothes….”
She knew that this quote from Springsteen’s “Bobby Jean” would make me smile and lighten the mood. Still, I waited.
“I know that this is out of the blue and we have never discussed it, and you probably never even thought about it, but…. (deep breath). What about you and me getting married this summer?”
She was wrong. I had thought about it, plenty. But can I be honest? I had always thought Vanessa was a bit out of my league, with her careless beauty, quick wit and an effortless ability to charm any group, anytime. And so, I was kind of waiting for the shoe to drop, thinking that I was on borrowed time to begin with, and when the inevitable breakup came, I’d just be grateful for what I had had.
But I’m no idiot. Here was the sky opening, and the hand of God reaching down to touch my finger, like in the Sistine Chapel.
“V. Are you serious?”
“Dave, I swear.”
I stood up on the red leatherette, exposing more netted cloth backing through the network of cracks.
“I’M GETTING MARRIED FOLKS!!!”
The waitstaff loitering in the back seemed unimpressed but looked nonplussed at the metastasizing damage to the ancient booth’s upholstery.
The only other patron, a 60-ish looking guy with cargo shorts and shins that were hairless from a lifetime of dress socks, looked up from his hot and sour soup; raised his porcelain soup spoon in a desultory salute; and snorted in wry derision.
We didn’t care. We needed a better place to celebrate, and I knew exactly where to go: the King Cole Bar, at the St. Regis. It’s an occasion bar, with prices to match, but the Maxfield Parrish mural (which—true story—depicts Old King Cole farting, rendered in beautiful pastel tones) is one of our favorites, so I called an Uber to take us to the St. Regis.
I threw a few 20s on the table, reached out for V’s hand, and we bounded outside to wait for the Uber just as the inevitable rain began, at first tentatively, and then very decisively indeed.
Lucky us, there was a vendor table about 40 feet away, with an array of umbrellas carefully lined up. V chose a red one, with an automatic spring. As we huddled beneath a dry cleaners’ awning, she pressed the button and the umbrella opened with a satisfying “thwack.” The Uber arrived and we tumbled in.
During the 15-minute ride, through the rain-pattered leaves of the Central Park trees, V pulled out the blue Sharpie she always seems to have in her purse. She smirked at me meaningfully; grabbed the soggy umbrella, wrote the letter “V” on the knurled silver band above the black plastic handle; and handed it to me. I looked at her; she nodded. I wrote “D” on the handle to the left of her “V.”
Presently we arrived, but the rain had stopped. V bounded out of the car ahead of me, and headed for the bar’s entrance, with its Art Deco canopy and golden glass doors. I followed close behind her, but while scrambling out of the passenger door, I left the umbrella on the seat.
There was nothing to do but watch the white Honda recede down 55th street. Whatever. It was just a street corner umbrella—who cared—and we had some fancy overpriced drinks to kill.
What They Don’t Tell You
Ok, look, nobody ever said that an Uber is glamorous. It’s not like you meet movie stars or find yourself singing doo-wop songs along with your passengers, and passing a joint between seats.
Instead, you are a slave to your ratings, and the “Be an Uber Driver!” ads don’t say a peep about those 5 elusive stars. That 5th star can mean the difference between a good night and you glancing on your phone, waiting. A lot of competition in Tri-State, and I got a kid in preschool.
Any shmo can pick someone up on time and keep their mouth shut. But the elusory 5th star is all about the margins. I learned this the hard way early on, when some college punk bitched about a Styrofoam coffee cup wedged in the back seat. Since then, I’ve been religious about cleaning the Honda. After every ride.
On my way back home to Jersey, I stopped for a coffee and gave the back a look-see. That last couple left a pretty nice red umbrella in the back. I checked my phone; nothing from the company about a lost item. So, screw it. I saw one of those Salvation Army bins and tossed the umbrella in.
Maybe I can get home in time for CSI Vegas.
Weekend Ghost
I looked forward to Mondays so that I could go back to my job on Capitol Hill (I was a legislative assistant for a lesser-known Senator). The job sounds glamorous, but it paid surprisingly little, and so I was not a part of the glamorous DC party circuit, not even close.
Why Mondays? Sally. We had been living apart for about 2 years, and when she announced that she wanted to relocate, I saw this as a chance to move in together and solidify our relationship. We found a charming little Craftsman in Friendship Heights, and all was well until it wasn’t.
Maybe I’m not the most astute guy out there, but I thought we were on a glide path to marriage. So, I bumped up my credit limit on my Visa and bought a not-bad round solitaire. Read the room, Sally used to say. Uh, still working on that.
The specifics are both painful and tedious. Suffice to say, the ring was a catalyst not to our relationship’s endurance, but to its destruction. Let’s just say that she wasn’t ready, and that if I was “paying any attention at all I would have known that.”
She moved out a week later. My friends were really her friends, and so I found myself pretty much deserted in a new city. Other than a few casual acquaintances and colleagues, I was more or less on my own. I found out, too, that once you are out of college, it’s not so easy to just go ahead and meet people. Other than work, there is no built-in pool of potential sidekicks, and my job offered few such opportunities, buried as I was in a miniscule cubicle in a windowless corner of the Russell Building.
The glorious weekends with Sally hitting thrift shops, going to concerts, and eating out in Adams Morgan’s ethnic restaurants were in the rearview. Instead, my weekends were now spent alone. I drifted through the city alone, going to movies, museums, and restaurants unnoticed and ignored. From Friday night to Monday morning, it was entirely possible for me to meander through DC and be seemingly invisible to everyone. I dubbed this my “Weekend Ghost” phase.
July 4 that year—a Saturday–promised to be another lonely holiday. Nobody was around. DC goes nuts on the 4th: fireworks, parades, concerts. I decided that it would be more depressing to watch it on TV when it was happening not 7 miles away, and so I ventured forth, alone.
DC’s famous humidity was right on time, and even the morning sky had that threatening grey murk. Around six, I took the Metro to the Foggy Bottom stop, about 20 minutes from the Lincoln Memorial. I was particularly fond of it, and it’s a great place to watch the fireworks that arc from the Reflecting Pool.
I brought along my red umbrella (a thrift store keepsake from my weekends with Sally). I’ve always thought that, like beer, earbuds, or sunglasses, you never really own an umbrella, but instead rent it, and so there were dozens on offer that day at the Columbia Heights Salvation Army store. That scarlet morsel in a wire bin of black caught our eyes and could not be denied. Someone less attuned to the “rental” theory of umbrellas had inscribed it with “DV”. Three crumbled singles, and it was ours.
I fought my way through the throngs and found a compressed spot near the top of the Lincoln Memorial’s steps. Below me, and past the Reflecting Pool, was a mass of humanity with blankets coolers and lawn chairs.
Of course, nobody said a word to me. Almost-black clouds drifted in from the south, and the breeze accelerated. A sharp, fresh fragrance wafted towards us.
I felt the first drop on my right knee. I saw another on the hot marble step under my feet. A few moments passed, as if the heavens were deciding on exactly how to play this, and then it was abundantly clear where this was headed.
As the raindrops rapidly hastened their descent, I saw something that made me forget Weekend Ghost syndrome. Below me, one thousand umbrellas bloomed like a time-lapse film of a garden in spring. One by one, what appeared to be a sea of black dahlias, hollyhocks and pansies, with a smattering of red peonies and blue cornflowers, burst slowly, and then more rapidly, all over the Mall. A quick minute elapsed, and the nylon garden had blossomed to the horizon, dimmed by rain.
It was too beautiful to film on my iPhone.
I decided to skip the crowds and skittered towards the Metro, raising and lowering the red umbrella to dodge the other umbrellas coming towards me on the narrow sidewalk. About a half hour later, I was back at the Friendship Heights stop. As I ascended the endless escalator, something felt amiss. I patted myself down from chest to waist, the way people do when they think they’ve lost something but aren’t quite sure. But I was right: the red umbrella was gone, and was speeding away on the Metro, over state lines, and into Maryland.
On Monday, I tried to tell Eric, one of the other assistants about what I saw. You won’t be surprised perhaps, to hear that he was indifferent at best. But the image of the thousand umbrellas bursting forth across the Mall is something that I will not soon forget as I wander through the weekend streets, seeking other Weekend Ghosts.
Peter Rustin and his wife Leslie recently moved from Los Angeles to Peter’s native Connecticut, with their three rather intelligent cats. Peter is an attorney practicing remotely with his firm in Los Angeles. He plays guitar badly and drums decently.
THE CITY KEY 